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FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

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DEVELOPMENT 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


LANGUAGE 


ALFRED  H.  WELSH,  A.M. 

MEMBER   OF   VICTORIA   INSTITUTE,    THE   PHILOSOPHICAL   SOCIETY   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 

VOLUME   I 


y^i--  ffoi 


All  profitable  study  is  a  silent  disputation — an  intellectual  gymnastic:  and  the  inopt 
improving  books  arc  precisely  those  which  most  excite  the  reader.  .  .  .  To  read  pas- 
Bively,  to  learn,— is,  in  reality,  not  to  learn  at  all. —  Siit  William  Hamilton 


THIKD    EDITIOK. 


CHICAGO 
S.  C.  GRIGGS  AND   COMPANY 

1^88 


Copyright  1882 
By  S.  C.  GRIGGS  AND  COMPANY 


I     KHIOHT    R   LKONAB-D  .^1 


TO 

GOVERNOR  CHARLES  FOSTER. 


Deab  Sik  : — Not  the  least  of  our  national  glories  are  the  literary  remains 
of  the  best  of  our  public  men.  At  a  period  when  the  general  literature  of 
the  country  was  the  contempt  of  Europe,  our  statesmen  wrote  in  the  Eng- 
lish of  Addison  and  Junius.  Classic  eloquence  adorned  the  Revolutionary 
council,  and  the  splendid  succession  of  intellect  in  action  mounted  to  its 
grandest  development  in  the  triumvirate  of  Calhoun,  Clay,  and  Webster. 
Nor  latterly  has  that  noble  lineage  failed.  Seward  and  Sumner  have  illus- 
trated elegant  scholarship  in  the  trustees  of  power.  Within  a  few  years, 
historians  and  poets  have  represented  us  in  foreign  courts,  while  others — 
notably  the  lamented  Garfield  —  have  carried  the  world  of  ideas  into  that 
of  catch-words  and  party  habits.  In  this  there  is  cause  to  rejoice.  It 
signifies  that  we  are  gravitating  in  the  ideal  dii'ection ;  that  art,  sentiment, 
and  imagination  are  dividing  favor  with  trade  and  government.  It  means 
the  gradual  uplift  of  the  Republic  towards  the  high-water  mark  of  culti- 
vated mind  —  catholicity  of  thought,  sensibility,  and  practice.  By  culture 
we  become  citizens  of  the  universe.  The  work  of  the  scholar,  less  liable  to 
be  partisan,  is  more  apt  to  be  in  the  interest  of  civilization,  based  not  upon 
class-feeling,  but  on  broad  grounds  of  general  justice.  Nations  are  not 
truly  great  solely  because  of  their  numbers,  their  freedom,  their  activity. 
It  is  in  the  conjunction  of  fine  culture  with  sagacity,  of  high  reason  with 
principle,  that  the  ideal  of  national  greatness  is  to  be  placed.  Only  thus 
can  America  stand,  as  she  is  privileged  to  do,  for  the  aspirations  and 
future  of  mankind. 

The  paths  proper  to  the  statesman  and  the  artist  can  rarely  coincide, 
but  they  may  often  touch:  and  because  I  have  pleasure  in  this  tangency 
of  pursuits  which  promises  to  organize  literature  into  institutions,  tending 
thus  to  their  refinement  and  expansion, —  I  also  have  pleasure  in  the 
inscription  of  these  volumes  to  your  Excellency,  who,  amid  the  absorbing 
cares  of  business  and  the  arduous  realities  of  office,  have  never  become  the 
slave  of  material  circumstances,  nor  ever  been  found  wanting  in  an  active 
sympathy  with  cosmopolitan  aims,  displaying  on  the  theatre  of  polities  the 
virtues  which  impart  grace  and  dignity  to  private  character. 

But  the  pleasure  is  peculiar  in  remembering  your  early  and  generous 
friendship,  through  which  I  am  now  permitted  to  hope  tiiat  these  pages 
may  contribute,  albeit  in  a  limited  way,  to  form  judicious  readers,  intel- 
ligent writers,  or  well-furnished  s{)eakors;  minister  to  breadth  of  thought 
or  beneficence  of  feeling;  strengthen  faith  or  enkindle  iiope;  deepen  or 
multiply  the  sense  of  truth,  beauty,  ami  right,  whence  all  true  manliness 
is  fed. 

Sincerelv  vours, 

'    ■  A.  II.  W. 

Hi 


OOl^TElS^TS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


Dedication lii 

Prologue ix 

List  of  Authorities xvii 

CHAPTER  I. 

Formative  Period  —  The  People. 

Britain.  Primitive  Inhabitants.  Celtic  Invasion.  Roman  Conquest; 
its  Effects.  Anglo-Saxon  Conquest;  its  Effects.  Norman  Conquest ; 
its  Effects.     Norman  Oppression.     Moulding  of  the   People  and 

Fusion  of  the  Races 12 

Celtic  Manners.    Druidism.    Roman  Refinements.    Celtic  Fancy.   Danish 

Customs.     Norman  Culture 21 

^  Anglo-Saxon  Civilization.  Social  Life.  Legislation  and  Knowledge. 
Traditions  and  Mythology.  Cosmogony.  Burial  Customs.  Val- 
halla. Theology.  Philosophy.  Savagery.  Code.  Home-Life. 
Fundamental  Instincts.     Results 38 

CHAPTER   II. 

Formative  Period — The  Language. 

Definition.  Origin.  Development.  Growth.  Diversities  of  Speech. 
Dialects.  Idioms.  Aryan  Mother-Tongue.  Elements  of  English. 
Original  Forms.  Transition.  Native  Features  of  the  Language. 
History  in  Word-Forms.     Superiority  of  Saxon  English.     Results  .     59 

CHAPTER   ITT. 

Formative  Period — The  Literature. 

Politics.  Old  English  Jurisprudence.  Parliament.  Self-Government. 
Social  Life.  Town  Life.  Lawlessness.  Brutality.  Architecture. 
The  Jews  in  England.     Amusements.     Superstitions 73 


VI  CONTENTS  OF   VOLUME    I. 

Religion.  The  English  Church.  Roman  Encroachments.  Monasticisra. 
Mendicant  Friars.  Vices  of  the  Clergy.  Disaffection  of  the  Laity. 
Redeeming  Excellences  of  the  Sy.stem 82 

Learning;  its  Low  Condition.  Gradual  Revival.  Universities.  Primitive 
0-\ford.     Language 89 

Poetry.  Saxon  Verse-Forra.  Alliteration.  Rhyme.  The  Saxon  Ideal 
—  Beowulf.  Tragic  Tones  of  Saxon  Poetry.  Sombre  Imagination 
of  the  North 101 

Romantic  Fiction.  Its  Origin.  Its  Themes.  Love  Courts,  Its  Form. 
Its  Poets.  Layamon.  Robert  of  Gloucester.  The  "Owl  and  the 
Nightingale" 116 

Rise  of  English  Prose.  History  —  Legendary  Stage.  Annalists.  The 
Saxon  Chronicle.  Theology.  Heresy.  Rationalism.  Ethics. 
Science.  Astrology.  Philosophy.  Scholasticism.  Realism.  Nom- 
inalism.   Aquinas.    Scotiis.    The  Syllogism.    Learned  Puerilities  .  138 

Representative  Authors: 

C^DMOX 145 

Bede 148 

Alfred 156 

Roger  Bacon 163 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Initiative  Period. 

Political  Forces.  Social  Life.  Chivalry.  Misery  of  the  Poor.  Revolt. 
Religion.  Exactions  of  Rome.  Dissensions  of  the  Clergy.  Disaf- 
fection of  the  People 171 

Learning.  Its  Decay,  Language.  The  King's  English.  Its  Inter- 
mixtures      176 

Poetry.      Piers    Plowman.      Robert    Manning.      Gower.      "Confessio 

Amantis" 187 

Prose.     History.     Philosophy.     Science — Astrology.     Theology — Tran- 

substantiivlion.     Ethics  —  Casuistry 194 

Representative  Authors: 

Mandkvilli: 199 

Wvn.iFFE 203 

Chaucer         232 


CONTENTS  OF   VOLUME   I.  Vll 

CHAPTER  V. 

Retrogressive  Period. 

Political  Strife.    Social  State.     Industries.    Savagery.    Homes.    News. 

Sports 238 

Religion.  Debasement  of  the  Church.  Superstitions.  Excesses.  Oppres- 
sions      242 

Learning.     The  Press.     Language.     Emancipation  of  the  Tongue    .     .  244 

Poetry.     Occleve.     Lydgate.     The  Ballad.     Robin  Hood 252 

Prose.  Paston  Letters.  Fortescue.  Malory.  History.  Fabyan. 
Theology —  Decadence.     Ethics — Vacuity.     Science  —  Empiricism. 

Philosophy — Dead  Sea  Fruit 259 

Representative  Author: 

Caxtox 264 

CHAPTER   VI. 

First  Creative  Period. 

Political  Struggles.    Social  Condition.     Increaseof  Comfort  and  Luxury. 

Wretchedness  and  Disorder.     Brutal  Amusements 272 

The  Reformation.  Indidgences.  Dispensations.  Relics.  The  Scrip- 
tures. Book  of  Common  Prayer.  Latimer.  Ridley.  The  Church 
of  England.     Superstitions  of  the  People 284 

The  Renaissance;  its  Rise  and  Development.     Language.     Anomalies. 

Progress  in  Simplicity.     Organized  Completion 296 

Poetry.  Colin  Clout.  Skelton.  Surrey.  Continuity  of  Verse-Form. 
Rhetorical  and  Emotive.  Early  Drama.  The  Theatre.  Mysteries. 
Moralities.  Heywood.  Comedy;  Udall.  Tragedy;  Sackville.  Ex- 
ternals of  the  Stage.     Marlowe 321 

Prose.  Forces.  Style.  Euphuism.  History.  Raleigh.  Hollinshed. 
Theology.  The  Articles.  Rationalism  and  Dogma.  The  Bil)ie. 
Ethics.  The  Dawn  in  Lord  Bacon's  "Essays."'  Rise  of  Science. 
Copernicus.  Galileo.  Philosophy.  Emancipation  from  Scholas- 
ticism.    Bruno 334 

Representative  Authors: 

More 340 

Sidney :347 

Hooker 351 

Raleigh 357 

Spenser :}73 

Suakespeare  .     .  400 


VIU  CONTENTS   OF    VOLUME    I. 

CHAPTER   VII. 

PniLOsoiMiic  Period. 

Political  Parties.  Cavaliers.  Roundheads.  Amelioration  of  Social 
Life.     Relics  of  Barbarity 404 

Religion.     Puritan  Triumph.     Austerity.     Influence.     Witchcraft  .      .  409 

Poetry.  Wither.  Carew.  Herrick.  Suckling.  Donne.  Herbert. 
Drummond.  Cowley.  Change  in  the  Drama.  Jonson.  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher.  Massinger.  Ford.  Webster.  Inequalities  of  the 
Drama.     Shirley.     Closing  of  the  Theatre 427 

Prose.  Burton.  Bishop  flail.  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  Jeremy  Taylor. 
Ethics.  Secularization  of  Morals.  Science.  Astronomy.  Kepler. 
Newton.  Napier.  Harvey.  Rise  of  Modern  Philosophy.  Bacon. 
Descartes.     Browne 444 

Representative  Authors: 

JoNSON 45G 

LoRU  Bacox 472 

Milton 495 

LvDE.x 506 


PROLOGUE. 


A  nation's  literature  is  the  outcome  of  its  whole  life.  To 
consider  it  apart  from  the  antecedents  and  environments  which 
form  the  national  genius  were  to  misapprehend  its  nature  and 
its  bearing.  Its  growth  in  kind  and  degree  is  determined  by 
four  capital  agencies, —  race,  or  hereditary  dispositions;  SUR- 
ROUXDiXGS,  or  physical  and  social  conditions ;  epoch,  or  spirit 
of  the  age ;  person,  or  reactionary  and  expressive  force.  His- 
torical phenomena  are  not  all  to  be  resolved,  as  with  Draper, 
into  physiological ;  nor  all  to  be  explained,  as  with  Buckle,  by 
an  a  priori  necessity ;  nor  chiefly  to  be  referred,  as  with  Taine, 
to  the  sky,  the  weather,  and  the  nerves.  On  the  other  hand, 
they  are  as  far  removed  from  an  individual  spontaneity  as  from 
a  depressing  fatalism.  Personal  genius  remakes  the  society 
which  evolves  it.  In  so  far  as  it  rises  above  the  table-land  of 
national  character,  it  not  only  expresses  but  intensifies  the 
national  type.  Shakespeare  and  Bacon  wrought  under  the  cir- 
cumstances of  their  birth,  but  were  also,  by  their  own  supremacy, 
original  and  independent  sources  of  influence.  Yet  progress  is 
according  to  law.  In  the  midst  of  eternal  change  is  unity.  The 
relations  of  the  constants  and  the  variables  have  the  true  marks 
of  development.  On  a  survey  of  the  whole,  human  wills,  how- 
ever free,  are  seen  to  conform,  under  a  general  Providence,  to 
a  definite  end. 

x\  history  of  English  Literature  requires,  therefore,  a  descrip- 
tion of  English  soil  and  climate,  of  English  thought  and  English 
character,  as  they  exist  when  first  the  English  people  come  upon 
the  arena  of  history,  of  the  growth  of  that  character  and  that 


X  PROLOGUE. 

thought,  as  they  are  colored  by  the  foreign  infusions  of  Celt, 
Roman,  Dane,  and  Norman,  or  impressed  and  fostered  by  the 
new  ideal  —  Christianity.  Nor  can  any  man  understand  the 
American  mind  who  fails  to  appreciate  its  connection  with  Eng- 
lish history,  ancient  and  modern.  On  English  soil  were  first 
developed  what  he  most  values  in  his  ancestral  spirit  —  the 
habits,  the  principles,  and  the  faith,  which  have  made  this 
country  to  be  what  it  is.  As  we  have  no  American  language 
which  is  not  a  graft  on  tlie  English  stock,  though  there  be 
minor  points  of  difference, —  so  we  have  no  American  literature 
which  does  not  flow  in  a  common  stream  of  sentiment  from 
English  hearths  and  English  altars.  What  combinations  will 
hereafter  manifest  themselves  in  consequence  of  democratic  ten- 
dencies and  a  gradual  amalgamation  with  all  the  other  nations 
of  Europe,  is  an  open  question;  but  the  distinctive  features 
which  have  displayed  themselves  within  the  present  century 
can  hardly  be  deemed  of  sufficient  strength  to  color  or  disturb 
the  primitive  current. 

So  far  as  a  historical  work  may  be  intended  to  be  an  educa- 
tional appliance,  it  obviously  should  be  neither  a  presentation  of 
chronological  details  nor  a  mere  discussion  of  causes.  The  high 
and  natural  destination  of  the  soul  is  the  full  development  of  its 
moral  and  intellectual  faculties.  Hence  knowledge  is  chiefly 
valuable  as  a  means  of  mental  activity.  And  since  the  desire  of 
unity,  and  tlie  necessity  of  referring  effects  to  their  causes,  are 
the  mainspring  of  energy,  the  knowledge  that  a  thing  is, —  that 
a  certain  author  wrote  certain  books,  that  a  certain  book  con- 
tains a  certain  passage,  that  a  certain  passage  contains  a  certain 
opinion, —  is  far  less  important  than  the  knowledge  how  or  why 
it  is, —  how  the  author,  the  book,  the  opinion  are  related,  as 
consequent  and  antecedent,  to  some  dominant  idea  or  moral 
state;  how  this  idea  or  state  is  shaped  by  natural  Vjent  and 
constraining  force;   how,  from  this  ])rimitive  bent  and  moulding 


PROLOGUE.  Xi 

force,  we  may  see  in  advance,  and  half  predict  the  character  of 
human  events  and  productions;  how  beneath  literary  remains  we 
can  unearth  the  beatings  of  living  hearts  centuries  ago,  as  the 
lifeless  wreck  of  a  shell  is  a  clue  to  the  entire  and  living 
existence.  The  one  is  a  knowledge  of  objects  as  isolated;  the 
other,  of  objects  as  connected.  The  first  gives  facts;  the  second 
gives  power.  An  individual  may  possess  an  ample  magazine  of 
the  former,  and  still  be  little  better  than  a  barbarian.  Accord- 
ingly I  have  aimed  at  the  golden  mean, —  a  judicious  union  of 
facts  and  philosophy,  of  narrative  and  reflection,  of  objective 
description  and  subjective  meditation.  Color  and  form  may  be 
desirable  to  attract  the  eye,  but  the  interlacing,  spiritual  force, 
that  blends  them  into  harmony  and  coherence,  is  required  to 
make  their  lesson  disciplinary,  available,  and  enduring. 

Again,  it  is  a  law  of  intelligence  that  the  greater  the  number 
of  objects  to  which  our  consciousness  is  simultaneously  extended, 
the  smaller  is  the  intensity  with  which  it  is  able  to  consider  each, 
and  therefore  the  less  vivid  and  distinct  will  be  the  information 
obtained.  If  the  points  considered  are  intermingled,  the  rays 
are  not  brought  to  a  focus,  and  the  mental  eye, —  following  the 
lines,  but  nowhere  abiding, —  instead  of  a  clear  and  well-defined 
image,  perceives  only  a  shadowy  and  confused  outline.  Now,  to 
the  ordinary  student,  it  is  believed  that  the  treatment  of  authors 
in  our  current  text-books  presents  the  fantastic  groupings  of  the 
kaleidoscope, —  a  bewildering  show.  In  the  whirl  and  entangle- 
ment of  topics,  he  sees  nothing  in  an  undivided  light,  and 
receives  no  lasting  and  organic  impressions.  He  reads  passively, 
conceives  feebly,  and  forgets  speedily.  Therefore  each  leading 
author  is  here  discussed  under  the  classified  heads  of  Biogra- 
phy, Writings,  Style,  Rank,  Character,  and  Influence. 
Others  are  added  when  rising  into  special  interest  and   signifi- 

i 

cance.  One  thing  at  a  time  is  the  accepted  condition  for  all 
efficient  activity.     While  the  topics  are  logically  related  as  the 


Xll  PROLOGUE. 

more  or  less  interdependent  parts  of  a  whole,  each  receives  the 
amplest  justice  by  being  made  in  its  turn  the  central  subject  of 
thought.  The  mind  in  its  work  thus  becomes  more  animated 
and  energetic,  because  its  ideas  are  kindred,  all  converging  to  a 
definite  because  to  a  single  impression.  By  such  an  arrange- 
ment, moreover,  the  logical  powers  are  trained,  and  the  student 
unconsciously  acquires  a  habit  of  bringing,  in  writing  or  speak- 
ing, his  thoughts  out  of  chaos  into  order. 

Further,  a  great  man,  his  career,  his  example,  his  ideas,  can 
take  no  strong  and  permanent  hold  of  the  heart  and  mind,  until 
these  have  become  an  integral  part  of  our  established  associa- 
tions of  thoughts,  feelings,  and  desires.  But  this  can  only  be 
accomplished  by  time.  The  attention  must  be  detained  till  the 
subject  becomes  real,  as  the  face  of  a  friend;  fixed,  as  the  sun 
and  stars:  then  the  energies  of  apprehension,  of  judgment,  of 
sympathy,  are  aroused;  and  images,  principles,  truths,  senti- 
ments, though  the  words  be  forgotten,  become  fadeless  acquisi- 
tions, assimilated  into  the  very  substance  of  the  student's  living- 
self.  Hence,  as  the  end  of  liberal  education  is  the  cultivation  of 
the  student  through  the  awakened  exercise  of  his  faculties,  the 
authors  studied  should  be  relatively  few  and  representative. 
Time  is  wasted  and  the  powers  are  dissipated  by  attempting  too 
much.  Preeminent  authors  are  creative  and  pictorial,  reflecting, 
with  singular  fidelity,  the  peculiarities  of  their  age;  and  by 
limiting  the  discussion  to  such,  the  student  acquires  the  most  in 
learning  the  least. 

Regarding  language  as  an  apparatus  for  the  conveyance  of 

thought,   and   mindful   that    whatever   force    is   absorbed    by  the 

machine  is  deducted  from  the  result,  I  have  carefully  excluded 

polemical   and   oonjoctural    matter  fjom  the   body   of    the   work, 

have   seldom    diverted    attention    by    introduction    of    foot-noti^s, 

« 
and    have    employed    dates    but    si^aringly.       '  Biograj^hy,'    says 

Lowell,  'from  day  to  day  holds  dates  cheaper  and  facts  dearer,' 


PROLOGUE.  xui 

—  not  all  facts,  indeed,  but  the  essential  ones,  those  of  psycho- 
logical purport,  which  underlie  the  life  and  make  the  individual 
man.  To  the  same  end  —  economy  of  mental  energy  —  the  early 
poets,  including  Chaucer,  are  presented  in  a  more  or  less  mod- 
ernized form,  with  an  occasional  retention  of  the  antique  dialect 
for  its  illustrative  uses. 

Neither  the  artist  nor  his  art,  as  before  stated,  can  be  under- 
stood and  estimated  independently  of  his  times.  No  enlarged 
or  profound  conception  of  intellectual  culture  is  possible  with- 
out completeness  of  view, —  without  a  well-defined  notion  of  the 
other  elements  of  society,  and  of  those  products  designed  to 
convince  of  truth  or  to  arouse  to  action,  as  well  as  of  those 
whose  prime  object  is  to  address  the  imagination  or  to  please 
the  taste.  Consequently,  each  of  the  periods,  into  which  the 
work  is  divided  according  to  what  seemed  their  predominant 
characteristics,  is  introduced  by  a  sketch  of  the  features  which 
distinguish  it,  and  of  the  forces  which  go  to  shape  it,  including 
Politics,  the  state  of  SociExy,  Religion,  Poetry,  the  Drama, 
the  Novel,  the  Periodical,  History,  Theology,  Ethics,  Sci- 
E>XE,  Philosophy.  No  one  who  aspires  now  to  literary  power 
can  afford  to  be  ignorant  of  the  scientific  phase  of  modern 
thought.  The  educational  value  of  philosophy  is  peculiarly 
apparent  in  its  effects  on  the  culture  and  discipline  of  the 
mind, —  to  quicken  it,  to  teach  it  precision,  to  lead  it  to  inquire 
into  the  causes  and  relations  of  things,  to  awaken  it  to  a  vigor- 
ous and  varied  exertion.  Not  less  salutary  in  this  point  of  view, 
and  far  more  so  in  another,  are  theology  and  ethics.  Moral  cul- 
ture and  religious  growth  cannot  be  excluded  from  any  just 
conception  of  education.  Broadly  stated,  it  is  of  vast  moment 
to  the  student  to  reflect  upon  the  motives  and  springs  of 
liuinan  action,  to  face  the  unexplained  mystery  of  thouglit,  to 
ask  himself.  What  is  right,  and  wliat  wrong  ;  what  am  I,  and 
whither  going;   what  my  history,  and  my  destiny? 


XIV  PROLOGUE. 

According  to  an  enlightened  science  of  education,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  see  the  utility  of  a  text-book,  though  critical,  that  is 
wholly  abstracted  from  the  literature  itself.  Its  criticisms,  its 
general  observations,  are  meaningless  and  powerless  without 
illustrative  specimens  to  verify  them.  They  produce  no  answer- 
ing thoughts,  no  questioning,  and  thus  no  valuable  activity. 
The  student  is  expected  blindly  to  yield  himself  to  the  direc- 
tion of  another.  He  forms  no  independent  judgment,  is  excited 
to  no  disputation,  is  stimulated  to  no  profitable  or  pleasurable 
exercise.  But  instruction  is  only  instruction  as  it  enables  us 
to  teach  ourselves,  and  leaves  on  the  mind  serviceable  images 
and  contemplations.  If  truth  is  not  expansive,  if  it  is  not 
recast  and  used  to  interpret  nature  and  guide  the  life,  wherein 
is  its  value?  The  materials  of  discipline  and  culture  are  fur- 
nished, not  b}'  statements  about  literature,  but  by  the  litera- 
ture itself.  To  refine  the  taste,  to  sharpen  thought,  to  inspire 
feeling,  tlie  student  must  be  brought  closely  and  consciously 
into  contact  with  personality, —  that  is,  with  the  writer's  pro- 
ductions. Not  only  arc  extracts  to  be  presented,  but  when 
practicable  and  expedient,  entire  artistic  products.  These  are 
to  be  interpreted ;  and  in  them,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  student 
should  be  taught  to  recognize  the  genius  that  constructed  them, 
—  liis  style,  his  character,  the  manners,  opinions,  and  civilization 
of  the  period. 

Particular  care  has  been  taken  to  insure  an  interest  in  the 
personal  life  of  an  author;  for  all  the  rules  that  have  ever  been 
prescribed  for  controlling  the  attention  find  their  principal  value 
in  tills, —  that  they  iiiduco  or  require  an  interet^i  in  the  subject- 
matter.  Hence  the  value  of  rejiorted  sayings,  private  journals, 
correspondence,  striking  events,  gossipy  incidents, —  the  scenery 
and  personages  that  belong  to  the  jieriod,  and  which  have  the 
effect  to  charm  the  mind  into  a  synqiathetic  attitude  toward 
the    author's    work.       'As    the    enveloping    English    ivy    lends   a 


PROLOGUE.  XV 

living  charm  and  attractiveness  to  many  a  ruined  castle  and 
abbey,  which  would  prove  uninviting  to  the  tourist  standing 
in  its  naked  deformity,  so  a  reasonable  amplitude  of  treatment 
often  throws  a  wonderful  fascination  over  old  names  and  dates, 
otherwise  uninteresting.' 

It  would  seem  obvious  that  a  history  of  English  Literature 
should  note  in  a  catholic  and  liberal  spirit  the  practical  lessons 
suggested  by  its  theme.  If  it  warms  not  the  feelings  into 
noble  earnestness,  elevates  not  the  mind's  ideals,  nor  supplies 
healthful  truths  by  which  to  live  and  to  die,  it  is  lamentably 
defective;  and  the  fault  is  not  in  the  subject,  but  in  the  histo- 
rian. When  Dr.  Arnold  was  planning  his  histor}',  he  said: 
"  My  highest  ambition  ...  is  to  make  my  history  the  very 
reverse  of  Gibbon  in  this  respect,  that  whereas  the  whole  spirit 
of  his  work,  from  its  low  morality,  is  hostile  to  religion  without 
speaking  directly  against  it,  so  my  greatest  desire  would  be,  in 
my  history,  by  its  high  morals  and  its  general  tone,  to  be  of 
use  to  the  cause,  without  actualbj  bringing  it  forivard.''  With- 
out twisting  a  story  into  a  sermon,  I  have  humbly  endeavored 
to  present  it  as  the  artist  describes  nature, — with  a  light  falling 
upon  it  from  the  region  of  the  highest  and  truest.  As  to  the 
benefits  of  this  study  per  se,  they  cannot  be  overestimated.  He 
can  hardly  hope  for  eminence  as  a  writer,  who  has  not  enriched 
his  mind  and  perfected  his  style  by  familiarity  with  the  literary 
masters  and  masterpieces;  while  to  have  fed  on  high  thoughts 
and  to  have  companioned  with  those  — 

'Whose  soul  the  holy  forms 
Of  young  imagination  hath  kept  pure," 

are,  beyond  all  teaching,  the  virtue-making  powers. 

Every  thinker,  the  most  original,  owes  his  originality  to  the 
originality  of  all.  '  Very  little  of  me,'  said  Goethe,  '  would  be 
left,  if  I  could  but  say  what  I  owe  to  my  predecessors  and 
contemporaries.'  Omnipotence  creates,  man  combines.  He  can 
be  originative,  strictly,  only  in  development,  in  the  form  of  his 


XVI  PROLOGUE. 

funded  thought,  in  the  fusion  of  his  collected  materials,  as  the 
sculptor  in  the  conception  of  his  statue,  or  the  architect  in  the 
design  of  his  edifice.  My  scope  and  purposes  being  such  as 
indicated,  I  have  drawn  freely  from  all  the  fountains  around 
me, —  have  wished  to  absorb  all  the  light  anj'where  radiating. 
To  the  many  who  have  helped  me,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  record  my 
obligations  in  the  manner  which  seems  most  accordant  with  the 
objects  and  uses  to  be  subserved, —  either  explicitly  in  the  text, 
or  collectively  in  the  List  of  Authorities.  To  some  sources,  how- 
ever, I  am  preeminently  indebted, —  to  the  literary  histories  of 
Anderson,  Bascom,  and  Taine;  to  the  critical  essays  of  Macaulay, 
Hazlitt,  and  Whipple;  to  the  philosophical  treatises  of  Lecky, 
Buckle,  Lewes,  and  Uberweg.  I  wish,  also,  to  render  acknowl- 
edgments to  personal  friends, —  to  Rev.  J.  L.  Grover  for  free 
access  to  the  Columbus  Library;  to  General  Joseph  Geiger,  and 
his  accomplished  assistant.  Miss  Mary  Harbaugh,  for  the  liberal 
privileges  of  the  Ohio  State  Library;  to  Professor  Alston  Ellis, 
Ph.D.,  for  valuable  suggestions;  to  Rev.  Daniel  F.  Smith,  and 
Mr.  James  Bishop  Bell,  of  Chicago,  the  scholarly  readers,  for 
their  critical  and  unstinted  revision  of  the  proof-sheets;  to  Rev. 
F.  W.  Gunsaulus,  and  A.  E.  Clevenger,  A.M.,  for  large  and 
important  aid  in  the  preparation  of  a  copious  index. 

Li  conclusion,  my  su])reme  anxiety  has  been  to  produce  not 
a  brilliant  but  a  useful  book,  and  the  results  are  therefore  hope- 
fully commended  to  a  conscientious  and  catholic  criticism,  a 
criticism  that  shall  take  high  ground, —  that  shall  aim  to  pro- 
mote the  common  weal, —  that  shall  not  look  through  a  micro- 
scope when  it  should  look  through  a  telescope, —  that  shall 
illuminate  excellences  as  well  as  indicate  errors, —  that  shall 
contemplate  the  whole  before  it  adjudicates  on  the  parts, — 
that  shall  be  })erc('ptive,  sympathetic,  and  suggestive. 

The  Author. 

Cohanhvs,  Ohio,  July  4,  18S2. 


LIST   OF  AUTHORITIES. 


Adams,  J.  Q Lectures  on  Oratory  and  Rhetoric. 

Alford,  H Queen's  English. 

Alger,  W.  R Poetry  of  the  East. 

Anderson,  R.  B Norse  Mythology. 

Angus,  J Hand- Book  of  English  Literature. 

Bagehot,  W English  Constitution. 

Baring-Gould,  S Myths  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Bascom,  J Philosophy  of  English  Literature. 

Bayne,  P Essays  in  Biography  and  Criticism. 

Bayne,  P Lessons  from  My  Masters. 

Browne,  M Chaucer's  England. 

Buckle,  H.  T History  of  Civilization  in  England. 

Burnet,  G History  of  his  own  Time. 

Cairns,  J Unbelief  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Carlyle,  T Heroes  and  Hero-Worship. 

Carlyle,  T Oliver  Cromwell. 

Carpenter,  S.  H English  of  the  Fourteenth  Century. 

Chambers,  R Cyclopsedia  of  English  Literature. 

Channing,  W.  E Complete  Works. 

Cocker,  B.  F Christianity  and  Greek  Philosophy. 

Clarke,  C.  C Riches  of  Chaucer. 

Collet,  S.  .   Relics  of  Literature. 

Collier,  J.  P History  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry. 

Cook,  Joseph Conscience. 

Cooke,  G.  W Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

Co.\,  G.  W Mythology  of  the  .\ryan  Nations. 

Craik,  G.  L History  of  English  Literature. 

De  Mille,  J Elements  of  Rhetoric. 

D'Israeli,  1 Amenities  of  Literature. 

D'Isracli,  I Cariosities  of  Literature. 

Donier,  .1.  A History  of  Protestant  Theology. 

Drake,  N Shakespeare  and  His  Times. 

Draper,  J.  W Intellectual  Development  of  Europe. 

Eccleston,  J English  Antiquities. 

Ellis,  G Early  English  Metrical  Romances. 

Emerson,  R.  W English  Traits.  • 

Emerson,  R.  W Representative  Men. 

Farrar,  F.  W Chapters  on  Language. 

Farrar,  F.  W Language  and  Languages. 

Farrar,  F.  W Witness  of  History  to  Christ. 

Fauriel,  C.  C History  of  Provi-m/al  Poetry. 

Fields,  J.  T Yesterdays  witli  .\uthors. 

Fiske,  J — Myths  and  Myth-makers. 

Fowler,  W.  E Grammar  of  the  English  Language. 

Freeman,  E.  A History  of  Norman  Conquest. 

Freeman,  E.  .\ Old  English  History. 

Froude,  J.  A History  of  England. 

xvii 


xvin  LIST   OF   AUTHORITIES. 

Froude,  J.  A Short  Studies"  on  Great  Subjects. 

Geike,  C The  English  Reformation. 

Giles,  J.  A Ancient  Britons. 

Gilfillan,  G Modern  Literature  and  Literary  Men. 

Gilliland,  T Dramatic  Mirror. 

Gladstone,  WE Gleanings  of  Past  Years. 

Gladstone,  W.  E .Inventus  Mundi. 

Godwin,  P Out  of  the  Past. 

Goodman,  W Social  History  of  Great  Britain. 

Gould,  E.  S Good  English. 

Green,  J.  R A  Short  History  of  the  English  People. 

Guizot,  F.  P.  G History  of  Civilization  in  Europe. 

Giiizot,  F.  P.  G History  of  the  Ilnglish  Revolution. 

Hamilton,  Sir  W Discussions  on  Philosophy  and  Literature. 

Hallam,  H Constitutional  History  of  England. 

Hallam,  H Er.rope  during  the  Middle  Ages. 

Halhim,  H Literature  of  Europe. 

Haven.  J History  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Philosophy. 

Ha/.litI,  W Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth. 

Hazlitf,  W.  C ., Early  Literature  of  Great  Britain. 

Hudson,  F History  of  Journalism. in  the  United  States. 

Hume,  D History  of  England. 

Hunt,  L Selections  from  Englisii  Poets. 

Hurst,  J.  F History  of  Rationalism. 

Hutton,  R.  H Essays,  Theological  and  Literary. 

Irvrng,  W • Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Jameson,  A Legends  of  the  Monastic  Orders. 

Johnson,  8 Lives  of  Eminent  English  Poets. 

Jouflfroy.  T.  S Introduction  to  Ethics. 

King,  T.  S Christianity  and  Humanity. 

Knight,  (' Popular  History  of  England. 

Labarte,  J Arts  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  Renaissance. 

Lange,  F.  A History  of  Materialism. 

Lanier,  S Science  of  English  Verse. 

Latham,  R.  G English  Language. 

Lecky,  W.  E.  H. England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Lt'cky,  W.  E.  H History  of  European  Morals. 

Lecky.  W.  E.  II Rationalism  in  Europe. 

Lcland,  .1 View  of  Deistical  Writers. 

Lewes,  G.  H Biographical  History  of  Philosophy. 

Lewis,  J History  of  Englisii  Translations  of  the  Bible. 

Lodge,  E Illustrations  of  British  History. 

Longfellow,  II.  W Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe. 

Lowell,  J.  R Among  My  Books. 

Lowell,  J.  R My  Study  Windows. 

Lubbock,  Sir  J Origin  of  Civilization. 

Ly tton,  Lord Last  of  the  Barons. 

Macaulay,  T.  B Essays. 

Macaulay,  T.  B History  of  England. 

Mackintosh,  Sir  J Progress  of  Ethical  Philosophy. 

Marsh,  G.  P .' Origin  and  History  of  tlie  English  Language 

Martineaii,  H History  of  England. 

Martineau,  J Essays,  Pliilosophical  and  Theological. 

Mathews.  W Literary  Style. 

M'Cosh,  J Christianity  and  Positivism. 

MX'osh,  J Intuitions  of  the  Mind. 

Mill,  J.  S System  of  Logic. 

Mills,  C History  of  Chivalry. 


LIST   OF   AUTHORITIES.  XIX 

Morell,  J.  D Speculative  Philosophy  of  Europe. 

Morley,  11 First  Sketch  of  English  Literature. 

Morris,  G.  S British  Thought  and  Thinkers. 

Mosheim,  J.  L Ecclesiastical  History. 

Muller,  F.  M Chips  from  a  German  Workshop. 

Miiller,  F.  M Science  of  Language. 

Ncal,  D History  of  the  Puritans. 

Necle,  H Lectures  on  English  Poetry. 

Niebuhr,  B.  G History  of  Rome. 

Oliphant,  T.  L.  K Old  and  Middle  English. 

Palgravo,  Sir  F History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 

Palgrave,  Sir  F Rise  of  the  English  Commonwealth. 

Parker,  T Complete  Works. 

Percy,  T Reliqucs  of  Ancient  English  Poetry. 

Phelps,  -\ustin .Men  and  Books. 

Philp,  R.  K. Progress  in  Great  Britain. 

Porter,  N Books  and  Reading. 

Porter,  N The  Human  Intellect. 

Prescott,  W.  H Biographical  and  Critical  Miscellanies. 

Ranke,  L History  of  the  Popes. 

Reed,  H Lectures  on  English  History. 

Reed.  H Lectures  on  English  Literature. 

Ruskin,  J Modern  Painters. 

Russell.  A.  P Library  Notes. 

Schaff,  P History  of  the  Christian  Church. 

Schuyler,  A Outlines  of  Logic. 

Shairp,  J.  C Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature. 

Shairp,  J.  C Aspects  of  Poetry. 

Sisniondi.  J.  C.  L.  S.  de Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe. 

Shepherd,  Henry  E History  of  the  English  Language. 

SmoUet,  T History  of  England. 

Spencer,  H Illustrations  of  Universal  Progress. 

Stael,  Madame  de Influence  of  Literature. 

Stanhope,  P.  H .' Reign  of  Queen  Anne. 

Stedman,  E.  C Victorian  Poets. 

Stej)hen,  L English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Stubbs,  W Constitutional  History  of  England. 

Symonds,  J.  A Sketches  and  Studies  in  Southern  Europe. 

Symonds,  J.  A The  Renaissance  in  Italy. 

Taine,  H.  A Notes  on  England. 

Taine,  H.  A History  of  English  Literature. 

Thorns,  W.  J Prose  Romances. 

Thomson,  E Educational  Essays. 

Thorpe,  B Northern  Mythology. 

Toctiuevillc,  A.  de Democracy  in  America. 

Tooke,  J.  H Diversions  of  Purley. 

Trench,  R.  C '. English,  Past  and  Present. 

Trench,  R.'C On  the  Study  of  Words. 

Turner,  S History  of  the  .'\uglo-Sa.Kons. 

Turner,  T.  H Domestic  Architecture  in  England. 

Tylor,  E.  B Primitive  Culture. 

I'berweg,  F History  of  Philosophy. 

Vaughan,  R Revolutions  in  English  History. 

Warton,  T History  of  English  Poetry. 

Whewell,  W History  of  the  Inductive  Sciences. 

Whewell,  W Philosophy  of  the  Inductive  Sciences. 


XX  LIST  OF   AUTHORITIES. 

Whewell,  W . .  Elements  of  Morality. 

Whipple,  E.  P Character  and  Characteristic  Men. 

Whipple,  E.  P Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth. 

White,  J History  of  England. 

Whitney,  W.  D Language  and  the  Study  of  Language. 

Whitney,  W.  D Life  and  Growth  of  Language. 

Wright,  T England  in  the  Middle  Ages. 


DEYELOPMEl^T 

OP 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE  AND  LANGUAGE. 


rOR:MATIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER    I. 

FORMING   OF   THE.  PEOPLE. 

The  hanest  gathered  in  the  fields  of  the  Past  is  to  be  brought  home  for  the  use  of  the 
Present.— 2)r.  Arnold. 

History  does  not  stand  outside  of  nature,  but  in  her  very  heart,  so  that  the  historian  only 
grasps  a  people's  character  with  true  precision  when  he  keeps  in  full  view  its  geographical 
position,  and  the  influences  which  its  surroundings  have  wrought  upon  it. — Ritter. 

Geographical. — We  see,  by  reference  to  the  map,  that  Eng- 
land—  the  land  i'roni  which  our  lang-uage  and  many  of  our  insti- 
tutions are  derived  —  is  the  largest  of  three  countries  comprising 
the  island  of  Great  liritain.^  The  remaining  two  are  Wales  and 
Scotland.  Tliese  three,  with  Ireland,  constitute  the  United  King- 
dom ^  and  this,  with  its  foreign  possessions,  the  British  Empire. 

England,  consisting  chiefly  of  low  plains  and  gentle  hills, 
occupies  the  central  and  southern  portion  of  the  island;  and 
Wales,  mountainous  and  nianshy,  the  western.  Scotland  is  the 
northern  division,  storm-beaten  by  a  hostile  ocean;  mountainous 
and  sterile  in  the  north,  but  abounding  in  fertile  plains  in  the 
south. 

Britain  is  separated  from  France  by  the  English  Channel,  from 
Ireland  by  the  Irish  Sea,  and  from  Germany  by  the  North  Sea, 
notorious  for  its  wrecks. 

1  fireai  Britain,  because  there  is  another  land  also  called  Britain. —  the  nortliwestern 
corner  of  Gaul:  but  this  last  is  now  coniinonly  called  Brittany.  The  two  names,  however, 
are  really  the  "anie,  and  both  are  called  in  Latin  Britannia. 


2  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   PEOPLE. 

Its  entire  extent  is  about  ninety  thousand  square  miles,  or 
nearly  twice  the  area  of  the  State  of  New  York. 

It  is  divided  into  counties,  or  shires,  of  which  England  has 
forty,  Wales  twelve,  Scotland  thirty-three. 

Its  climate  is  moist  with  the  vapors  that  rise  forever  from  the 
great  sea-girdle,  and  its  sky  sombre  with  the  clouds  that  are  fed 
by  ceaseless  exhalations,  —  conditions  which,  however  conducive 
to  splendor  of  verdure,  are  less  nurturing  to  refined  and  nimble 
thought  than  to  sluggish  and  melancholy  temperament;  for  man, 
forced  to  accommodate  himself  to  circumstances,  contracts  habits 
and  aptitudes  corresponding  to  them. 

No  European  country  should  have  a  deeper  interest  for  Eng- 
lish or  American  readers;  none  is  so  rich  in  learning  and  science, 
in  wise  men  and  useful  arts;  but  nothing  in  its  early  existence 
indicated  the  greatness  it  was  destined  to  attain.  We  are  to  think 
of  it  in  those  dim  old  days  as,  intellectually  and  physically,  an 
island  in  a  northern  sea  —  the  joyless  abode  of  rain  and  surge, 
forest  and  bog,  wild  beast  and  sinewy  savage,  which,  as  it  strug- 
gled from  chaos  into  order,  from  morning  into  prime,  should 
become  the  residence  of  civilized  energy  and  Christian  sentiment, 
of  smiling  love  and  sweet  poetic  dreams. 

Britons. — When  we  learn  that  the  same  grammatical  princi- 
ples, the  same  laws  of  structure,  dominate  throughout  the  lan- 
guages of  Europe,  and  that,  even  when  their  apparent  differences 
are  most  ol^vious,  it  may  yet  be  proved  tliat  there  is  a  complete 
identity  in  their  main  roots,  there  can  be  no  shadow  of  doubt  that 
they  were  once  identical,  and  that  the  many  peoples  who  use  them, 
once,  long  before  the  beginning  of  recorded  annals,  dwelt  together 
in  the  same  pastoral  tents.  Somewhere  in  the  quadrilateral  which 
extends  from  tlie  Indus  to  the  Euphrates,  and  from  the  Oxus  to 
the  Persian  Gulf,  amid  scenery  'grandiose  yet  severe,'  lived  this 
mother-race,  unknown  even  to  tradition,  but  revealed  by  linguistic 
science, —  ])arent  of  tlie  speculative  subtlety  of  Germany,  of  the 
imjicrial  (Micrgy  of  England,  of  the  vivid  intelligence  of  BVance,  of 
tlie  glorv  tliat  was  Greece  and  the  grandeur  tliat  was  Rome.  Its 
most  ancient  name  with  which  we  are  acquainted  is  vlryTW,  derived 
from  tlic  root  ''//',  to  ])lough,  and  wliich  tlierefore  implies  originally 
an  agricultural  as  distinguished  from  a  rude  and  nomadic  peo])l(\ 
Just  when  it  beoan  to  wander  awav  from  its  cradle-land  is  un- 


PRIMITIVE   BRITONS.  3 

known;  but  gradually,  perhaps  by  the  natural  growth  of  popula- 
tion, perhaps  by  the  restless  spirit  of  enterprise,  the  old  home  was 
abandoned;  and  it  often  happened  that  a  wandering  band  parted 
asunder  into  two  or  more  others  in  the  course  of  its  wanderings, 
who  forgot,  as  they  separated,  the  rock  whence  they  were  hewn 
and  the  hole  of  the  pit  whence  they  were  digged.  In  most  cases 
they  entered  upon  territory  already  inhabited  by  other  races,  but 
these  were  commonly  either  destroyed  or  driven  from  the  select 
parts  into  out-of-the-way  corners. 

First  of  all,  in  quest  of  new  fortunes,  came  the  Celts,  pressing 
their  way  into  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  Gaul  (now  France),  and 
thence  into  Britain.  The  area  over  which  Celtic  names  are  found 
diffused  shows  the  original  extent  of  their  dominion.  These  pre- 
English  Celts,  ever  waning  and  dying,  survive  chiefly  in  the  mod- 
ern Highlanders,  Irish'  and  Welsh.*  Their  history,  as  Britons, 
finds  its  earliest  solid  footing  in  the  narrative  of  a  Roman  soldier. 
Early  historians,  indeed,  who  could  look  into  the  far  and  shadowy 
past  with  an  unquestioning  confidence,  marshalled  kings  and 
dynasties  in  complete  chronology  and  exact  succession.  They 
made  British  antiquity  run  parallel  with  'old  hushed  Egypt,'  with 
the  prophets  and  judges  of  Israel.  We  are  gravely  told  of  one 
British  king  Avho  flourished  in  the  time  of  Saul,  of  another  who 
was  contemporary  with  Solomon;  that  King  Lear  had  grown  old 
in  government  Avhon  Romulus  and  Remus  were  suckled;  that  the 
Britons  were  sprung  from  Trojan  ancestry,  and  took  their  name 
from  Brutus,  who,  an  exile  and  troubled  wanderer,  was  directed 
by  the  oracle  of  Diana  to  come  to  Albion,' — 

'Tliat  pale,  that  wliitc- faced  shore, 
Whose  foot  siiurns  back  the  ocean's  roarini^  tides." 

Standing  before  the  altar  of  the  goddess,  with  vessel  of  wine 

and  blood  of  wliite  hart,  lie  had  repeated  nine  times, — 

'Coddcss  of  woods,  tremendous  in  the  chase 
To  mountain  hoars,  and  all  the  savaj^e  race  '. 
Wide  o'er  tlie  etliereal  walks  extends  thy  sway, 
And  o'er  \\w.  infernal  mansions  void  of  dayl 
Look  uiKHi  us  on  earth!    unfold  our  fate, 
And  say  what  region  is  our  destined  seat '. 
Wliere  shall  we  next  thy  lasting  temples  raise? 
And  choirs  of  angels  celebrate  tliy  praise";"' 

'  Meanins.'  'Mi'n  of  the  West."  '■'  :Meaning  'Strangers." 

'  The  island,  not  yet  Britain,  was  ruled  over  by  Albion,  a  giant,  and  son  of  Neptune, 
who  save  it  his  name.  I'resuniing,  says  one  account,  to  opixjse  the  progress  of  Ilerculo  in 
his  western  march,  he  was  slain. 


4  FOKMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

In  deep  sleep,  in  vision  of  the  night,  he  was  answered, — 

'Brutus',  there  lies  beyond  the  Gallic  bounds 
An  Iiilaiid  which  the  western  sea  surrounds, 
By  gtiints  once  i)ossessed;  now  few  remain 
To  bar  thy  entrance,  or  obstruct  thy  reign. 
Tt>  reach  that  happy  shore  thy  sails  employ ; 
There  fate  decrees  to  raise  a  second  Troy, 
And  found  an  empire  in  thy  royal  line, 
Which  time  shall  ne'er  destroy,  nor  bounds  conline.' 

We  call  these  stories  legendary;  once  —  as  late  as  the  seven- 
teenth century  —  the}'  were  accredited  history.  Certainly,  the 
faith  which  received  them  as  such  seems  to  us  better  than  the 
vicious  scepticism  which  would  beggar  us  of  the  accumulated 
inheritance  of  ages  by  destroying  belief  in  the  evidence.  They 
may,  and  doubtless  do,  contain  germs  of  truth  —  left  on  the 
shifting  sands  as  wave  after  wave  of  forgotten  generations  broke 
on  the  shores  of  eternity.  Many  a  mighty  empire,  it  is  true, 
has  faded  forever  out  of  the  memory  of  man;  but  much  that 
was  once  thought  irretrievably  lost  has  been  reclaimed;  and, 
hereafter,  historical  science  may  bring  to  light  from  the  dark 
oblivion  of  these  pre-historic  Britons  more  than  is  now  dreamed 
of  in  our  philosophy. 

Fables  of  a  line  of  kings  before  the  Romans,  have  left  one 
legend  that  has  become  to  all  a  wondrous  reality  —  the  story  of 
King  Lear,  transmuted  by  the  alchemy  of  genius  into  perhaps 
the  most  impressive  and  awful  tragedy  in  the  range  of  dramatic 
literature. 

Homan  Conquest. — Meanwhile,  our  first  authentic  informa- 
tion in  regard  to  them  is  given  by  Julius  C;esar,  who,  fifty-five 
years  before  Christ,  led  his  brass-mailed  legions  into  Britain  from 
Gaul.  If  the  attack  was  fierce,  the  resistance  was  heroic,  and 
marks  the  rising  pulse  in  that  fiood 

'Of  British  freedom  which,  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  unticniity 
Halh  flowed.' 

While  the  Roman  standard-bearer  leaped  into  the  waves,  and 
bade  his  hesitating  comrades  follow,  the  Britons  dashed  into  the 
surf  to  strike  the  invader  before  his  foot  ])olluted  their  soil. 
The  invasion  added  nothing  to  the  Roman  power  or  pride.  At 
the  end  of  his  eampaigns,  Ca-sar  had  viewed  th(!  island  rather 
than   possessed    it;    and   when    he  gave  thanks  at   Rome  to  tlie 


ROMAN   INVADERS.  5 

gods,  it  may  be  questioned  whether  it  was  for  a  conquest  or  an 
escape. 

Under  his  successors,  however,  about  the  year  85,  when  the 
Republic  had  become  the  Empire,  the  central  and  southern  por- 
tion of  the  country  became  a  Roman  province,  and  was  subject 
to  Roman  rule  nearly  four  hundred  years. 

Slow,  feeble  and  imperfect  victory,  as  in  the  evening  of  a 
well-fought  day,  when  the  veteran's  arm  is  less  strong  and  his 
passions  less  violent. 

Effects. — During  this  time  much  was  done  to  improve  the 
condition  of  the  natives-.  The  Roman  coins,  laws,  language,  were 
introduced.  Governed  with  justice,  they  became  less  estranged. 
Schools  were  established.  The  conquered  were  grouped  to- 
gether in  cities  guarded  by  massive  walls,  and  linked  together 
by  a  net-work  of  magnificent  roads,  which  ran  straight  from 
town  to  town.  The  modern  railways  of  England  often  follow 
the  line  of  these  Roman  roads.  Agriculture  and  the  useful  arts 
prospered.  Many  came  from  Italy,  and  built  temples,  palaces, 
public  baths,  and  other  splendid  structures,  living  in  great  luxury 
and  delight.  Their  beautiful  floors,  composed  of  differently 
colored  brick,  and  arranged  in  elegant  patterns,  are  occasionally 
unearthed  —  for  cornfields  and  meadows  now  cover  this  Roman 
splendor,  and  new  cities  have  risen  upon  the  ruins  of  the  old. 

But  Roman  civilization  was  arrested  and  modified  by  the 
calamities  of  the  fifth  century.  In  the  anarchy  and  bloodshed 
of  barbarian  invasion,  the  Romanized  Britons,  who  had  thus  far 
preserved  their  national  identity,  went  down;  albeit,  in  their  fall, 
they  were  as  forest  leaves  strewn  by  autumnal  winds  —  leaving 
behind  them  a  fertilizing  power  in  the  soil,  whence  other  trees 
should  bud  and  bloom  in  the  light  of  other  summers,  and  gather 
strength  to  battle  with  the  inclemencies  of  other  winters.  The 
imperial  armies  brought  with  them  the  Christian  faith;  and 
Britain,  about  to  undergo  a  new  yoke,  had  received  the  principle 
that  was  destined  to  save  her  from  complete  desolation.  Even 
in  the  savage  North,  where  Roman  arms  had  failed  to  penetrate, 
Christ  liad  conquered  souls. 

Anglo-Saxon  Conquest. — In  the  north  and  west,  sheltered 
by  their  mountain  fastnesses,  were  the  Celtic  Picts  and  Silures, 
whom  no  severitv  could  reduce  to  subiection  and  no  resistance 


6  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

restrain  from  plunder.  For  two  centuries  they  had  been  the 
teri'or  of  the  civilized  Britons,  as  wild  animals  harass  and  perse- 
cute the  tame  of  their  own  species. 

Side  by  side  Avith  tliem,  and  often  driving  them  back  upon 
their  own  territory,  were  the  /Scots,  a  Celtic  tribe  originally  from 
Ireland,  whence  they  crossed  in  so  great  a  number  in  their  little 
llat-bottomed  boats  as  finally  to  give  their  own  name  to  the  dis- 
trict they  invaded.  In  368  we  find  their  united  hordes  pursuing 
their  depredations  as  far  as  London,  and  repelled  with  great  diffi- 
culty by  Theodosius,  a  Roman  general. 

Soon  thereafter  the  Empire  began  falling  in  pieces,  and  at 
length  its  legions  were  wholly  withdrawn  from  Britain  for  the 
defense  of  Italy  against  the  Goths.  The  heart  of  the  Britons  was 
faint.  They  had  been  so  long  defended  by  their  Roman  masters 
that  when  left  alone  tliey  were  incapable  of  defending  themselves. 
Piteously,  but  vainly,  they  entreated  once  more  for  protection, 
exclaiming,  '  The  barbarians  drive  us  to  the  sea,  and  the  sea 
drives  us  back  to  the  barbarians.'  In  their  extremity  they 
applied,  with  the  usual  promises  of  land  and  pay,  to  the  Germanic 
tribes  of  the  Jutes,  who,  driven  by  the  pressure  of  want  or  of  foes 
from  the  sunless  woods  and  foggy  clime  of  their  native  Jutland, 
had  alreatiy  spread  their  ravages  along  the  eastern  shores  of 
Britain,  and  whose  pirate-boats  were  not  improbably  cruising  off 
the  coast  at  the  moment, — 

'Then,  sad  relief,  from  the  bleak  coast  that  hears 
The  German  Ocean  roar,  ilcep-blooniinLr,  strong, 
And  yellow-haired,  the  blue-eyed  Saxon'  came.' 

Tliey  came  to  stay — to  settle  a  people  and  to  found  a  state. 
The  fame  of  their  adventure  attracted  others,  till,  their  numbers 
swelling,  they  tr(\u'li(M-ously  turned  their  anus  against  the  nation 
they  came  to  ])rotcct,  and  established  themselves  on  the  fruitful 
])lains  of  Kott. 

Fr()]ii  the  sand-flats  of  Holstein  and  the  morasses  of  Friesland 
swarmed  the  SaXOnS  in  successive  l^ands,  and  settled,  with 
sword  and  l)att Ic-a.xc,  to  the  south,  west  and  east,  founding  the 
kingdoms  of  aSV/.v.sv .'•,  H 'i'-.s-.sv ,/•  aiul  Ksxcf. 

From  tlic  wild  wasto  of  Sleswick,  s\v(<])t  by  the  blast  of  tlx- 
North,   wan    and    ominous,    ])our(Ml    tlic    Angles    in    a    series    of 

'  A  trcncric  ii:ini<'  hy  whjih  tliey  and  their  7ieiL'hlinr<  were  known  to  the  Konians, 
though  conveniently  applied  in  particular  to  a  voulhern  tril)e. 


SAXON   SETTLERS.  7 

descents,  and  slowly,  over  deserted  walls  and  polluted  shrines, 
penetrated  into  the  interior,  effecting  the  settlements  of  North- 
umberland, Anglia  and  Mercia.  They  seem  to  have  been  the 
most  numerous  and  energetic  of  the  invaders,  since  they  occupied 
larger  districts,  and  in  the  end  gave  their  name  to  the  land  and 
its  people.  It  was  now  that  Britain  began  to  be  called  Angle- 
land,  subsequently  contracted  into  England,  meaning  the  '  land  of 
the  Angles,'  or  'English.' 

After  nearly  two  hundred  years  of  bitter  warfare  the  island 
was  given  over  to  the  dominion  of  the  pagan  conquerors,  who 
meantime  grouped  themselves  into  the  several  petty  kingdoms 
indicated,  which  were  collectively  known  as  the  Heptarchy. 
Their  history  is  like  a  history  of  'kites  and  crows.'  Freed  from 
the  common  pressure  of  war  against  the  Britons,  they  turned  their 
energies  to  combats  Avith  one  another.  Little  by  little,  as  the  tide 
of  supremacy  rolled  backward  and  forward,  one  predominated  over 
the  others,  till  eventually  they  were  all  made  subject  to  Wessex 
in  the  year  8'27,  and  for  the  first  time  there  was  something  like 
national  unity,  with  the  promise  of  national  development. 

Effects. — The  conquest,  stubbornly  resisted  and  hardly  won, 
was  a  sheer  dispossession  of  the  conquered.  Priests  were  slain  at 
the  altar,  churches  fired,  peasants  driven  by  the  flames  to  fling 
themselves  on  rings  of  pitiless  steel.  Some,  the  wealthier,  fled  in 
panic  across  the  Channel,  and  took  refuge  with  their  kindred  in 
Brittany.  Others,  who  would  still  be  free,  retired  to  AVales, 
which  became  the  secure  I'etreat  of  Christianity.  The  rest,  who 
were  not  cut  down,  were  enslaved.  These  are  they  who,  attached 
to  the  soil,  will  rise  gradually  with  the  rise  of  industry,  and  spread 
by  amalgamation  through  all  ranks  of  society.  In  the  ascendency 
of  the  Saxon,  who  caused  his  own  language,  customs,  and  laws  to 
become  paramount,  was  laid  the  sure  foundation  of  the  future 
nation — the  one  German  state  that  rose  on  the  wreck  of  Rome. 

It  is  in  this  sanguinar}'  and  ineffectual  struggle  that  romance 
places  the  fair  Rowena,  of  fatal  charms,  with  her  golden  wine- 
cup;  the  enchanter  Merlin,  who  instructs  Vortigern,  king  of  the 
Britons,  how  to  find  the  two  sleeping  dragons  that  hinder  the 
building  of  his  tower;  the  famous  Arthur,  with  iiis  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table: 


8  FORMATIVE  PERIOD  —  THE  PEOPLE. 

'The  fellowship  of  the  table  round, 

So  famous  in  those  days, 
Whereat  a  hundred  noble  knights. 
And  thirty  sat  always.' 

Danish.  Conquest. — But  Saxon  Britain  was  also  to  be 
broug-ht  to  the  brink  of  that  servitude  or  extermination  which 
her  arms  had  brought  upon  the  Celt.  About  the  end  of  the 
eighth  century,  the  roving  Northmen/  pouring  redundant  from 
their  bleak  and  barren  regions,  began  to  hover  off  the  English 
coast,  growing  in  numbers  and  hardihood  as  they  crept  southward 
to  the  Thames.  For  two  hundred  years  the  raven  —  dark  and 
dreaded  emblem  of  the  Dane — was  the  terror  and  scourge  of 
Saxon  homes.  After  a  long  series  of  disasters,  aggravated  by 
internal  feuds,  Danish  kings  occupied  the  throne  from  1016  till 
1042,  when  the  Saxon  line  was  restored  in  the  person  of  Edward 
the  Confessor. 

Effects. — The  same  wild  panic,  as  the  light  black  skiffs  strike 
inland  along  the  river  reaches  or  moor  around  the  river  islets; 
the  same  sights  of  horror  —  reddened  horizons,  slaughtered  men, 
and  children  tossed  on  spikes  or  sold  in  the  market-place. 
Christian  priests  were  again  slain  at  the  altar.  Coveting  their 
treasures  of  gold  and  silver,  but  despising  their  more  valuable 
ones  of  knowledge,  they  made  use  of  books  in  setting  fire  to 
the  monasteries.  Letters  and  religion  disappeared  before  these 
Northmen  as  before  the  Northmen  of  old.  The  arts  of  peace 
wore  forgotten.  Light  was  all  but  quenched  in  a  chaotic  and 
muddy  ignorance.  To  an  England  that  had  forgotten  its  origins 
was  brought  back  the  barbaric  England  of  its  })irate  forefathers. 

When  it  is  considered  that  the  invaders  were  nearly  half 
as  many  as  the  invaded,  we  are  prepared  to  believe  that  their 
influence  in  language,  in  physical  type,  in  manners,  was  far 
greater  than  is  usually  conceded. 

Norman  Conquest. — When  tlie  great  comet  of  lOGO  waved 
over  f^iigland,  the  enervated  Saxon  looked  up  and  beheld  what 
seemed  to  liiin  a  portent  that  should,  as  Milton  describes  it, 

' shake  from  its  horrid  hair 

Pestilence  and  war.' 

In  tlie  ninth  century,  the  Northmen  —  these  same  daring  and 

1  The  terms  Xorthmen.  Xor^emen,  or  Scandinnvianx,  are  general  de.«ii,'natioiis  of  the 
inhal)itants  of  Scaiidiiiaxia  (Norway,  Sweden  and  Denmark),  who  at  about  tliis  |)en(>d  were 
called,  without  distiiution,  Dane". 


NORMAN    OPPRESSORS.  9 

rapacious  warriors  —  penetrated  into  France,  and  in  913  had 
settled  in  the  northern  part,  where,  blending  with  the  French 
and  adopting  their  language,  they  rapidly  grew  up  into  great 
prosperity  and  power.  Their  name  was  softened  into  I^ormans, 
and  their  settlement  was  called  Normandy,  meaning  the  'Land 
of  the  North-man.' 

In  106G,  polished  and  transformed  by  the  infusion  of  foreign 
blood,  the  Normans,  in  their  well-knit  coats  of  mail,  with  sword 
and  lance,  invaded  and  subdued  England  in  the  single  battle 
of  Hastings,  under  Duke  William,  who  is  therefore  known  as 
William  the  Conqueror. 

Oppression. — The  Norman  was  in  a  hostile  country;  and,  to 
maintain  himself,  became  an  oppressor.  He  appropriated  the 
soil,  levied  taxes,  built  for  himself  castles,  with  their  parapets 
and  loop-holes,  their  outer  and  inner  courts  —  of  which,  within  a 
century,  there  were  eleven  hundred  and  fifteen.  William,  as  his 
power  grew,  went  from  a  show  of  justice  to  ferocity.  Wherever 
his  resentment  was  provoked  —  wherever  submission  to  his  exac- 
tions was  refused — were  the  red  lights  of  his  burnings.  Men  ate 
human  flesh  under  the  pressure  of  consuming  famine;  the  perish- 
ing sold  themselves  into  slavery  to  obtain  food;  corpses  rotted  in 
the  liighways  because  none  were  left  to  bury  them.  The  invaders 
—  sixty  thousand  —  are  an  armed  colony.  The  Saxon  is  made  a 
body  slave  on  his  own  estate.  For  an  offence  against  the  forest 
laws  he  will  lose  his  eyes.  At  eight  o'clock  he  is  warned  by  the 
ringing  of  the  curfew  bell  to  cover  up  his  fire  and  retire.  '  What 
savage  unsocial  nights,'  says  Lamb,  '  must  our  ancestors  have 
spent,  wintering  in  eaves  and  unillumiiiated  fastnesses!  They 
must  have  lain  about  and  grumbled  at  one  another  in  the  dark. 
What  re]iartees  could  have  passed  when  you  must  have  felt  about 
for  a  smile,  and  handled  vour  noighljor's  cheek  to  be  sure  tliat  he 
understood  it?'  Villages  are  swept  away  to  make  hunting  grounds 
for  Noniian  moiiarehs.  A  Norman  abbot  digs  up  the  bones  of  his 
predecessors,  and  throws  them  without  the  gates.  In  a  word, 
England,  in  forced  and  sullen  repose,  was  under  a  galling  yoke, 
and  to  all  outward  ajipearances  was  French. 

l\ff'< <•(.•<. —  (L)  Introduction  of  Feudalism, —  the  distriluition 
of  land  among  militarv  captains,  to  hold  by  the  sword  what 
the    sword   had  won.       In    twentv  vears    from   tlic  coronation  of 


10  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   PEOPLE. 

William,  almost  the  whole  of  English  soil  had  been  divided,  on 
condition  of  fealty  and  assistance,  among  his  followers,  while  the 
peasantry  were  bound  as  serfs.  The  meanest  Norman  rose  to 
wealth  and  power.  Here  is  tlie  ordinance  of  the  great  feudal 
principle  of  service  : 

'  We  command  that  all  earls,  barons,  knights,  sergeants  and  freemen  be  always  pro- 
\ided  with  horses  and  arms  as  they  ought,  and  that  they  be  always  ready  to  perform  to  us 
their  whole  service,  in  manner  as  they  owe  it  to  us  of  right  for  their  fees  and  tenements, 
and  as  we  have  apiwiuted  to  tlicm  by  the  common  council  of  our  whole  kingdom,  and  as  we 
have  granted  to  them  in  fee  with  riglit  of  inlicriUince.' 

Of  the  native  proprietors  many  perished,  others  were  impov- 
erished, and  some  retained  their  estates  as  vassals  of  Norman 
lords.  To  cast  off  the  chains  of  feudality  will  be  the  labor  of  six 
centuries. 

(2.)  Introduction  of  Chivalry,'  or  Knighthood,  a  military 
institution  which  was  prompted  by  an  enthusiastic  benevolence 
and  combined  with  religious  ceremonies,  the  avowed  purpose  of 
which  was  to  protect  the  weak  and  defend  the  right.  It  appears 
to  have  had  its  origin  in  the  military  distinction  by  which  certain 
feudal  tenants  were  bound  to  serve  on  horseback,  equipped  with 
the  coat  of  mail.  He  who  thus  fought,  and  had  been  invested 
with  helmet,  sliield  and  spear  in  a  solemn  maimer,  wanted  noth- 
ing more  to  render  him  a  knight.  From  the  advantages  of  the 
mounted  above  the  ordinary  combatant,  probablv  arose  that  far- 
famed  valor  and  keen  thirst  for  renown  which  ultimately  became 
the  essential  qualities  of  a  knightly  character. 

(.3.)  Introduction  of  French  speech.  This  became  the  lan- 
guage of  the  court  and  polite  literature.  As  late  as  the  middle 
of  the  fourteenth  century  it  was  said:  'Children  in  scole,  agenst 
the  usage  and  manir  of  all  other  nations,  beeth  compelled  for  to 
levo  hire  (their)  owne  laiigage,  and  for  to  construe  hir  (their) 
lessons  and  hir  thyngos  in  Frenche,  and  so  they  haveth  sethe 
Normans  came  first  into  England.'  They  made  such  a  point  of 
this  that  nobles  sent  their  sons  to  France  to  preserve  them  from 
barl)arisins.  Stii(l(Mits  of  tlie  universities  were  obliged  to  converse 
cither  in  Frencii  or  I^atin.  'Getitilmen  children  beeth  taught  to 
sj)eko  PVensche  from  the  tyme  tiiey  bith  rokked  in  hin;  cradcll 
.  .  .  and  uplondisli  men  will  likne  himself  to  gentylmen,  and 
fondeth  with  great  besynesse  for  to  s])eke  Frensche  to  be  told  of.' 

'  F'roin  tlu-  French  cheral,  a  horse. 


NORMAN   INFLUENCE.  11 

(4.)  Introduction  of  French  poetry.  Of  course,  the  Norman, 
who  despised  the  Saxon,  loved  none  but  P^rench  ideas  and  verses. 

(5.)  Expulsion  of  the  English  language  from  literature  and 
culture.  No  longer  or  scarcely  written,  ceasing  to  be  studied  in 
schools  or  to  be  spoken  in  higher  life,  English  became  the  badge 
of  inferiority  and  dependence.  Thus  ox,  calf,  slieep,  PHh  ^^^<??*, 
are  Anglo-Saxon  names;  while  heef,  veal,  mutton,  pork,  and 
venison  are  Norman-French:  because  it  was  the  business  of  the 
former  part  of  the  population  to  tend  these  animals  while  living, 
but  of  the  latter  to  eat  them  when  prepared  for  the  feast.  The 
distinction  is  noticed  in  his  sprightly  way  by  Walter  Scott: 

'"Why,  how  call  you  those  grunting  brutes  running  about  on  their  four  legs?" 
demanded  Waniba. 

"Swine,  fool,  j^wine,"'  said  the  herd;  "every  fool  knows  that."' 

"And  swine  is  good  Saxon,"'  said  the  Jester;  "but  how  call  you  the  sow  when  she 
is  flayed  and  drawn  and  quartered,  and  hung  by  the  heels  like  a  traitor"/" 

"Pork,""  answered  the  swineherd. 

"I  am  very  glad  every  fool  knows  that  too,"  said  Wamba;  "and  pork,  I  think,  is 
good  Xorman  French ;  and  so  when  the  brute  lives,  and  is  in  charge  of  a  Saxon  slave, 
she  goes  by  her  Saxon  name;  but  becomes  a  Norman,  and  is  called  pork,  when  she  is 
carried  to  the  castle  hall  to  feast  among  the  nobles.  What  dost  thou  think  of  this 
doctrine,  friend  Gurth,  ha?"' 

"It  is  but  too  true  doctrine,  friend  Wamba,  however  it  got  into  thy  fool's  pate."' 

"Nay,  I  can  tell  you  more,""  said  Wamba,  iu  the  same  tone.  "There  is  old  Alder- 
man O.x  continues  to  hold  his  Saxon  epithet  while  ho  is  under  the  charge  of  serfs  and 
barbarians  such  as  thou:  but  becomes  beef,  a  fiery  French  gallant,  when  he  arrives 
before  the  worshipful  jaws  that  are  destined  to  consume  him.  Mynheer  Calf,  too, 
bc-omes  Monsieur  de  Veau  in  the  like  manner.  He  is  Saxon  when  he  requires  tend- 
ance, and  takes  a  Norman  name  when  he  becomes  matter  of  enjoyment."  ' 

Thus  does  language,  as  we  shall  have  further  occasion  to 
observe,  bear  the  marks  and  footprints  of  revolutions, —  the  ark 
that  rides  above  the  water-floods  which  sweep  away  other  memo- 
rials of  vanished  ages. 

(6.)  Finally,  the  establishment  of  a  foreign  king,  a  foreign 
prelacy,  a  foreign  nobility,  the  degradation  of  the  conquered,  and 
the  division  of  power  and  riches  among  the  conquerors.  But  tlR> 
absence  of  internal  wars,  due  to  the  firm  government  of  foreign 
kings,  will  afford  time  for  a  varied  progress.  The  stern  disci- 
pline of  these  two  hundred  years  will  give  administrative  order 
and  judicial  reform. 

Ff(sio)). — But  the  great  masses  alwavs  form  the  race  in  the 
end,  and  generally  the  genius  and  the  language.  If  tlie  spirit  bo 
not  broken,  tyranny  is  l)ut  a  passing  storm  which  ])nrifie.s  while  it 
devastates.     The  people  rememljer  their   native    rank    ami  their 


12  FORMATIVE   PERIOD — THE   PEOPLE. 

original  independence.  At  the  end  of  the  twelftli  century  there 
were  Saxon  families  who  had  bound  themselves  by  a  perpetual 
vow  to  wear  long  beards  from  father  to  son  in  memory  of  the  old 
national  custom.  These  subjects,  trodden  and  vilified,  had  the 
characteristic  doggedness,  and  their  predominance  was  sure. 

A  long  time  is  required  to  convert  a  mutual  hatred  into  har- 
mony and  peace.  Two  and  a  half  centuries  were  needed.  Among 
the  various  agencies  that  worked  upon  the  hearts  and  habits  of 
Norman  and  Saxon  may  be  reckoned  that  of  the  clergy.  Never 
altogether  partisan,  they  constantly  became  less  so.  "When 
Anselm  came  over  from  liis  Norman  convent  to  be  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  he  told  his  countrymen  plainly  that  a  churchman 
acknowledged  no  distinction  of  race.  Ambitious  and  luxurious 
as  some  were,  others  were  humble  and  self-denying,  and  stood 
between  the  conqueror  and  the  ])eople,  a  healing  influence  to 
mitigate  oppression. 

The  wars  of  the  Normans  made  them  more  dependent  on  the 
Saxons,  and  common  victories  served  to  produce  a  community  of 
interest  and  feeling. 

The  Crusades,  too,  by  the  predominant  <  sentiment  which  they 
inspired,  doubtless  helped  to  appease  tlie  old  animosities. 

The  gradual  change  in  the  relation  of  the  two  races,  as  well  as 
an  important  influence  in  accelerating  that  change,  is  shown  by 
the  marriage  of  Henry  tlie  First  to  a  Saxon  ])rincess,  which  soon 
led  to  the  restoration  of  the  Saxon  dynasty  in  the  person  of 
Heiny  the  Second.  'At  present,'  says  an  author  in  the  time  of 
this  monarch,  'as  the  English  and  Normans  dwell  together,  and 
have  constantly  intermarried,  the  two  nations  are  so  completely 
mingled  together,  that,  at  least  as  regards  freemen,  one  can 
scarcely  distinguish  wlio  is  Norman  and  who  English.' 

.  The  loss  of  Normandy  snap])ed  the  threads  of  French  connec- 
tions, and  the  Normans,  by  the  necessities  of  their  isolation, 
began  to  regard  England  as  their  home,  and  tlie  English  as  their 
countrvmen. 

Add  to  these  causes  tlie  softening  inlluence  of  time,  and  we 
are  ])repared  for  that  final  fusion  of  the  Normans  with  the  mass 
1)V  which  the  nation  ix-came  one  again. 

English,  though  sliuinied  by  cultivation  and  rank,  remainc^d 
unshaken   as  the  })opular  tongue.      The  Norman,  too,  must   learn 


CELTIC   MANNERS.  13 

it,  in  order  to  direct  his  tenants.  His  Saxon  wife  speaks  it,  his 
children  are  accustomed  to  the  sound  of  it.  Slowly,  by  com- 
promise and  the  necessity  of  being  understood,  it  prevails, — 
English  still  in  root  and  sap,  though  saturated  with  the  vocabu- 
lary of  Norman-French. 

But  truly  to  understand  the  chemistry  of  the  English  nation, 
we  must  penetrate  its  soul,  learn  somewhat  of  its  faculties  and 
feelings,  study  the  man  invisible  —  the  under-world  of  events  and 
forms  —  distinguish  the  separate  moulds  in  which  the  entering 
elements  were  cast. 

Celtic. — To  estimate  the  advantages  of  law  and  order,  we 
must  have  stood  with  the  stately  blue-eyed  Briton  in  his  circular 
hut  of  timber  and  reeds,  surmounted  by  a  conical  roof  which 
served  at  once  to  admit  daylight  and  to  allow  smoke  to  escape 
through  a  hole  in  the  top;  have  seen  a  Iiorseman  ride  in,  con- 
verse with  the  inmates,  then  kick  the  sides  of  his  steed  and  make 
his  exit  without  having  aliglited;  have  sat  in  circle  with  the 
guests,  each  with  his  Vjlock  of  wood  and  piece  of  meat;  have  seen 
tlie  whole  family  lie  down  to  savage  dreams  around  the  central 
fire-place,  while  the  wolf's  long  howl  broke  the  silence  of  forest 
depth  or  wild  fowls  screamed  across  the  wilderness  of  shallow 
waters;  have  Avandered  through  their  track-ways,  careful  to  hasten 
home  before  the  setting  of  the  sun  should  cut  us  off  from  our 
village  (a  collection  of  huts  amid  fens  and  woods  fortified  with 
ramparts  and  ditches)  to  become  the  captive  of  an  enemy  or  the 
prey  of  ravenous  beast. 

There  is  no  property  but  arms  and  cattle.  War  is  the  favorite 
occupation.  Bronze  swords,  spears,  axes,  and  chariots  with 
scythes  projecting  from  the  axle  of  tlie  wheels,  are  the  weapons. 
Every  tribe  has  its  own  chief  or  chiefs,  wlio  call  the  common 
people  together  and  confer  with  them  upon  all  nuitters  concern- 
ing the  general  welfare.  The  cran-tara,  a  stick  burnt  at  the  end 
and  dipped  in  blood,  carried  by  a  dumb  messenger  from  hamlet 
to  hamlet,  summons  the  warriors.  A  l)rave  people,  and  energetic. 
Says  Tacitus: 

'The  Britons  willingly  fiirnit^h  recruits  to  our  armies:  they  pay  the  taxes  without  niur- 
murinsr,  and  they  perform  with  zeal  their  duties  toward  the  government,  i)rovided  they 


14  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

have  not  to  complain  of  oppression.  When  they  are  oflfended,  tlieir  resentment  is  prompt 
and  violent ;  they  may  be  conquered,  but  not  tamed ;  they  may  l)e  led  to  obedience,  but  not 
to  servitude.' 

Would  you  know  their  savagery?  Imagine  them  —  as  old 
Celtic  story  tells  —  mixing  the  brains  of  their  slain  enemies  with 
lime,  and  playing  with  the  hard  balls  they  made  of  them.  Such 
a  brainstone  is  said  to  have  gone  through  the  skull  of  an  Irish 
chief,  who  lived  afterwards  seven  years  with  two  brains  in  his 
head,  always  sitting  very  still,  lest  in  shaking  himself  he  should 
die.  Yet  they  esteem  it  infamous  for  a  chieftain  to  close  the 
door  of  his  house  at  all,  '  lest  the  stranger  should  come  and 
behold  his  contracting  soul.' 

Their  dead  are  buried  in  mounds.  Here  vases  are  discovered, 
containing  their  bones  and  ashes,  together  with  their  swords  and 
hatchets,  arrow-heads  of  flint  and  bronze,  and  beads  of  glass  and 
amber, —  for  they  believe,  after  the  maimer  of  savages,  that 
things  which  are  useful  or  pleasing  to  the  living  are  needed,  for 
pleasure  or  use,  in  the  shadowy  realm: 

'Secure  beneath  his  ancient  hill 

The  British  warrior  slumbers  still; 

There  lie  in  order,  still  the  same. 

The  bones  which  reared  his  stately  frame; 

Still  at  his  side  his  spear,  his  bow. 

As  placed  two  thousand  years  ago.' 

The  priests  of  their  religion  are  the  Druids,  who  are  so  care- 
ful h^st  their  secret  doctrines  be  revealed  to  the  uninitiated  that 
tliev  teach  their  disciples  in  hidden  caves  and  forest  recesses. 
Th(>y  Avo  tln^  arl)iter.s  of  disputes,  and  the  judges  of  crime. 
AVhoevcr  i-cfuscs  to  sul^mit  to  tiiojr  decree  is  banished  from 
human  intercourse.  The  young  i-csort  to  them  for  instruction. 
Thf'v  teach  the  eternal  transmigration  of  souls.  Tliev  will  not 
worship  tlieir  gods  under  roofs.  At  noon  and  niu'lit,  within  a 
circular  area,  of  enormous  stones  and  of  vast  circumfrnMice,' 
tlicy  make  tluMr  ap])c;ils  with  sacrifices — caj>tives  and  criminals, 
or  tlie  innocent  and    fair.      When  the  ])riest  has  ri])])ed   open  the 

'One  of  thi'~e  —  Stimelictiire  —  may  yet  be  seen  standinLT  in  mysterious  .■ind  .'iwful 
sili'ncc-  mi  S,ilisl)Mry  Plain.  So  niassi\e  are  the  pieces,  tliat  it  was  faliled  to  have  been 
built  by  giants  or  maLric  art: 

Not  less  than  that  linirc  pile   ifrom  sonu'  aliyss 

Of  mortal  ])ower  iin(|Ui'stionahly  sprnnir, ) 

Wtiosc  ho:iry  Diaileni  of  pen(l;mt  roiks 

Confines  the  slirill -voiced  whirlwind,  round  and  round 

Kdilvini:  within  its  vast  circumference. 

On  Saruin's  naked  plain. —  \yord.< north. 


ROMAN    REFINEMENTS.  15 

body  of  a  human  being  or  lighted  the  fires  around  a  living  mass, 
we  may  hear  the  shriek  of  mad  excitement  as  the  '  congregation ' 
dance  and  shout.  Nor  is  their  teaching  confined  to  their  worship. 
Says  Csesar: 

'The  Drnids  discuss  many  things  concerning  the  stars  and  their  revolutions,  the 
magnitude  of  the  globe  and  its  various  divisions,  the  nature  of  the  universe,  energy  and 
power  of  the  immortal  gods.' 

There  are  bards,  also,  with  power  and  privilege,  who  sing  the 
praises  of  British  heroes  to  the  crowd.  A  wheel  striking  on 
strings  is  the  instrument  of  these  our  ancestral  lyrists.  Among 
the  three  things  which  will  secure  a  man  from  hunger  and  naked- 
ness is  the  blessing  of  a  bard.  His  curse  brings  fatalities  upon 
man  and  beast. 

Four  hundred  years  cannot  but  have  made  a  vast  difference 
between  the  fierce  savages  who  rushed  into  the  sea  on  that 
old  September  day,  and  those  who  were  citizens  of  the  stately 
Roman  towns  or  tillers  of  the  fertile  districts  that  lay  around 
them.  Tacitus  is  said  to  have  expressed  surprise  at  the  facility 
and  eagerness  with  which  the  Britons  adopted  the  customs,  the 
arts,  and  the  garb  of  their  conquerors.  Under  the  Roman  Empire 
there  were  British  kings,  of  whom  one  of  the  few  famous  was 
Cuiiobelin — tlie  Cymbeline  of  the  drama.  Goverrnnent  became 
more  centralized.  A  milder  worship  and  a  more  merciful  law 
Avere  the  lot  of  the  people.  The  Romans  improved  the  agriculture 
of  the  country,  and  bestowed  upon  the  cultivators  'tlie  crooked 
plough'  with  'an  eight-foot  beam,' of  which  Virgil  speaks.  In 
the  middle  of  the  fourth  century,  warehouses  were  built  in  Rome 
for  the  reception  of  corn  from  Britain.  An  export  of  six  hundred 
large  barks  in  one  season  assumes  tlie  existence  of  a  large  rural 
population.  The  tin  and  lead  mines  were  worked  with  jealous 
care  for  Roman  use;  and  the  presence  of  cinders  at  this  day  is 
tlie  visible  proof  of  the  mining  and  smelting  of  iron. 

The  refinement  thus  introduced  among  the  Celtic  Britons  was 
not  uiicominunicated  to  the  barbarous  tribes  whose  occupation 
speedily  followed  the  retirement  of  the  imjierial  armies.  Traces 
of  the  Roman  modes  of  thought  are  indelibly  stamped  upon 
much  that  relates  to  coniinon  life.  In  Jdnuarn  survives  the 
'Two-faced  Janus';  '/"///  embalms  the  memory  of  the  mighty 
Julius;  March  is  the  month  of  Mars,  the  god  of  war;  and  Ac'/xst 


16  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

claims  an  annual  reverence  for  the  crafty  Augustus.  Our  May- 
day is  the  festival  of  Flora.  Our  marriage  ceremonies  are  all 
Roman, —  the  veil,  the  ring,  the  wedding  gifts,  the  groomsmen 
and  bridesmaids,  the  bride-cake.  Our  funeral  imagery  is  Koman, — 
the  cypress,  the  flowers  strewn  upon  the  graves,  the  black  for 
mourning.  The  girl  who  says,  when  her  ears  tingle,  a  distant  one 
is  talking  of  her,  recalls  the  Roman  belief  in  some  influence  of  a 
mesmeric  nature  whicii  produced  the  same  effect.  'A  screech-owl 
at  midnight,'  says  Addison,  '  has  alarmed  a  family  more  than  a 
band  of  robbers.'  It  was  ever  an  omen  of  evil.  No  Roman 
superstition  was  more  intense.  Men  all  on  fire,  walking  up  and 
down  the  streets,  seemed  to  Casca  a  prodigy  less  dire  than  'the 
bird  of  night'  that  sat 

'Even  at  noonday,  upon  the  marketplace, 
Hooting  and  slirieking.' 

But  there  arc  latent  qualities  here  which  would  ornament  any 
age.  With  the  skin  of  a  beast  slung  across  his  loins,  the  exposed 
parts  of  his  body  painted  with  sundry  figures,  a  chain  of  iron 
about  his  neck  as  a  symbol  of  wealth,  and  another  about  his 
waist,  his  hair  hanging  in  curling  locks  and  covering  his  shoul- 
ders,—  Caractacus  had  stood  captive  in  the  imperial  presence  of 
Claudius,  and  said: 

'Had  my  moderation  in  prosperity  been  equal  to  the  greatncfi?  of  my  birth  and  e>^tate, 
or  the  i^uccess  of  my  late  attempts  been  equal  to  the  resolution  of  my  mind,  I  might  have 
come  to  this  eity  rather  as  a  friend  to  be  entertained,  than  as  a  captive  to  be  gazed  upon. 
But  what  cloud  soever  liath  darkened  my  i)rescnt  lot,  yet  have  the  Heavens  and  Nature 
given  me  that  in  birtli  and  mind  which  none  can  vanquish  or  deprive  me  of.  I  well  si>e  that 
you  make  otlier  men's  miseries  the  subject  ;:nd  matter  of  yo\ir  triiimi)lis,  and  in  tliis  my 
calamity,  as  in  a  still  water,  you  now  contemplate  your  own  glory.  Yet  know  that  I  am, 
and  was,  a  i)rince,  furnished  with  strength  of  men  and  habiliments  of  war:  and  what  marvel 
i-  II  if  all  1)1-  lost,  seeing  experience  teacheth  that  the  events  of  war  are  variable,  and  the 
success  of  policies  guided  by  uncertain  fates?  As  it  is  with  me.  who  thought  that  tin-  deep 
waters,  like  a  wall  enclosing  our  land,  and  it  ^o  situated  l)y  the  gods  as  might  have  been  a 
suflicient  |)rivilege  and  defense  against  forei<:n  invasions:  but  now  I  perceive  that  tlie 
de.-ire  of  your  sovereiiinty  admits  no  liniilation:  and  if  you  Honuins  must  command  all. 
tluu  all  niii>t  obey.  For  mine  own  part,  while  I  was  able  I  made  resistance:  and  unwilling' 
I  wa<  to  submit  my  neck  to  a  servile  yoke;  so  far  tile  law  of  Nature  alloweth  every  man, 
that  he  may  defend  himself  licinir  assailed,  and  to  withstand  force  by  force.  Had  I  at  fir^t 
yielded,  thy  ■jhn-y  and  my  ruin  had  not  been  so  renowmd.  Fortune  hath  now  don<'  her 
worsi ;  We  have  notliintr  left  us  but  our  lives,  wliiili  if  thou  take  from  us,  our  miseries  end, 
and  if  tliou  spare  us,  we  are  ))Ut  tlie  ol>jeets  of  thy  clemency.' 

In  inaiiy-colored  rolic,  with  a  golden  zone  about  her,  Queen 
Hoadicea  exhorted  the  Britons  on  the  eve  of  battle: 

•My  friend- and  eoiniianions  of  equal  fortunes ! —Tliere  needetli  no  e.\cuse  of  this  my 
present  autliority  or  i)lai  e  in  rei'ard  of  luy  sex,  seein:r  it  i-  not  unknown  to  you  all  that  the 


CELTIC   FANCY.  17 

wonted  manner  of  our  nation  hath  been  to  war  under  the  conduct  of  women.  My  blood 
and  birth  might  challenge  some  preeminence,  as  sprung  from  the  roots  of  most  royal 
descents;  but  my  breath,  received  froui  the  same  air,  my  body  sustained  by  the  same 
soil,  and  my  glory  clouded  with  imposed  ignominies,  I  disdain  all  superiority,  and,  as  a 
fellow  in  bondage,  bear  the  yoke  of  oppression  with  as  heavy  weiglit  and  pressure,  if  not 
more!  .  .  .  You  that  have  known  the  freedom  of  life,  will  with  me  confess  that  liberty, 
though  in  a  jxior  estate,  is  better  than  bondage  with  fetters  of  gold.  .  .  .  Have  the  Heavens 
made  us  the  ends  of  the  world,  and  not  assigned  the  end  of  our  wrongs?  Or  hath  Nature, 
among  all  our  free  works,  created  us  Britons  only  for  bondage?  Why,  what  are  the  Romans? 
Are  they  more  than  men,  or  immortal?  Their  slain  carcasses  sacrificed  by  us,  and  their 
putrefied  blood  corrupting  our  air,  doth  tell  us  they  are  no  gods.  Our  persons  are  more  tall, 
our  bodies  more  strong,  and  our  joints  better  knit  than  theirs :  But  you  will  say—  they  are 
our  conquerors.  Indeed,  overcome  we  are,  but  by  ourselves,  by  our  own  factions,  still 
giving  way  to  their  intrusions.  .  .  .  See  we  not  the  army  of  Plautius  crouched  together  like 
fowls  in  a  storm?  If  we  but  consider  the  number  of  their  forces  and  ^le  motives  of  the  war, 
we  shall  resolve  to  vanquish  or  die.  It  is  better  worth  to  fall  in  honour  of  liberty,  than  be 
exposed  again  to  the  outrages  of  the  Romans.  This  is  my  resolution,  who  am  but  a  woman ; 
you  who  are  men  may,  if  you  please,  live  and  be  slaves.' 

Love  of  bright  color  is  a  Celtic  passion.  Diodorus  told  how 
the  Gauls  wore  bracelets  and  costly  finger-rings,  gold  corselets, 
dyed  tunics  flowered  with  various  hues,  striped  cloaks  fastened 
with  a  brooch  and  divided  into  many  parti-colored  squares,  a 
taste  still  represented  by  the  Highland  plaid.  This  joy  in  the 
beautiful  will  display  itself,  in  poetry,  in  an  outpouring  of 
imagery  and  grace  of  expression,  as  in  the  Cymric'  battle-ode  of 
Aneurin: 

'  Have  ye  seen  the  tnsky  boar, 
Or  the  bull  with  sullen  roar. 
On  surrounding  foes  advancing  ? 
So  Garadawg  bore  his  lance. 

As  the  flame's  devouring  force, 
As  the  whirlwind  in  its  course. 
As  the  tlinndcr's  fiery  stroke. 
Glancing  on  the  shivered  oak; 
Did  the  sword  of  Vedel's  mow 
Tiie  crimson  harvest  of  the  foe.' 

This  fancy,  active  and  bold,  is  not  content  to  conceive.  It  must 
draw  and  paint,  vividly,  in  detail,  as  in  this  glimpse  of  a  Gaelic' 
banquet : 

'As  the  king's  people  were  afterwards  at  the  assembly  they  saw  a  couple  approaching 
them,— a  woman  and  a  man;  larger  than  tin-  summit  of  a  rock  or  a  mountain  was  cacli 
member  of  their  members;  sharper  than  a  shaving-knife  tlie  edge  of  their  sliins;  their  heels 
and  hams  in  front  of  tliem.  Sliould  a  sackful  of  aiiples  be  thrown  on  their  heads,  not  one  of 
tliem  would  fall  to  the  ground,  but  would  stick  on  the  i>oinls  of  tlie  long  l)ristly  hair  wliicli 
grew  out  of  their  heads;  blacker  tlian  tlie  coal  or  darker  tlum  the  smoke  was  each  of  their 
members;  whiter  than  snow  their  eyes.  .\  lock  of  the  lower  beard  was  carried  round  the 
back  of  tliL'  head,  and  a  lock  of  the  upper  beard  descended  so  as  to  cover  the  knees:  tlie 
woman  had  wliiskers,  but  tlie  man  was  without  whiskers." 

•  Ancient  Welsh.        -  Ancient  Irish. 


18  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

But  the  true  artist,  with  an  eye  to  see,  has  also  a  heart  to  feel. 
A  bard  and  a  prince,  who  has  seen  his  sons  fall  in  battle,  wonder- 
ing why  he  should  still  be  left,  sings  of  his  youngest  and  last  dead: 

'  Lot  the  wave  break  noisily ;  let  it  cover  the  shore  when  Ihe  joined  lancers  are  in  l)atllc. 
O,  Gwenn,  woe  to  him  who  is  too  old,  biiice  he  has  lost  you '.  Let  the  wave  break  noi^ily ; 
let  it  cover  the  plain  when  the  lancers  join  with  a  shock.  .  .  .  Gwenn  has  been  slain  at  the 
ford  of  Morlas.  Here  is  the  bier  made  for  him  by  his  fierce-conquered  enemy  after  he 
had  been  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  army  of  the  Lloegrians:  here  is  the  tomb  of 
Gwenn,  Ihe  son  of  the  old  Llywarch.  Sweetly  a  bird  sang  on  a  pear  free  above  the  head  of 
Gwenn,  before  they  covered  him  with  turf;  that  broke  the  heart  of  the  old  Llywarch.' 

This  vivacity,  this  tenderness,  this  sweet  melancholy,  will  pass,  to 
a  certain  degree,  into  English  thought. 

Danish..  —  The  Danes  were  preeminently  a  sea-faring  and 
piratical  people  —  vultures  who  swept  the  seas  in  quest  of  prey. 
Their  sea-kings,  '  who  had  never  slept  under  the  smoky  rafters 
of  a  roof,  who  had  never  drained  the  ale-horn  l)y  an  inhabited 
hearth,'  are  renowned  in  the  stories  of  the  North.  With  no  terri- 
tory but  the  waves,  no  dwelling  but  their  two-sailed  ships,  they 
laughed  at  the  storm,  and  sang:  'The  blast  of  the  tempest  aids 
our  oars;  the  bellowing  of  heaven,  the  howling  of  the  thunder, 
hurts  us  not;  the  hurricane  is  our  servant,  and  drives  us  whither 
we  wish  to  go.'  In  his  last  hour,  the  sea-king  looks  gladly  to  his 
immortal  feasts  '  in  the  seats  of  Balder's  father,'  where  '  we  shall 
drink  ale  continually  from  the  large  hollowed  skulls.' 

Listen  to  their  table-talk,  and  from  it  infer  the  rest.  A  youth 
takes  his  seat  beside  the  Danish  jarl,  and  is  reproached  with 
'seldom  having  provided  the  wolves  with  hot  meat,  with  never 
having  seen  for  tlie  whole  autumn  a  raven  croaking  over  the 
carnage.'  But  he  pacifies  her  by  singing:  'I  have  marched  with 
my  l)loody  sword,  and  the  raven  has  followed  me.  Furiously  we 
fouglit,  the  fire  passed  over  the  dwellings  of  men;  we  have  sent 
to  sleep  in  blood  those  who  kept  the  gates.' 

Here  is  their  code  of  honor:  'A  brave  man  should  attack  two, 
stand  firm  against  three,  give  ground  a  little  to  four,  and  only 
retreat  from  live.'  No  wonder  they  were  irresistil)le.  Add  to 
this  the  deeper  incitement  of  an  immortality  in  ^'alhalla,  where 
they  should  forever  hew  each  other  in  l)loodless  conflict. 

^Vllen  Saxon  independence  was  given  up  to  a  Danish  king, 
their  character  was  greatly  changed  from  what  it  had  been  during 
their  first  invasions,    'i'liey  had  embraced  the  Christian  faith,  were 


NORMAN   CULTURE.  19 

centralized,  had  lost  much  of  their  j^redatory  and  ferocious  spirit. 
Long  settled  in  England,  they  gradually  became  assimilated  to 
the  natives,  whose  laws  and  language  were  not  radically  different 
from  their  own.  From  these  sea-wolves,  who  lived  on  the  pillage 
of  the  world,  the  English  will  imbibe  their  maritime  enterprise. 

N'orman. — The  Normans,  as  we  have  seen,  were  a  Scandina- 
vian tribe  with  a  changed  nature, —  Christianized,  at  least  in  the 
mediaeval  sense,  and  civilized.  The  peculiar  quality  of  their 
genius  was  its  suppleness.  They  intermarried  with  the  French, 
borrowed  the  French  language,  adopted  French  customs,  imitated 
French  thought;  and,  in  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  their 
settlement,  were  so  far  cultured  as  to  consider  their  kinsmen,  the 
Saxons,  unlettered  and  rude. 

Transferred  to  England,  they  become  English.  To  these  they 
were  superior: 

1.  In  refinement  of  manners.  '  The  Saxons,'  says  an  old 
writer,  '  vied  with  each  other  in  their  drinking  feats,  and  wasted 
their  income  by  day  and  night  in  feasting,  whilst  they  lived  in 
wretched  hovels  ;  the  French  and  Normans,  on  the  other  hand, 
living  inexpensively  in  their  fine  large  houses,  were,  besides, 
refined  in  their  food  and  studiously  careful  in  their  dress.' 

2.  In  taste, —  the  art  of  pleasing  the  eye,  and  expressing 
a  thought  by  an  outward  representation.  The  Norman  archi- 
tecture, including  the  circular  arch  and  the  rose  window  with 
its  elegant  mouldings,  made  its  appearance.  '  You  miglit  see 
amongst  them  (the  Saxons)  churches  in  every  village,  and 
monasteries  in  the  cities,  towering  on  high,  and  built  in  a 
style  unknown  before.'  They  were  to  become  the  most  skil- 
ful  builders  in  Europe. 

3.  In  weapons  and  warlike  enterprise.  They  used  the  liow, 
fought  on  horseback,  and  were  thus  prepared  for  a  more  nimble 
and  aggressive  movement. 

4.  In  intellectual  culture.  Five  hundred  and  sixty -seven 
schools  were  established  between  the  Conquest  and  the  deatli 
of  King  John  (121G).  In  poetry  they  were  relatively  cultivated. 
Another  point  of  excellence  was  the  intelligence  of  theh-  clei-gv. 
Tlie  illiteracy  of  the  Saxon  was  the  excuse  for  banishing  him 
from  all  valuable  ecclesiastical  dignities.  The  Norman  bisliops 
and  abbots,  who  gradually  supplanted   him,  were  for,  the   most 


20  FORMATIVE    PERIOD — THE    PEOPLE. 

part  of  loftier  minds  than  the  mailed  warriors  who  elevated  them 
to  wealth  and  authority. 

Such  were  the  points  of  superiority  at  which  the  Norman  was 
prepared  to  contribute  new  impulses  to  the  national  character. 
In  many  res])ects,  he  was  the  reverse  of  the  Saxon.  In  the 
movement  of  his  intellect,  he  was  prompt  and  spirited  rather 
than  profound.  Like  the  Parisian,  he  was  polite,  elegant,  grace- 
ful, talkative,  dainty,  superficial.  Beauty  pleased  rather  tlian 
exalted  him.  Nature  was  pretty  rather  than  grand  —  never 
mystical.  Love  was  a  pastime  rather  than  a  devotion.  Woman 
impressed  him  less  by  any  spiritual  transcendence  than  by  a 
'vastly  becoming  smile,'  a  'sweet  and  perfumed  breath,'  a  form 
'wliite  as  new-fallen  snow  on  a  branch.'  To  show  skill  and 
courage  for  the  meed  of  glory,  to  win  the  applause  of  the 
ladies,  to  display  magnificence  of  dress  and  armor, —  such  was  his 
desire  and  study.  Here  is  a  picture  of  the  fancies  and  splendors 
in  which  he  delights  and  loses  himself.  A  king,  wishing  to 
console  his  afflicted  daughter,  proposes  to  take  her  to  the  chase 
in  the  following  style: 

'To-morrow  ye  shall  in  hunting  faro; 
And  ride,  my  daughter,  in  a  chair; 
It  shall  be  covered  with  velvet  red, 
And  clothes  of  fine  gold  all  about  your  head. 
With  damask  white  and  azure  blue. 
Well  diapered  with  lilies  new. 
Your  pommels  shall  be  ended  with  gold. 
Your  cliains  enameled  many  a  fold, 
Your  mantle  of  rich  degree. 
Purple  pall  and  ermine  free.  .  .  . 
Ye  shall  have  revel,  dance,  and  song: 
Little  children,  great  and  small. 
Shall  sing  as  does  the  nightingale    .  .  . 
A  hundred  kniglits,  truly  told. 
Shall  play  with  bowls  in  alleys  cold, 
Your  disease  to  drive  away.  .  .  . 
Forty  torches  burning  bright 
At  your  bridge  to  bring  you  light. 
Into  your  chaml)er  they  shall  you  l)rlng 
With  much  mirth  and  more  likins:. 
Your  blankets  shall  be  of  fustian. 
Your  sheets  shall  be  of  cloth  of  Rennes. 
Your  head  sheet  shall  be  of  pery  piirht. 
With  diamonds  set  and  rubies  bright. 
When  you  are  laid  in  bed  so  soft, 
A  catre  of  gold  shall  hang  aloft. 
With  long  jjapcr  fair  burning. 
And  cloves  that  be  sweet-smelling, 


ENGLISH    AND    ARYAN.  21 

Frankincense  and  olibanum,  • 

That  when  ye  sleep  the  taste  may  come; 

And  if  ye  no  rest  can  take, 

All  night  minstrels  for  you  shall  wake.' 

What  will  come  of  this  gallantry,  splendor,  and  pride,  when 
the  brilliant  flower  is  engrafted  on  the  homely  Saxon  stock  ? 

Anglo-Saxon. — Starting  from  the  same  Aryan  homestead, 
with  the  same  stock  of  ideas,  with  the  same  manners  and  cus- 
toms, the  Teuton  takes  his  westward  course,  and  settles  chiefly 
in  Germany, — 

'She  of  the  Danube  and  the  Northern  Sea.' 

After  centuries  of  separation,  these  two  kindred  meet  in  mist- 
enveloped  Britain,  But  climate,  soil,  and  time  have  changed 
their  characters  and  speech.  They  have  forgotten  their  mutual 
relationship,  and  meet  like  the  lion  whelps  of  a  common  lair  — 
as  foes.  The  Teutonic  stream, —  that,  too,  diverged.  Into  the 
mud  and  slime  of  Holland,  into  the  forests  and  fens  of  Denmark, 
up  into  the  snow-capped  mountains  of  Sweden  and  Norway, 
across  the  surging  main  into  volcanic  Iceland,  it  branched.  Dan- 
ish, Norse,  and  Saxon,  with  superficial  distinctions  —  as  of  Hea- 
then and  Christian,  or  the  like  —  are  at  bottom  one,  Teutonic  or 
Germanic.  Inland,  in  the  south,  away  from  the  sea,  was  the  great 
division  of  the  High-Germans  ;  near  the  sea,  by  the  moutiis 
of  the  Rhine  and  Elbe,  tiiat  of  the  LO"W-Gemians,  in  whom 
Avp  have  the  deeper  interest.  To  these  latter  belonged  the 
Jutes,  Angles,  and  Saxons,  whose  language,  closely  resem- 
bling modern  Dutch,  is  the  plantlet  of  English.  These  tribes, 
known  abroad  as  Saxons,'  early  spoken  of  by  themselves  as 
Angles  or  English,  have  in  the  more  careful  historic  use  of  the 
present  been  designated  as  Anglo-Saxons. 

The  orders  of  society  were  the  bond  and  the  free.  Men 
became  serfs,  or  slaves,  eitlier  by  capture  in  battle  or  by  the  sen- 
tence of  outraged  law.  Over  them  their  master  had  the  power 
of  life  and  death.  He  was  responsible  for  them  as  for  his  cattle. 
Rank  was  revered,  and  the  freemen  were  divided  into  earh  and 
ccorh,  or  Karh  and   ClmrJs. 

'  Si)  called  from  a  sliort  cnxikcd  sword,  called  n  near,  carried  by  the  warriors  under 
their  loose  ^'armeuts.  Thus,  IleiiLrist.  the  .lute,  invited  to  a  ban(iuet,  iiistnicted  liis  cuni- 
Jiaiuoiis  to  conceal  their  short  swords  beneath  Iheir  irarinents.  At  a  iriven  siiriial — Jfii/if/ 
fiire  SfidJ-fis.  'Draw  your  swords :—tlie  weaixuis  were  pluiiiied  into  the  liearts  of  tlieir 
Britisli  ent<'rtainers.  " 


22  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

The  basis  of  society  was  the  possession  of  land.  The  free 
land-holder  was  'the  free-necked  man,'  whose  long  hair  floated 
over  a  neck  that  had  never  bent  to  a  lord.  He  was  '  the  weap- 
oned  man,'  who  alone  bore  spear  and  sword.  A  nation  of  farm- 
ers, as  they  had  been  in  the  Sunny  East,  as  they  are  to-day. 
He  might  not  be  a  tiller  of  the  soil,  but  he  must  acquire  it  if  he 
would  be  esteemed.  The  landless  one  could  hope  for  no  dis- 
tinction. 

The  social  form  was  determined  by  the  blood-bond.  Accord- 
ing to  kinship,  men  were  grouped  into  companies  of  ten,  called 
a  titJihuj.  Every  ten  tithings  was  called  a  hundred,'  and  several 
hundreds,  a  shire.  Each  kinsman  was  his  kinsman's  keeper. 
Every  crime  was  held  to  have  been  committed  by  all  who  were 
related  to  the  doer  of  it,  and  against  all  who  were  related  to  the 
sufferer.  From  this  sense  of  the  value  of  the  family  tie  sprung 
the  rudiments  of  English  justice.  So  strong  is  it,  that  his  kins- 
folk are  the  sole  judges  of  the  accused,  for  by  their  oath  of  his 
innocence  or  guilt  he  stands  or  falls.  In  their  British  home  these 
judges  will  be  a  fixed  number  —  the  germ  of  the  jury  system. 
Other  methods  of  appeal  there  are, —  the  duel  and  the  ordeal. 
The  first  pleases  the  savag'c  nature.  Besides,  is  not  the  issue  in 
the  hand  of  God,  and  will  not  he  award  the  victory  to  the  just? 
This  practice  will  be  revived  in  Normandy,  introduced  by  the 
Conqueror  into  England,  a])pealed  to  in  1G31,  and  abolished  only 
in  1817.  The  second  inspires  confidence;  for  fire  and  water  are 
deities,  and  surely  the  gods  will  not  harm  the  iiniocent  or  screen 
the  guilty?  Therefore,  be  ready  to  lift  masses  of  red-hot  iron  in 
your  hands,  or  to  pass  through  fiame. 

They  hate  cities.  Tiien,  as  now,  they  must  have  independence 
and  free  air.  Their  villagers  are  knots  of  farms.  '  They  live  apart,' 
says  Tacitus,  '  each  In-  himself,  as  woodside,  plain,  or  fresh  spring 
attracts  him.'  Each  settlement  must  l)e  isolated  from  its  fellows. 
Each  is  jealously  l)egirt  by  a  belt  of  forest  or  fen,  which  parts  it 
from  neighl)oring  communities, —  a  ring  of  connnon  ground  which 
none  may  tak<'  for  his  own,  but  which  serves  as  the  Golgotha 
where  traitors  and  (lescrters  meet  their  doom.  This,  it  is  said,  is 
the  special  dwelling-place  of  the  nix  and  the  will-o'-the-wisp.  Let 
none  cross  this  death-line  except  he  blow  his  horn;  else  he  will 
be  taken  for  a  foe,  and  anv  inan  mav  lawfullv  slay  liim. 


LEGISLATION   AND   KNOWLEDGE.  23 

Around  some  moot-hill  or  sacred  tree  the  whole  community 
meet  to  administer  justice  and  to  legislate.  Here  the  field  is 
passed  from  seller  to  buyer  by  the  delivery  of  a  turf  cut  from  its 
soil.  Here  the  aggrieved  may  present  his  grievance.  The  *  elder 
men '  state  the  '  customs,'  and  the  evil-doer  is  sentenced  to  make 
pecuniary  reparation.  '  Eye  for  eye,'  life  for  life,  or  for  each  fair 
damages, —  is  the  yet  unwritten  code.  The  body  and  its  members 
have  each  their  legal  price.  Only  treason,  desertion,  and  poison 
involve  capital  punishment,  and  sentence  is  pronounced  by  the 
priest.  Here,  too,  the  king  of  the  tribe  —  chosen  from  among  the 
ablest  of  its  chiefs — and  the  Wttan,  the  Wise  Men,  who  limit  his 
jurisdiction,  convene  to  settle  questions  of  peace  and  war,  or  to 
transact  other  important  affairs.  The  warriors,  met  in  arms, 
express  their  approval  by  rattling  tlieir  armor,  their  dissent  by 
murmurs.  Latei',  this  assembly  will  be  known  as  the  Parliament 
of  a  great  empire.  Among  the  nobility,  there  is  one  who  is  tlie 
king's  chosen  confidant,  the  '  knower  of  secrets,'  the  '  counsellor.' 
In  after  times  he  will  be  known  as  the  Prime  Minister. 

Knowledge  was  transmitted  less  by  writing  than  by  oral  tradi- 
tion, and  almost  wholly  in  the  form  of  verse.  There  was  a  per- 
petual order  of  men,  like  the  rhapsodists  of  ancient  Greece  and 
the  bards  of  the  Celtic  tribes,  who  were  at  once  poets  and  histo- 
rians; whose  exclusive  employment  it  was  to  learn  and  repeat; 
wandering  minstrels  they  Avere,  travelling  about  from  land  to  land, 
chanting  to  the  people  the  fortunes  of  the  latest  battle  or  the 
exploits  of  their  ancestors,  a  delightful  link  of  union,  loved  and 
revered.  The  honors  bestowed  upon  them  were  natural  to  an  age 
in  which  reading  and  writing  were  mysteries.  On  arms,  trinkets, 
amulets,  and  utensils,  sometimes  on  the  bark  of  trees,  and  on 
wooden  tablets,  for  the  purpose  of  memorials  or  of  epistolary  cor- 
respondence, were  engraven  certain  wonderful  characters  called 
runes.  By  their  potent  spells,  some  runes,  it  was  believed, 
could^  lull  tlie  tempest,  stop  the  vessel  in  her  course,  divert  the 
arrow  in  its  flight,  arrest  the  career  of  witches  through  the  air, 
cause  love  or  hatred,  raise  the  dead,  and  extort  from  them  the 
secrets  of  the  spirit-world.  Thus  says  the  heroine  of  a  Northern 
romance: 

'Like  ;i  Vir<;iii  i)f  tlu'  Shield  I  rovod  o'or  tlie  sea. 
My  arm  was  viitorioiis,  my  valor  was  free: 
By  prowess,  liy  runic  eiicliaiitiiient  ami  soul', 
I  raised  up  the  weak,  ami  I   l)eat  duwii   the  strong.' 


24  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

Would  we  know  the  soul  of  a  people,  let  us  seek  it  in  their 
religion,  the  unseen  spiritual  fountain  whence  flow  all  their  out- 
ward acts.  In  the  beginning,  we  are  told,  were  two  worlds, — 
NiHlieim,  the  frozen," and  Muspel  the  burning.  From  the  falling 
snow-llakes,  quickened  by  the  Unknown  who  sent  the  heated 
blast,  was  born  Ymer  the  giant: 

'When  Yinor  lived 
Was  i-imd,  nor  sea, 
■Nor  coolinj;  wave; 
Xo  earth  was  found 
Nor  heaven  above; 
One  cliaos  all, 
And  nowhere  grass." 

Fallen  asleep,  from   his   arm-pits  spring  the  frost-giants.     A 

cow,  born  also  of  melting  snow,  feeds  him  with  four  milk-rivers. 

Whilst  licking  his  perspiration  from   the   rocks,  there   came   at 

evening  out  of  the  stones  a  man's  hair,  the  second  day  a  man's 

head,  and  the  third  all  the  man  was  there.      His  name  was  Bure. 

His  grandsons,  Odin,  Vile,  and  Ve,  kill  the  giant  Ymer.    Dragging 

his  body  to  the  abyss  of  space,  they  form  of  it  the  visible  universe; 

from  his  flesh,  the  land;   from  his  bones,  the  mountains;   from  his 

hair,  the  forests;  from  his  teeth  and  jaws,  the  stones  and  pebbles; 

from   his  blood,   the  ocean,  in  the   midst  of  which   they  fix  the 

earth;  from  his  skull,  the  vaulted  sky,  raised  and  supported  by  a 

dwarf  under  each  corner, — Austre,  Westre,  Nordre,   and   Sudre, 

from  his  brains,  scattered  in  the  air,  the  melancholy  clouds;   from 

his  hair,  trees  and  plants;   from   his  eyebrows,  a  wall  of  defense 

against  the  giants.      The  flying  sparks  and  r(Ml-hot  flakes  cast  out 

of  Muspel  they  placed  in   the  heavens,  and  said:    'Let  there  be 

light.'     Far  in  the  North  sits  a  giant,  'the  corpse  swallower,' clad 

with  eagles'  plumes.      When  he  spn^ads  his  wings  for  flight,  the 

winds,  wliich  yet  no  mortal  can  discern,  fan  fire  into  flame,  or  lash 

the  waves   into  foam.      As  the  sons  of  l?or,  'jiowerful  and  fair,' 

were  walking  along  the  sea-beach,  th(>y  found  twf)  trees,  stately 

and  graceful,  and   from   them   created  the  first  human  pair,  man 

and  woman, — Ask  and  Embla: 

'  Odin  [rave  spirit, 
Ilo'iicr  irave  mind, 
T.cxl.T  iZ.nr    blood 
Anil  lovely  Imc.' 

Nobler  conception  is  tliis,  than  tin-  (rrcck  and  Ht'I)rew  of  clod  or 


COSMOGONY.  25 

Stone.  Diviner  symbol  is  this  of  tlie  trees,  Asli  and  Elm,  which, 
as  they  grow  heavenward,  sliow  an  unconscious  attraction  to  that 
which  is  heavenly. 

From  the  mould  of  Ymer  are  bred,  as  worms,  the  dwarfs, 
who  by  command  of  the  gods  receive  human  form  and  sense. 
Amono-  the  rocks,  in  the  wild  mountain-gorges  they  dwell. 
"When  we  hear  the  echo  from  wood  or  hill  or  dale,  there  stands  a 
dwarf  who  repeats  our  words.  They  had  charge  of  the  gold  and 
precious  minerals.  With  their  aprons  on,  they  hammered  and 
smelted,  and  — 

'Rock  crystals  from  sand  and  hard  flint  they  made. 
Which,  tinged  with  the  rosebud's  dye, 
Tliey  cast  into  rubies  and  carbuncles  red, 
And  hid  them  in  cracks  hard  by.' 

In  the  summer's  sun,  when  the  mist  hangs  over  the  sea,  may 
be  seen,  sitting  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  the  mermaid,  comb- 
iner her  Ions:  ffolden  hair  with  jrolden  comb,  or  drivino-  her  snow- 
white  cattle  to  the  strands.  No  household  prospers  without  its 
domestic  spirit.  Oft  the  favored  maid  finds  in  the  morning  that 
her  kitchen  is  swept  and  the  water  brought.  The  buried  treasure 
has  its  sleepless  dragon,  and  the  rivulet  its  water-sprite.  The 
Swede  delights  to  tell  of  the  hoy  of  the  stream,  who  haunts  the 
glassy  brooks  tiuit  steal  through  meadows  green,  and  sits  on  the 
silver  waves  at  moonlight,  playing  his  harp  to  the  elves  who 
dance  on  the  flowery  margin. 

We  retain  in  the  days  of  the  week  a  compendium  of  the  old 
English  creed.  A  son  and  a  daughter,  lovely  and  graceful,  are 
appointed  by  tlie  Powers  to  journey  round  heaven  each  day  with 
chariot  and  steeds,  'to  count  years  for  men,'  each  ever  pursued 
by  a  ravenous  wolf.  The  girl  is  Sol,  the  Sun,  with  meteor  eyes 
and  burning-  plumes;  the  boy  is  Maaiie,  the  Moon,  with  white 
fire  laden.  The  festival-days  consecrated  to  them  were  hence 
known  as  Siui's-daeg  and  Moon's-daeg,  whence  our  Sinuhoj  and 
^[(uidnij.  Reversing  the  mythology  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans, 
the  Teutons  worshipped  the  sun  as  a  female  and  the  moon  as  a 
male  deity,  from  an  odd  notion  that  if  the  latter  were  addresseil 
as  a  goddess  their  wives  would  be  their  masters.  The  memory  of 
Tvr,  tlie  dark,  dreail,  daring,  and  intrepid  one,  is  embalmed  in 
TaPi<dfiy :  his  grandmother  was  an  uglv  giantess  with  nine  hun- 
dred  heads.      AVodin,  or  Odin,  survives  in   M\'dne.-«hiy.      lie  does 


26  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

not  create  the  world,  but  arranges  and  governs  it.  He  is  the  all- 
pervading  spirit,  the  infinite  wanderer.  Two  wolves  lie  at  his 
feet;  and  on  his  shoulders  sit  two  gifted  ravens,  which  fly,  on  his 
behests,  to  tlie  uttermost  regions.  He  wakes  the  soul  to  tiiouglit, 
gives  science  and  lore,  inspires  the  song  of  the  bard  and  the  in- 
cantation of  the  sorcerer,  blunts  the  point  of  the  javelin,  renders 
his  warriors  invisible;  with  a  hero's  heart  and  voice,  tells  the 
brave  how  by  valor  a  man  may  become  a  god;  explains  to  mortals 
their  destiny  here, —  makes  existence  articulate  and  melodious. 
Incarnated  as  a  seer  and  magician  unknown  thousands  of  years 
ago,  he  led  the  Teutonic  throng  into  Scandinavia,  across  seas 
and  rivers  in  a  wonderful  ship  built  by  dwarfs,  so  marvellously 
constructed  that,  when  they  wished  to  land,  it  could  be  taken 
to  pieces,  rolled  up,  and  put  in  the  pocket.  Our  Thursday  is 
Thor's  day,  son  of  Odin,  Ho  is  a  sj)ring-god,  subduing  the  frost- 
giants.  The  thunder  is  his  wrath.  The  gathering  of  the  black 
clouds  is  the  drawing  down  of  his  angry  brows.  The  bursting  fire- 
bolt  is  the  all-rending  hammer  flung  from  his  hand.  The  peal, — 
that  is  the  roll  of  his  chariot  over  the  mountain-tops.  In  his 
mansion  are  five  hundred  and  forty  halls,  Freyja,  the  Venues  of 
the  North,  in  whom  are  beauty,  grace,  gentleness,  the  longings, 
joys,  and  tears  of  love,  is  incarnated  in  F'rlday.  S;x»ter,  an 
obscure  water-deity,  represented  as  standing  upon  a  fish,  with  a 
bucket  in  his  hand,  is  commemorated  in  S'lt i(rd<(;/.  But  beyond 
all  the  gods  who  are  known  and  named,  tliere  is  the  feeling,  the 
instinct,  the  ])resentiment  of  One  wlio  is  unseen  and  imp(>risliable, 
the  everlasting  Adamant  lower  than  which  the  confused  wreck  of 
revolutionary  things  caruiot  fall: 

'Then  comes  another 
Yet  more  miirlity. 
lint  Una  dare  I  not 
Vtnture  to  iidriif; 
Few  look  fiirtlier  forward 
Than  to  tlie  time 
Wlien  Odin  irc)es 
To  meet  tlie  wolf." 

Is  not  the  last  and  highest  consecration  of  all  true  religion  an 
altar  to  'The  T'nkriown  God?' 

All  tliiniis  exist  in  antagonism,  Xo  sooner  are  the  giants  cre- 
ated than  the  contest  for  empire  begins.  When  \  iner  is  killed, 
the  crimson  flood  drowns  all   save  one,  who  with  his  wife  escapes 


BURIAL  CUSTOMS.  27 

in  a  chest,  and  so  continues  the  hated  race.  Huge,  shaggy, 
demoniac  beings.  Jotunheim  is  their  home,  distant,  dark,  chaotic. 
Long  fight  the  gods  against  them, —  the  Fenriswolf,  whose  jaws 
they  rend  asunder;  the  great  serpent,  whom  they  drown  in  the 
sea;  tlie  evil  Loke,  whom  they  bind  to  the  rocks,  beneath  a  viper 
whose  venom  drops  unceasingly  on  his  face. 

That  which  is  born  must  die.  Hel-gate  stands  ever  ajar  to 
receive  the  child  with  rosy  cheeks,  as  him  of  the  hoary  locks  and 
faltering  step.  When  a  great  man  dies, —  his  body,  with  his 
sword  in  his  hand,  his  helmet  on  his  head,  his  shield  by  his  side, 
and  his' horse  under  him,  is  burned.  The  ashes  are  collected  in 
an  earthen  vessel,  which  is  then  surrounded  with  huge  stones; 
and  over  this  is  heaped  the  memorial  mound.  Brynhild,  an 
untamed  maiden  in  an  epic  of  these  Northern  races,  sets  her  love 
upon  Sigurd;  but,  seeing  him  married,  she  causes  his  death, 
laughs  once,  puts  on  her  golden  corselet,  pierces  herself,  and 
makes  this  last  request: 

'  Let  in  the  plain  be  raised  a  pile  so  spacious,  that  for  us  all  like  room  maybe;  let  them 
burn  the  Ilun  (Sigurd)  on  the  one  side  of  me,  on  the  other  side  my  household  slaves,  with 
collars  splendid,  two  at  our  heads  and  two  hawks;  let  also  lie  between  us  both  the  keen- 
edged  sword ;  .  .  .  also  five  female  thralls,  eight  mule  slaves  of  gentle  birtli  fostered  with 
me.' 

Is  it  not  a  beautiful  thought  that  the  dead  in  the  mounds  are  in 
a  state  of  consciousness  ?  Out  of  the  depths  seems  to  come  the 
half-dumb  stifled  voice  of  the  long-buried  generations  of  our 
fathers,  the  echo  in  some  sort  of  our  own  painful,  fruitlessly 
inquiring  wonder: 

'Now,  children,  lay  us  in  two  lofty  graves 
Down  by  the  sea  shore,  near  the  deep-blue  waves: 
Their  sounds  shall  to  our  souls  be  music  sweet, 
Singing  our  dirge  as  on  the  strand  they  beat. 

When  round  tlie  hills  tlie  pale  moonlight  is  thrown. 
And  Midnis;ht  dews  fall  on  the  Bauta-stone, 
We'll  sit,  O  Thorsten,  ill  our  rounded  graves 
And  speak  together  o"er  the  gentle  waves.' 

When  the  daughter  weejis  for  tlie  deatli  of  her  father,  she  allows 
no  tear  to  fall  on  his  corpse,  lest  his  peace  be  troubled: 

'Whenever  thou  grievest. 
My  coffin  is  witliin 
As  livid  blood ; 
Whenever  thou  rejoieest. 
My  cottin  is  within 
Fillrd  with  fra-rant  roses.' 


28  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

Even  the  gods  must  perish.  Have  we  not  seen  that  the  germ  of 
decay  was  in  them  from  the  beginning?  They  and  their  enemies, 
met  in  a  world-embracing  struggle,  mutually  destroy  each  other. 
Sun  and  stars,  rock-built  earth  and  crystal  vault,  sink  into  the 
bottomless,  many-sounding  sea. 

But  the  end  is  also  the  beginning.  There  comes  a  new  day, 
and  a  new  heaven  without  rent  or  seam, —  that  is,  the  regenera- 
tion. There  is  no  loss  of  souls,  no  more  than  of  drops  when  the 
ocean  yields  its  vapor  to  the  touch  of  the  summer's  sun.  Thought 
and  affection  are  innnortal.  Death  is  but  a  vanishing  from  one 
realm  into  another  —  a  triumph-hour  of  entrance  through  an  arch 
of  shadow  into  eternal  day.  Therefore,  fall  gloriously  in  battle, 
and  you  shall  be  at  once  transported  to  Valhal,  the  airy  hall  of 
Odin,  upborne  by  spears,  roofed  with  shields,  and  adorned  with 
coats  of  mail.  Fig-htino:  and  feasting,  which  have  been  vour 
fierce  joys  on  earth,  shall  be  lavished  upon  you  in  this  supernal 
abode.  F^very  day  you  shall  have  combats  in  the  listed  field, — 
the  rush  of  steeds,  the  flash  of  swords,  the  shining  of  lances,  and 
all  the  maddening  din  of  conflict;  helmets  and  bucklers  riven, 
horses  and  riders  overthrown,  ghastly  wounds  exchanged:  but  at 
the  setting  of  the  sun  you  shall  meet  unscathed,  victors  and  van- 
quished, around  the  festive  board,  to  partake  of  the  ample  ban- 
quet and  quaff  full  horns  of  beer  and  fragrant  mead.  Ragnar 
Lodbrok,  shipwrecked  on  the  English  coast,  is  taken  prisoner. 
Refusing  to  speak,  he  is  thrown  into  a  dungeon  full  of  serpents, 
there  to  remain  until  he  tells  his  name.  The  reptiles  are  power- 
less. The  spectators  say  he  must  be  a  brave  man  indeed  whom 
neither  arms  nor  vipers  can  hurt.  King  yElla,  hearing  this,  orders 
his  enchanted  garment  to  be  stripped  off,  and  soon  the  serpents 
cling  to  him  on  all  sides.  Then  Ragnar  savs,  'How  the  young 
cul)s  would  roar  if  they  knew  what  the  old  l^oar  suffers!'  But 
his  (>y(^  is  fixed  upon  Valhal's  'wide-flung  door,' and  he  glories 
that  no  sigh  shall  disgrace  his  exit: 

T'ciisc  my  strain!    I  licar  a  voice 
From  rc«lin<  wlicrc  martial  sotils  rejoice: 
T  liear  the  maiflsi  of  slaiiL'liter  call, 
Wlio  bid  me  hence  to  OdinV  liall: 
lliLdi-seated  in  their  blest  al)odes, 
1  sdoii  -liall  (iiiaff  the  drink  of  iy)'l^- 

'  The  Valkyries.  r)din's  maid-,  who  are  sent  out  to  choose  tlie  fallen  heroes,  and  to 
swav  tli<'  combat. 


THEOLOGY.  29 

The  hours  of  life  have  glided  by— 
I  fall !   but  laughiug  will  I  dit- ! 
The  hours  of  life  have  glided  by — 
I  fall :   but  laughing  will  I  die  1 ' 

For  the  virtuous  who  do  not  die  in  fight  a  more  peaceful  but  less 
glorious  Elysium  is  provided, —  a  resplendent  golden  palace,  sur- 
rounded by  verdant  meads  and  shady  groves  and  fields  of  sponta- 
neous fertility. 

After  all,  amid  the  raging  of  this  Avarlike  mood,  it  is  virtue,  on 
the  whole,  which  is  to  be  rewarded — vice  which  is  to  be  punished. 
Far  from  the  Sun,  ever  downward  and  northward,  is  the  cave  of 
the  giantess  Hel, — Naastrand,  the  strand  of  corpses.  Here  are  the 
palace  Anguish,  the  table  Famine,  the  waiters  Slowness  and 
Delay,  the  threshold  Precipice,  the  bed  Care.  Of  serpents 
wattled  together  the  cave  is  built,  their  heads  turning  inward  and 
filling  it  with  thick  venom-streams,  through  which  perjurers,  mur- 
derers, and  adulterers  have  to  wade: 

'But  all  the  horrors 
You  cannot  know, 
That  Hel's  condemned  endure; 
Sweet  sins  there 
Bitterly  are  punished, 
False  i)leasures 
Reap  true  pain.' 

All  life  is  figured  as  a  tree.  Ygdrasil,  the  Ash  of  existence, 
has  its  roots  deep  down  in  the  kingdom  of  Hel,  or  Death;  its 
trunk,  towering  heaven-high,  spreads  its  branches  over  the  uni- 
verse. 'Stately,  with  white  dust  strewn:  thence  come  the  dews 
that  wet  the  dales;  it  stands  ever  green  over  Urd's  fountain.' 
Under  its  root  that  stretches  into  the  frozen  North  is  Mimer's 
well  of  wisdom.  On  its  topmost  Ijough  sits  an  eagle;  at  its  low- 
ermost base  is  the  serpent  Nidhvig,  with  his  reptile  brood,  that 
pierce  it  with  their  fangs  and  devour  its  substance.  At  its  foot, 
in  the  Death-kingdom,  sit  three  Norns,  Fates,  who  water  its  roots 
from  the  Sacred  Well,  and  weave,  for  mortals  and  immortals,  the 
wel)  of  destiny.     What  similitude  so  true,  so  beautiful,  so  great? 

Here  is  philosophy  without  abstractions  or  syllogisms;  meta- 
physics that  overleaps  all  categories;  historv  woven  of  giant- 
dreams;  ]ioetry  whose  ]iictures  are  streams  that  flow  together. 
What  ideas  are  at  the  bottom  of  this  chaos  of  untamed  imagin- 
ings?    The    world    is   a   warfare.      In   the    sad    inclement    North, 


30  FORMATIVE    PERIOD — THE    I'EOPLE. 

amid  pathless  forests,  bridgeless  rivers,  treacherous  seas,  inhos- 
pitable shores,  the  strife  of  frost  and  tire,  man,  as  it  were  face  to 
face  with  a  heast  of  ]irey,  feels  j)rofouiully  that  life  is  a  battle, 
and,  in  the  raging-  of  liis  own  moods,  sees  reflected  the  conflict  of 
chaotic  forces.  Thor's  far-sounding  hammer,  Jove's  falling  thun- 
derbolt, Indra's  liglitning-spear,  warring  against  the  demons  of 
the  storm,  till  the  light  triumphs  and  the  tempest  rolls  away,  but 
ever  returns  to  renew  the  combat, — what  are  they  but  types  of 
the  state  of  man,  cast  out  of  the  troubled  deep  upon  the  mists  of 
the  unknown  ? 

AVhen  the  gods  were  unable  to  bind  the  Fenriswolf  with  steel 
or  weight  of  mountains,  because  the  one  he  snapped  and  the  other 
he  spurned  with  his  heel,  they  put  round  his  foot  a  limp  band 
softer  than  silk  or  gossamer,  and  this  held  him:  the  more  he 
struggled  the  stilTer  it  drew.  So  soft,  so  omnipotent  is  the  ring 
of  Fate.  Balder,  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  gentle,  dies.  All 
nature  is  searched  for  a  remedy;  but  he  is  dead.  His  mother 
sends  Hennod  to  seek  or  see  him,  who  rides  nine  days  and 
nights  through  a  labyrinth  of  gloom.  Arrived  at  the  bridge  with 
its  golden  roof,  he  is  answered:  'Yes,  Balder  did  pass  here,  but 
the  Kingdom  of  the  Dead  is  down  yonder,  far  in  the  North.' 
Speeds  the  messenger  on,  leaps  Hel-gate,  sees  Balder,  and  sj)eaks 
with  him;  but  Balder  cannot  lie  delivered:  l'\ite  is  hiexordhle. 
The  Valkyries  an^  choosers  of  the  fallen.  J3(»lief  in  Destiny  is  a 
fundamental  point  for  this  wild  Teutonic;  soul.  Perhaps  it  is  so 
for  all  instinctive  and  heroic  races,  as  for  all  earnest  men, —  a 
Mahomet,  a  Lutln^r,  a  Xai)oleon,  a  Carlyle,  an  P^inerson.  The 
Greek,  the  Turk,  the  Arab,  the  Persian,  accept  the  inevital)le. 

'On  two  (lays  it  stands  not  to  run  from  lliy  L'ravc, 
Thf  a|)iK)inti'(l  and   Itn'  iinai)|)oinli'il  day : 
On  the  llfsl,  luillicr  balm  nor  ))liy>ifian>  can  save, — 
Nor  llicr,  on  tlu'  second,  the  Universe  slay." 

A\'lio  can  wiiti>  the  order  of  t!i«'  varial)!('  winds?  On  every 
mortal  who  enters  the  hail  of  the  hrinainent  fiill  snow-stonns  of 
illusions,  though  the  gods  still  sit  on  their  thrones;  and  he  may 
see,  what  all  great  tliiid<ers  have  seen: 

•We  ari'  >ueli  >-tiitT  a<  ilreiuns  are  made  of.' 

Ill  h(,'art-to-he;iit  coiinimiiioii  with  Nature,  these  old  Northmen 
seem  to  have  si'eii  what  meditation  has  tauglit  all  hkmi  in  all  ages, 


PHILOSOPHY.  31 

that  this  world  is  only  an  appearance,  a  mirage,  a  shadow  hung 
by  the  primal  Reality  on  the  bosom  of  the  void  Infinite.  Thor, 
with  two  chosen  friends,  undertakes  an  expedition  to  Giant-land, 
"Wandering  at  nightfall  in  a  trackless  forest,  they  espy  a  house, 
whose  door  is  the  whole  breadth  of  one  end.  Here  they  lodge; 
one  large  hall,  altogether  empty.  Suddenly,  at  dead  of  night, 
loud  noises  are  heard.  Thor  grasps  his  hammer,  and  stands  at 
the  door,  prepared  for  fight,  while  his  terrified  companions  take 
refuge  in  a  little  closet.  In  the  morning  it  turns  out  that  the 
noise  was  merely  the  snoring  of  the  giant  Skrymer,  who  lay  peace- 
ably sleeping  near  by;  that  the  house  was  only  his  mitten, 
thrown  carelessly  aside;  that  the  door  was  its  ici'ist,  and  the 
closet  its  thumb.  Skrymer  now  joins  the  party  in  travel.  Thor, 
however,  suspicious  of  his  ways,  resolves  to  put  an  end  to  him  as 
he  slumbers  beneath  a  large  oak.  Raising  his  hammer,  he  strikes 
a  thunderbolt  blow  down  into  the  giant's  face,  who  wakes,  rubs 
his  face,  and  murmurs:  '  Did  a  leaf  fall?'  Thor  replies  that  they 
are  just  going  to  sleep,  and  goes  to  lie  down  under  another  oak. 
Again  he  strikes,  as  soon  as  Skrymer  again  sleeps,  a  more  terrible 
blow  than  before;  but  the  giant  only  asks:  'Did  an  acorn  fall? 
How  is  it  with  you,  Thor?'  Thor,  going  hastily  away,  says  that 
he  has  prematurely  waked  up.  His  third  stroke,  delivered  with 
both  hands,  seems  to  dint  deep  into  the  giant's  skull;  but  he 
simply  checks  his  snore,  strokes  his  chin,  and  inquires:  'Are  there 
sparrows  roosting  in  this  tree?  Was  it  moss  they  dropped?  It 
seems  to  me  time  to  arise  and  dress.'  At  Utgard-castle,  their 
journey's  end,  they  are  invited  to  share  in  the  games  going  on. 
To  Thor,  they  hand  a  drinking-horn,  explaining  that  it  is  a 
common  feat  to  drain  it  at  one  draught, —  none  so  wretched  as 
not  to  exhaust  it  at  the  third.  Long  and  fiercely,  tliree  times 
over,  with  increasing  anger,  lie  drinks;  then  finding  that  he  has 
made  hardly  any  impression,  gives  it  back  to  the  cup-bearer. 
'  Poor,  weak  child!'  they  say:  '  Can  you  lift  this  gray  cat  ?  Our 
young  men  think  it  nothing  but  l)lay.'  ' 'i'hor,  witli  his  whole  god- 
like strength,  can  at  the  utmost  bend  tlie  creature's  back  and  lift 
one  foot.  'Just  as  we  expected,'  say  the  Utgard  people.  '  The  cat 
is  large,  but  you  are  little.'  'Little  as  you  call  m(>,'  says  Tlioi-,  '1 
challenge  any  one  to  wrestle  with  me,  for  now  1  am  angry.'  '  \\'hy 
here  is  a  toothless  old  woman  who  will  wrestle  voul'     Ileartilv 


32  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

ashamed,  Tlior  seizes  her  —  and  is  worsted.  On  their  departure, 
the  host  escorts  them  politely  a  little  way,  and  says  to  Thor:  'Be 
not  so  mortified;  you  have  been  deceived.  That  race  you  wit- 
nessed was  a  race  with  2'hought.  That  horn  had  one  end  in  tiie 
Ocean:  you  did  diminish  it,  as  you  will  see  when  you  come  to 
the  shore;  this  is  the  ebb.  But  who  can  drink  the  fathomless? 
And  the  cat, —  ah!  we  were4error-stricken  when  we  saw  one  paw 
off  the  floor;  for  that  is  the  Midgard-serpent,  which,  tail  in 
mouth,  g-irds  and  keej)s  up  the  created  world.  As  for  the  hag", — 
wliy,  she  was  Time;  and  who,  of  men  or  gods,  can  prevail  ovey 
her?  Then,  too,  look  at  these  three  ylens, —  by  the  timely  inter- 
position of  a  mountain,  your  strokes  made  these!  Adieu,  and  a 
word  of  advice, —  better  come  no  more  to  Jotunheim!'  Grim 
humor  this,  overlying  a  sublime,  uncomplaining  melancholy, — 
mirth  resting  upon  sadness,  as  the  rainbow  upon  the  tempest. 
To  this  day  it  runs  in  the  blood. 

Therefore,  the  one  thing  needful,  the  everlasting  duty,  is  to 
be  brave.  The  right  use  of  Fate  is  to  bring  our  conduct  up  to 
the  loftiness  of  nature.  Let  a  man  have  not  less  the  flow  of  the 
river,  the  expansion  of  the  oak,  the  steadfastness  of  the  hills. 
Heroism  is  the  highest  ffood.  Over  vou,  at  each  moment,  hang-s 
a  threatening  sword,  which  may  in  the  next  prove  fatal.  Life  in 
itself  has  no  value,  and  its  ideal  termination,  to  be  "kept  con- 
stantly in  view,  is  to  fall  heroically  in  fight.  The  Choosers  will 
lead  you  to  the  Hall  of  Odin,  only  the  base  and  slavish  being 
thrust  elsewhither: 

'The  coward  thinks  to  live  forever, 
If  lie  avoid  the  \veiii)on's  reach: 
But  Age,  which  overtakes  at  last, 
Twines  his  gray  hair  with  pain  and  shame.' 

Hold  to  your  purpose  with  the  tug  of  gravitation,  believing  that 
you  can  shun  no  danger  that  is  ap])oiiited  nor  incur  one  that  is 
not.    Thus  did  these  old  Northmen.     Silent  and  indomitable, — 

'In  the  ])row  with  head  uplifted 
Stood  the  chief  like  wrathful  Thor: 
Through  his  locks  the  snow-flakes  drifted, 
Bleached  their  hue  from  gold  lo  hoar: 
Mid  tiie  crash  of  mast  and  rafter 
Norsemen  leaped  throu<:h  ileath  with  laughter, 
I'p  throUL'h  Vallial's  wide-lliiliL:  door." 


SAVAGERY.  33 

Old  kings,  about  to  die,  had  their  bodies  laid  in  a  ship,  the  ship 
sent  forth  with  sails  set,  and  a  slow  fire  burning  it;  that  they 
might  be  buried  at  once  in  tlie  sky  and  in  the  sea! 

Wild  and  bloody  was  this  valor  of  the  Northmen.  True,  but 
they  were  ferocious  —  bloody-minded.  Murder  was  their  trade, 
and  hence  their  pleasure.  'Lord,  deliver  us  from  the  fury  of  the 
Jutes,'  says  an  ancient  litany.  The  ceremonials  of  religion 
assumed  a  cruel  and  sanguuiary  character.  Prisoners  taken  in 
battle  were  sacrificed  by  the  victors,  sometimes  subjects  by  their 
kings,  and  even  children  by  their  parents.  Bodies  white  and 
huge,  stomachs  ravenous.  Six  meals  a  day  barely  sufficed.  The 
heroes  of  Valhal  gorge  themselves  upon  the  flesh  of  a  boar 
which  is  cooked  every  morning,  but  becomes  whole  again  every 
night.  Lovers  of  gambling  and  strong  drink.  Seated  on  their 
stools,  by  the  light  of  the  torch,  they  listened  to  battle-songs  and 
heroic  legends  as  they  drank  their  ale,  while  'the  lordly  hall 
thundered,  and  the  ale  was  spilled.'  In  Paradise,  the  elect  drink 
from  a  river  of  ale!  'Disputes,'  says  Tacitus,  'as  will  be  the  case 
with  people  in  liquor,  frequently  arise,  and  are  seldom  confined 
to  opprobrious  epithets.  The  quarrel  generally  ends  in  a  scene 
of  blood.'  Here  are  the  germs  of  nineteenth-century  vices.  Li- 
trepid  in  war,  in  peace  they  lie  by  the  fireside,  sluggish  and  dirty, 
eating  and  drinking. 

Established  in  England,  they  have  brought  with  them  their 
customs,  sentiments,  and  habits.  They  are  still  gluttonous,  un- 
tamed, butcherly.  To  dance  among  naked  swords  is  their  recre- 
ation. To  drink  is  their  necessity.  Later  on,  they  quarrel  about 
the  amount  each  shall  drink  from  the  common  cup,  and  the 
Archbishop  puts  pegs  in  the  vessel,  that  each  thirsty  soul  shall 
take  no  more  than  liis  just  proportion. 

Every  man  is  obliged  to  appear  ready-armed,  to  repel  preda- 
tory bands.  A  hundred  years  measure  the  reign  of  fourteen 
kings,  seven  of  whom  are  slain  and  six  deposed.  King  ^Ella's 
ribs  are  divided  from  liis  spine,  his  lungs  drawn  out,  and  salt 
thrown  into  his  wounds.  Attendants  who  are  preparing  a  royal 
banquet  are  seized,  their  heads  and  limbs  severed,  placed  in  ves- 
sels of  wine,  mead,  ale,  and  cider,  with  a  message  to  the  king: 
'  If  you  go  to  your  farm,  you  will  find  there  plenty  of  salt  meat, 
but  you  will  do  well  to  carry  more  with  you.' 
3 


34  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

They  have  made  one  remove  from  barbarism.  Once  murder 
was  expiated,  as  all  other  crimes,  by  blows  (from  five  to  a  thou- 
sand), the  gift  of  a  female  to  the  offended  party,  or  a  fine  of  gold; 
now,  by  money-fines  only.  Here,  by  implication,  in  the  Saxon 
Code  of  laws,  is  the  social  status  of  the  sixth  century.  Mark 
with  what  minutiti?  it  seeks  to  repress  the  irruptive  tendencies 
of  a  restive  and  disordered  society: 

'These  are  the  Laws  King  Ethelbert  established  in  Agustine's  day: 
2.    If  the  king  his  people  to  him  call,  and  any  one  to  them  harm  does,  two  fines  shall 
be  paid,  and  to  the  king  50  shillings. 

8.    If  in  tile  king's  town  any  one  a  man  slay,  50  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

13.    If  any  one  in  an  earPs  town  a  man  kills,  13  shillings  sliall  be  paid. 

19.    If  a  highway  robbery  be  committed,  C  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

35.  If  bones  bare  become,  3  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

36.  If  bones  bitten  are,  4  shillings  shall  be  paid. 
39.    If  an  ear  be  cnt  off,  12  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

44.  If  an  eye  be  gouged  out,  50  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

S.'i.  For  every  nail,  1  shilling. 

57.  If  a  man  beat  another  with  the  flst  on  the  nose,  3  shillings. 

04.  If  a  thigh  be  broken,  12  shillings  shall  be  paid;  if  he  halt  become,  then  shall  be 
summoned  friends  who  arbitrate. 

fio.  If  a  rib  broken  be,  3  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

68.  If  a  foot  be  cut  off,  50  shillings  shall  compensate. 

69.  If  the  large  toe  be  cut  off,  10  shillings  shall  compensate. 

TO.    For  every  other  toe,  half  the  sum  as  has  been  said  for  the  fingers. 
81.    If   any  one  take  a  maiden  by  force,  he  shall  pay  the  owner  50  shillings;    and 
afterwards  buy  her  according  to  tlie  owner's  will.' 

Formerly,  too,  tliey  slew  tliemselves,  dying  as  they  had  lived — in 
l)lood.  Now,  in  the  eleventh  century,  an  earl,  about  to  die  of  dis- 
ease but  unable  wholly  to  repress  the  ferocious  instinct,  exclaims: 

'  What  a  shame  for  me  not  to  have  been  permitted  to  die  in  so  many  battles,  and  to  end 
thus  by  a  cow's  death.  .\t  least  put  on  my  breast-plate,  gird  on  my  sword,  set  my  helmet 
on  my  head,  my  shield  in  my  left  hand,  my  battle-fUJe  in  my  right,  so  that  a  stout  warrior 
like  myself  may  die  as  a  warrior  ' 

But  in  this  lumian  animal  —  let  it  not  be  forgotten  —  abide 
noble  dispositions,  which  will  wax  nobler  as  he  climbs  the  heights 
of  purer  vision.  In  manners,  severe;  in  inclination.s,  grave; 
valorous  and  liberty-loving.  If  lie  is  cruel,  he  refuses  to  l)e 
sliackled.  In  his  own  liome,  he  is  his  own  master.  No  Feudal- 
ism yet — only  a  voluntary  subordination  to  a  leader.  Required 
to  associate  himself  with  a  superior,  he  chooses  him  as  a  friend, 
and  follows  him  to  the  death.  'He  is  infamous  as  long  as  he 
lives,  who  returns  from  the  field  of  l)attle  without  his  chief.' 

Amid  the  savagery  of  barbarian  life,  1h»  feels  no  sentiment 
stronger  than  friendshijx  An  exile,  waking  from  his  dream  of 
the  long  ago,  .savs: 


■Ml'  'Tn 


HOME-LIFE.  35 


In  blithe  habits  full  oft  we,  too,  agreed  that  naught  else  should  di\-ide  us  except  death 
alone;  at  length  this  is  changed,  and,  as  if  it  had  never  been,  is  now  our  friendship.  To 
endure  enmities  man  orders  me  to  dwell  in  the  bowers  of  the  forest,  under  the  oak  tree  in 
this  earthly  cave.  Cold  is  this  earth-dwelling:  I  am  quite  wearied  out.  Dim  are  the  dells, 
high  up  are  the  mountains,  a  bitter  city  of  twigs,  with  briars  overgrown,  a  joyless  abode. 
.  .  .  My  friends  are  in  the  earth;  those  loved  in  life,— the  tomb  holds  them.  The  grave  is 
guarding,  while  I  above  alone  am  going.  Under  the  oak-tree,  beyond  this  earth-cave, — 
there  I  must  sit  the  long  summer  day.' 

He  is  over-brave.  He  places  his  happiness  in  battle  and  his 
beauty  in  death.  The  coward  is  drowned  in  the  mud  under  a 
hurdle,  or  is  immolated. 

The  true  home-life,  out  of  which  are  the  issues  of  national 
life,  is  foreshadowed  by  the  respect  with  which  woman  is  treated. 
She  inherits  property  and  bequeaths  it;  associates  with  the  men 
at  their  feasts,  and  is  respected.  The  law  surrounds  her  with 
guarantees,  and  accords  her  protection.  The  freeman  who  presses 
the  finger  of  a  freewoman,  is  liable  to  a  fine  of  six  hundred 
pence;  of  twelve  hundred,  if  he  touches  the  arm.  'xA.lmost  alone 
among  the  barbarians,'  says  Tacitus,  'they  are  content  with  one 
wife';  then,  perhaps  with  a  bitter  thought  of  Rome,  'No  one  in 
Germany  laughs  at  vice,  nor  do  they  call  it  the  fashion  to  corrupt 
and  be  corrupted.'  A  chivalric  sense  of  delicacy,  indeed,  we  may 
not  expect.  Slie  attends  to  the  indoor  and  outdoor  work,  while 
her  husband  dozes  in  a  half  stupor  by  the  fire.  His  companion 
in  war,  she  is  his  drudge  in  peace.  As  little  may  we  look  for  the 
finer  instincts  of  the  womanly  nature.  Brynhild  compels  her 
suitors  to  contend  with  her  in  the  games  of  spear-throwing, 
leaping,  and  stone-hurling,  under  penalty  of  death  in  case  of 
defeat.  xVtle's  wife  kills  her  children,  and  one  day,  on  his  return 
from  the  carnage,  gives  liim  tlieir  hearts  to  eat,  served  in  honey, 
and  laughs  as  slie  tells  him  on  what  he  has  fed.  Devotion  there 
is,  stronger  than  life  or  death,  and  grief  too  deep  for  tears.  With 
a  fierce  kind  of  joy,  the  maid  ex])ires  on  the  grave  of  her  Iovim-.  ' 
Balder's  wife  accompanies  him  to  the  Death-kingdom;  and  while 
he  sends  his  ring  to  Odin,  she  sends  as  final  r(Mneml)rance  her 
thhiihle  to  Freyja.  Loke's  wife  stands  by  his  side,  and  receives 
the  venom-drops,  as  they  fall,  in  a  cup  which  she  empties  as  often 
as  it  is  filled. 

The  Celt  is  gay,  emotional,  easily  t'levated  and  as  easilv 
<lepre.ssed.  He  know.s  not  how  to  ])lod,  would  leap  to  results, 
has  a  passion  for  color  and  form.      The  Teuton   is  steady,  is  not 


36  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    PEOPLE. 

dazzled  by  show,  looks  more  to  the  inner  fact  of  things.  It 
inspires  the  one  to  be  addressed  in  the  words  of  Napoleon, — 
*  Soldiers,  from  the  summits  of  yonder  Pyramids,  forty  ages 
behold  you;"  it  nerves  the  other  to  be  told  in  the  severe  phrase 
of  Nelson, — '  England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty.'  What 
sentiment  is  to  the  one,  interest  is  to  the  other. 

If,  again,  the  Teuton  has  less  of  brilliancy  than  the  Norman, 
he  has  more  of  patient  strength.  If  he  is  less  passionate,  he  is 
more  reflective.  If  he  is  less  voluble,  he  has  the  deep  conviction 
and  the  indomitable  will  that  have  preserved  his  continuity 
through  all  revolutionary  changes,  and  made  him  the  most  irre- 
sistible force  in  European  politics.  If  he  is  less  the  artist  of  the 
beautiful,  he  is  more  inclined  to  the  serious  and  sublime.  Did 
ever  any  people  form  so  tragic  a  conception  of  life,  get  so  free 
and  direct  a  glance  into  the  deeps  of  thought,  or  banish  so  com- 
pletely from  its  dreams  the  sweetness  of  enjoyment  and  the  soft- 
ness of  pleasure?  Here  is  the  shadow,  of  which  the  Christian 
ideal  is  the  substance. 

Do  but  consider  the  singular  adaptation  of  this  soil  for  the 
reception  of  the  new  faith.  Back  in  the  days  of  heathendom 
we  may  find  the  first  suggestion  of  the  spirit  which  led  to  the 
Reformation  of  an  after  age  —  the  revolt  against  the  sensuous 
Avorship  of  Rome  —  when  Tacitus  says  of  the  old  Germanic  tribes 
that  they  do  not  consider  it  consistent  with  the  grandeur  of 
celestial  beings  to  confine  the  gods  within  walls,  or  to  liken  them 
to  the  form  of  any  human  countenance.  They  consecrate  woods 
and  groves,  and  they  apply  the  names  of  deities  to  the  abstrac- 
tion whicli  they  see  only  with  the  spiritual  eye.  This  feeling  of 
a  mysterious  infinity,  of  the  dark  Beyond,  this  sincerity  of  per- 
sonal and  original  sentiment,  predisposes  the  mind  to  Christian- 
, ity;  it  makes  the  supreme  distinction  between  races,  as  between 
great  souls  and  little  souls.  Gregory  had  seen  slaves  in  the 
market  at  Rome,  and  their  faces  were  beautiful.  lie  was  told 
they  were  heathen  Ijoys  from  the  Isle  of  Britain.  Sorry  to  think 
that  forms  so  fair  should  have  no  light  within,  he  asked  what  was 
the  name  of  their  nation.  '■  Aiif/Ies,''  he  was  told.  *■  Aiu/lf-'^  f  said 
Gregorv:  'tliev  have  tlie  faces  of  Auf/tL'^^  and  tliey  ought  to  be 
made  fellow-heirs  of   tlie  Angels  in  Heaven.      But   of   what   prov- 

'  T h(;  Celt  i-^  the  spiritual  pniL'fiiitDr  of  Ilit-  FrciRliiiiaii. 


FUNDAMENTAL   INSTINCTS.  37 

ince  are  they?'  '■Deira^  said  the  merchant.  ^De  ira!''  said 
Gregory;  'then  they  must  be  delivered  from  the  wrath' — in 
Latin  de  ira — 'of  God.'  'And  what  is  the  name  of  their  king?' 
'^i^lla.'  '■^lla!  then  Alleluia  shall  be  sung  in  his  land.'  Pres- 
ently Roman  missionaries  bearing  a  silver  cross  with  an  image  of 
Christ  came  in  procession  chanting  a  litany.  In  the  council  of 
the  king,  the  High-Priest  of  Odin  declared  that  the  old  gods 
were  powerless: 

'  For  there  is  no  man  in  thy  land,  O  King,  who  hath  ser^-ed  all  our  gods  more  truly  than 
I.  yet  there  be  many  who  are  richer  and  greater,  and  to  whom  thou  showei*t  more  favor; 
whereas,  if  our  gods  were  good  for  anything,  they  would  rather  forewarn  me  who  have  been 
so  zealous  to  serve  them.  Wherefore  let  us  hearken  to  what  these  men  say,  and  learn  what 
their  law  is;  and  if  we  find  it  to  be  better  than  our  own,  let  us  serve  their  God  and  worship 
Him." 

This  is  the  profit-and-loss  estimate  —  not  yet  extinct  among  us  — 
of  things  divine,  contracting  the  horizon  of  life  within  the  narrow 
circle  of  material  interests.  But  in  that  assembly  of  wise  men 
was  another,  of  finer  mould,  whose  eyes,  lifted  from  the  dust, 
could  see  the  stars.     Then  a  chief  rose  and  said: 

'  You  remember,  it  may  be,  O  King,  that  which  sometimes  happens  in  winter  when  you 
are  seated  at  table  with  your  earls  and  thanes.  Your  fire  is  lighted,  and  your  hall  warmed, 
and  without  is  rain,  snow,  and  storm.  Then  comes  a  swallow  flying  across  the  hall:  he 
enters  by  one  door  and  leaves  by  another.  The  brief  moment  while  he  is  within  is  pleasant 
to  hiui :  lie  feels  not  rain  nor  cheerless  winter  wcatlicr;  but  the  moment  is  brief, —  the  bird 
flies  away  in  the  twinkhng  of  an  eye.  and  he  passes  from  winter  to  winter.  Such,  me- 
thinks.  IS  the  life  of  man  on  eartlu  compared  with  the  uncertain  time  beyond.  It  appears 
for  a  while;  but  what  is  tlie  time  which  comes  after  — the  time  which  was  before?  We 
know  not.  If  then,  this  new  doctrine  may  teach  us  somewhat  of  greater  certainty  — 
whence  man  cometh  and  whither  he  goeth  —  it  were  well  that  we  should  regard  it."  ' 

Henceforth  the  war-gods  are  blotted  out,  the  passions  which 
created  them  wane;  manly  and  moral  instincts  increase;  new 
ideas  take  root;  and  a  literature  begins  whose  inspiration  and 
soul,  even  to  the  latest  generation,  while  it  iinao-es  the  ininu,-led 
and  many-colored  web  of  mortal  e.xperience,  are  essentially  the 
God-idea — tliis  longing  after  an  Infinite  wliich  sense  cannot 
toiieli,  l^ut  reverence  alone  can  feel  —  this  wonder  and  sorrow 
concerning  life  and  death  which  are  the  inheritance  of  the  Saxon 
soul  from  the  days  of  its  first  sea-kings. 

'  'In  this  year  (507).'  says  the  f'hronicle,  '  Ori-croriiis  tlio  Pope  sent  into  Britain  .Xuiriis- 
tiiiMs  witli  very  many  iiionk^  who  (fospfUeil  f;o(l"s  word  to  tlie  Ensrlish  folk."  That  is.  tin  y 
•  prcai  lied  "  or  '  tautrhr.'  tln'  Gosjul  —  \\w  gooil  spell  or  fate,  the  goo(t  iifim  of  wlial  (Jod  liad 
done  for  otlicrs  and  would  do  for  tliiMU. 

Tliou'.'h  rile  Chrisriaii  faith  had  not  failed  aniont;  tlie  Britons  of  Wales,  the  British 
prii'sts  were  not  likely  to  try  to  convert  their  mortal  enemies,  the  .Viiirlo-Saxoils,  nor  were 
the  latter  likely  to  listen  to  rhein.  The  Scots  ilri-lu  helped  much  in  the  LTood  work  after- 
Ward^,  but  had  notliiiii;  to  do  with  it  in  the  beiriiiniui:. 


38  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   PEOPLE. 

Results. — The  Eng-lish  people,  it  is  thus  seen,  is  a  composite 
nation,  uniting  in  its  children  the  elements  which,  separately,  in 
the  intellectual  development  of  Europe^  have  shown  themselves 
most  efficient  in  all  great  and  worthy  achievements.  But  of  this 
British,  Roman,  Saxon,  Danish,  Norman  blood,  in  fulfilment  of 
the  decrees  of  an  overruling  Providence,  is  formed  the  English 
nation  —  a  nation  that  has  preserved  its  free  spirit  under  foreign 
domination  and  domestic  oppression  —  a  nation  that  has  upheld, 
with  ever  increasing  strength,  the  principle  that  power  is  derived 
from  the  governed  for  the  general  good  —  a  nation  that  in  litera- 
ture and  life  has  furnished  the  moral  pioneers  and  teachers  of  the 
world.  Its  body,  its  substance,  is  Saxon,  which  receives  first  the 
Celt,  with  his  bold  imagination  and  self-sacrificing  zeal;  then  the 
Dane,  with  his  tacit  rage  and  adventurous  maritime  spirit;  then 
the  Norman,  with  his  flexible  genius,  his  trickery,  his  subtlety, 
his  drawing-room  polish,  and  his  keen  sense  of  enjoyment.  Herein 
consists  its  true  greatness,  which  comes  of  no  transfusion, —  its 
energetic  sense  of  truth,  its  assertion  of  the  right  of  individual 
liberty,  its  resolute  habit  of  looking  to  the  end,  its  deep  power  of 
love  and  its  grand  power  of  will. 

We  may  therefore  expect  from  this  blending  of  diverse  parts  a 
many-sided  intellectual  progress  and  a  wide  variety  of  individual 
character, —  the  multifariousness  of  Shakespeare,  the  austerity  of 
Milton,  the  materialism  of  Spencer,  the  transcendentalism  of 
Emerson,  the  grace  of  Addison,  the  solidity  of  Johnson,  the 
oddity  of  Swift,  the  sadness  and  madness  of  Byron. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FORMING  OF  TUE  LANGUAGE. 

Words  are  the  sounds  of  the  heart.— C/^i«e«e  Proverb. 
Words  are  the  only  things  that  live  toTe\eT.—IIazlitt. 

Definition. — Speech  is  the  utterance  of  sounds  which  usage 
has  made  the  representatives  of  ideas.  When,  in  any  community, 
the  same  sounds  are  customarily  associated  with  the  same  ideas, 
the  expression  of  these  sounds  by  the  speaker  renders  his  ideas 
intelligible  to  the  hearer. 

Man  possesses  in  the  organs  of  utterance  —  though  he  seldom 
thinks  of  it,  or  forgets  the  blessing  because  it  is  given  —  a  mu- 
sical instrument  which  is  at  once  a  harp,  an  organ,  and  a  flute; 
an  instrument  on  which  Nature  gives  him  the  mastery  of  a  fin- 
ished performer.  JToiQ  its  notes  are  struck,  so  as  to  express  in 
coordination  the  many-colored  world  without  and  the  shadow- 
world  within,  is  the  mystery  of  language.  This,  however,  is  the 
observed  phenomenon:  a  person  having  a  thought,  and  wishing 
to  awaken  a  corresponding  thought  in  the  mind  of  another, 
emits,  at  stated  intervals,  a  portion  of  his  breath,  modified  by 
certain  movements  of  the  vocal  organs;  these  movements  are 
transmitted  to  the  atmosphere,  and  thence  to  the  ear  of  the  lis- 
tener, producing  there  vibrations  identical  with  the  original; 
then,  through  the  agency  of  instinct,  memory,  and  invention,  the 
two  have  the  same  thought.  A  result  reached  without  any  con- 
scious effort,  and  therefore  seemingly  simple  and  commonplace, 
yet  seen,  on  reflection,  to  be  truly  wonderful.  Short  as  is  the 
reach  of  its  pulse,  vanishing  as  are  its  undulations,  by  that  fluid 
air,  articulated  into  living  words,  man  graves  on  the  rock  or  prints 
in  the  book  the  records  of  his  outward  history  and  his  inner  soul, 
in  symbols  more  enduring  than  Babylonian  palace  or  Egyptian 
pyramid. 

Orig^in. — Whether  man  was  the  special  creation  of  God  or 
was  developed  from  inarticulate  creatures,  it  would  seem  evident 

39 


40  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LANGUAGE. 

that  speech,  in  its  mcej)tio7i,  like  the  bark  of  a  dog,  is  a  natural 
product,  and  hence  originates  in  the  instinct  divinely  implanted, 
directly,  or  indirectly,  in  man's  nature  to  communicate  thought.' 
The  Providence  that  provided  soil,  fuel,  minerals,  and  vegetables, 
to  meet  his  physical  needs,  and  religion  to  meet  his  spiritual 
demands,  would,  it  is  reasonable  to  expect,  furnish  at  the  outset 
suitable  means  of  communication. 

We  must  suppose,  however,  that  what  is  known  to  be  true  in 
other  directions  of  his  development  will  be  found  to  be  true  in 
this, —  an  imperfect  beginning  and  a  gradual  ascent.  Clothing 
began  with  leaves  and  bark,  with  skins  of  wild  animals  and  the 
like;  shelter  was  first  a  hole  in  the  ground,  or  the  hollow  of  a 
tree;  tools  were  first  of  bone,  wood,  or  stone:  but  in  time  the 
sheltering  cave  became  a  nest  of  interwoven  branches,  this,  in 
many  ages,  a  log  hut,  and  this,  by  improvement  in  shape,  mate- 
rial, and  size,  after  centuries  of  toil,  a  stately  palace;  in  long 
ages  of  cultivation,  dress-making  and  tool-making  became  arts, 
each  giving  us  forms  of  elegance  and  beauty.  When  first  the 
infant  is  moved  to  express  itself  to  others,  it  does  so  by  motions 
or  natural  cries,  then  by  simple  words  of  one  syllable  —  very  few 
in  number,  for  its  ideas  are  few  —  progressing  slowly  in  its 
powers  of  utterance,  yet  increasing  its  vocabulary  as  intelligence 
expands. 

So,  by  analogy,  was  it  with  man.  His  beginning  was  less  a 
song  or  a  poem  than  a  cry  or  gesture.  His  first  words,  like  those 
of  the  cliild,  wore  probably  monosyllables,  and,  like  those  of  the 
child  or  savage,  referred  mainly  to  his  bodily  wants  and  to  sur- 
rounding objects  which  impressed  him  strongly. 

The  origin  of  speech  —  so  mysterious  is  the  power  —  excited 
stniie  speculation  even  among  the  rude  primeval  races.  The 
Usthonians  tell  that  the  Aged  One,  as  tliey  call  the  Deity,  ])laced 
on  the  fire  a  kettle  of  water,  from  the  hissing  and  l)ubbling  of 
wliich  the  various  nations  h'arned  their  languages;  that  is,  by 
imitating  these  vague  sounds,  they  modulated  them  into  intelligi- 
ble utterances.  The  Australians  explain  the  gift  of  speecli  by 
saying  that  jx'ople  had  eateTi  an  old  woman,  named  Wuriiri,  who 

'  M-iii  i-  nut  !.■--  (li\  inc.  nor  lii-^  spcrch  l''<^  (iod-L'ivcn,  on  tlic  siiijposilion  ttiat  lio  has 
Ix-cti  i\,i|\,(l  from  Idwit  orLMiiisni^;  fur  ^till  ;ni  ailiM|U!itc  Cause  —  a  Snprt'iiic  IntcUi- 
srcni'i — inn»t  li.i\c  iinprfssfd  siicli  attribtiU's  upon  primordial  matter  as  to  make  such 
evolution  i)os<il)Ie. 


ORIGIN   AND   GROWTH.  41 

went  about  at  night  quenching  fires  with  a  damp  stick.  Wururi 
is  supposed  to  mean  the  damp  night-wind,  and  the  languages 
learned  from  devouring  her  are  the  guttural,  or  wind-like,  repro- 
duction of  natural  sounds  made  by  the  material  objects  around 
them.  There  is  the  beautiful  legend  that  Wannemunume,  the 
god  of  song,  descended  into  a  sacred  wood,  and  there  played  and 
sang.  The  birds  learned  the  prelude  of  the  song;  the  listening 
trees,  their  rustle;  the  streams,  their  rij)ple  and  roar;  and  the 
winds,  their  shrill  tones  and  desolate  moans:  but  the  fish  remained 
dumb,  because,  though  they  protruded  their  heads,  as  far  as  the 
eyes,  out  of  the  water,  their  ears  continued  under  water,  and  they 
could  only  imitate  the  motion  of  the  god's  mouth.  Man  alone 
grasped  it  all,  and  so  his  song  pierces  down  into  the  depths  of 
the  heart  and  up  into  the  home  of  the  gods. 

Development. — Two  principles  have  been  especially  active 
in  the  growth  of  speech: 

1.  Onomatopceia,  or  sound-imitation. — Thus  the  cry  of  a  cat 
to  children  of  different  nationalities  is  e-yoio;  the  watch  is  ttck- 
tick.  Thus,  also,  the  interjection  ah  or  ach  gives  the  root  aka 
(Sanskrit),  acam  (Anglo-Saxon),  and  tlience  our  ache'  whence 
also  anxious,  anguish,  and  affony.  The  root  mur  in  murmur, 
implying  the  rush  of  water-drops,  gives  myriad.  The  Australian, 
imitating  the  noise  it  makes,  calls  the  frog  kony-kunr/.  The 
Noith  American  Indian,  repeating  the  hooting  of  the  bird,  calls 
the  owl  kos-kos-koo-oo,  a  verbal  sign  which  immediately  suggests 
to  all  who  have  heard  it,  the  thing  signified.  Several  tribes  on 
the  coast  of  New  Guinea  give  names  to  their  children  in  imitation 
of  the  first  sound  the  child  utters.  Familiar  instances  of  invent- 
ing names  by  imitating  natural  sounds,  are  ^rhi2>poor-^c^U,  pee- 
wee,  hoh-2i:Jiite,  buzz,  whiz,  hiss,  snap,  snarl,  hanf/,  roar.  There 
is  the  story  of  the  P]nglishman  who,  wanting  to  know  the  nature 
of  the  meat  on  iiis  plate  at  a  Chinese  entertaiimient,  turned  to 
the  native  servant  behind  him,  and,  pointing  to  the  dish,  inquired, 
'Quack,  quark.''''  Tli(>  Chinuman  rojilicnl,  '■lioir-von':  Thus  the 
two  were  mutually  intelligible,  tliougli  they  understood  not  a 
word  of  each  other's  language. 

2.  Mttaphor,  or  the  use  of  v:ords  in  iieic  a})plications. — 
When  a  strange  object  is  seen,  men  are  not  satisfied  till  tliev 
have   heard   its  name.      If  it   has  none,  as  would   happen   in   the 


42  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LANGUAGE. 

first  settlement  of  a  country,  they  proceed  to  give  it  one;  and  iu 
doing  so,  the  pi-evailing  tendency,  as  has  been  observed  from  the 
earliest  times,  is  to  use  the  name  of  some  knoioi  object  nearly 
resembling  the  one  to  be  named.  To  combine  and  reapply  old 
names  is  easier  than  to  invent  new  ones;  and,  wherever  this  is 
done,  the  result  is  a  metaplior.  Thus  the  French,  on  the  first 
introduction  of  the  potato,  called  it,  'the  apple  of  the  earth.' 
Captain  Erskine  relates  that  in  the  Fiji  Islands,  man,  dressed  and 
prepared  for  food,  is  known  as  'long  pig';  human  flesh  and  pork 
being  the  two  staple  articles  of  food,  and  the  natural  pig  being 
the  shorter.  The  New  Zealanders  called  their  first  horses  'large 
dogs';  and  the  Highlanders  styled  their  first  donkey  a  'large 
hare.'  The  Kaffirs  called  the  parasol  'a  cloud,'  transferring  to 
the  new  object  a  name  belonging  to  one  which  resembled  it 
somewhat  in  figure  and  effect.  Among  the  Malays,  the  sun  is 
mata-((rl,  literally,  'the  eye  of  day';  the  ankle  is  rnata-kaki, 
'the  eye  of  the  foot';  and  the  key  is  'child  of  the  lock.' 

These  transfers,  it  is  seen,  are  made  between  one  material 
substance  and  another;  but  frequently  they  are  made  between 
matter  and  spirit.  Man's  earliest  words,  like  the  child's,  related, 
not  to  his  soul,  but  to  his  Ijody  and  material  objects.  As  lie 
advanced  to  consider  and  explain  thinking,  feeling,  and  willing, 
his  own  yearnings  and  passions,  he  could  neither  understand 
them  himself  nor  make  them  intelligible  to  others,  except  by 
reference  to  things  which  lie  could  see,  hear,  taste,  smell,  or 
touch, —  that  is,  by  the  use  of  old  terms  in  a  new  sense.  The 
ideal,  the  sjiiritual,  the  mental,  is,  of  itself,  dim,  shadowy,  and 
unseen,  and  is  Incopahle  of  hcinfj  known  at  all  but  by  a  material 
image  that  shall  make  it  in  some  sort  visible,  as  a  diagram  illus- 
trates a  truth  in  geometry.  Thus  our  'soul' — German  ^(file  —  is 
derived  frotn  the  same  root  as  the  word  'sea.'  The  word  'reason' 
is  sn])]iosed  to  be  connected  with  the  Greek  rlao,  '1  flow.' 
'Consider,'  from  the  T.atin  ronaiderare,  means  'to  fix  the  eyes  on 
the  stars';  'deliberate,'  from  dtliherare,  'to  weigh.'  The  Greek 
for  the  soul  of   man  means  'wind,'  and  the  Hebrew  'breath.' 

Sf)ine  of  the  Tneta])hors  in  use  among  .savages  are  higlily 
picturesque.  The  Malavs  signify  afTront  l)y  'charcoal  on  the 
face';  malice  bv  'rust  of  the  heart';  inqiudence  by  'face  of 
board';  sincerity  })y  'white  heart.'     Scarcely  less  ingenious  are 


ORIGIN   AND   GROWTH.  43 

the  metaphors  in  Chinese.  Capricious  is  expressed  by  'three 
mornings,  four  evenings';  cunning  speech  by  'convenient  hind- 
teeth'  persuasive  speech  by  'convenient  front-teeth';  disagree- 
ment by  'you  east,  I  west.' 

Now,  when  the  same  word  is  applied  successively  to  different 
objects,  the  effect  is  similar  to  adding  so  many  new  words  to  the 
language,  making  it  more  copious  and  rich.  Mark  the  various 
ways  in  which  the  shining  of  the  sun  is  here  represented: 

'  And  all  his  splendor  floods  the  towered  walls.' 
^Sow'd  the  earth  with  orient  pearl." 
'With  rosy  fingers  unbarred  the  gates  of  liyfU.'' 
'Each  purple  peak,  each  tliuty  spire. 

Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire.' 
'  A  dazzling  deluge  reigns.' 
'Tlie  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 

Roll'd  o"er  the  glen  their  level  way.' 
'The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  jilutnes  outspread.' 

Thus  language,  in  its  entirety,  is  not  given,  but  grows  with  the 
growth  of  thought  and  experience.  New  ideas  spring  up  which 
require  new  forms  of  expression.  New  inventions  in  art  or  new 
discoveries  in  science  require  new  terms.  When  moral  and 
spiritual  forces  are  especially  active,  the  language  of  a  people  is 
required  to  utter  new  truths,  and  so  is  extended  and  multiplied, 
as  the  channel  of  a  river  is  deepened  and  widened  by  increasing 
the  volume  of  the  waters  which  flow  through  it. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  further,  that  while  an  articulate  word, 
addressed  to  the  ear,  is  the  sign  of  an  idea,  a  written  word,  merely 
exhibiting  the  same  thing  to  the  ei/e,  is  but  the  sign  of  this 
sign  —  an  artificial  dress.  Language,  therefore,  in  its  proper 
nature,  consists  not  of  strokes  made  by  the  pen,  nor  of  marks 
made  in  any  other  way,  but  of  sounds  uttered  by  the  voice  and 
the  organs  of  articuhition,  being  to  man  somewhat  as  neighing  is 
to  a  horse  or  squealing  to  a  pig.  Many  languages  have  existed 
tliat  never  were  written,  and  those  that  in  time  have  come  to  be 
written,  first  existed  in  an  unwritten  state. 

Diversities. — 'I'he  following  is  a  si)ecimen  of  the  English 
tongue,  as  spoken  ami  written  in  London,  in  the  year  1300: 

Ac     heo   and    hi     bcotli       ifulcd       mid  siuinen,  and  so  icli  liabbe  iseid  to  thilke 
lint    .she  thf-ij    hdlli     u,-(-  filUd    inlh      .■<lii^,  1     have     said  that 

li'vedy  uclie  day;  answcictli,  men,  nis  it  nouL,'lit  so? 
lady     each  answer,  is  not 


44  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LANGUAGE. 

Three  hundred  years  later,  our  Shakespeare  wrote: 

'Romans,  Country-mt-n  and  Loners,  lieure  inee  for  my  cause,  and  be  silent,  that  you 
may  heare.  Beleeue  mee  for  mine  Honor,  and  have  respect  to  mine  Honor,  tliat  you  may 
beleeue.  Censure  mee  in  your  Wisedoni,  and  awake  your  Senses,  that  you  may  tlie  better 
Judge.  If  there  be  any  in  tliis  xVssembly,  any  deere  Friend  of  Ccesar's,  to  him  I  say  that 
Brutus'  love  to  Ccesar  was  no  less  than  his.' 

From  these  illustrations,  the  student  will  see,  as  other  exam- 
ples may  have  suggested,  that  our  language  had  not  always  its 
present  form;  and  this  is  only  a  particular  instance  of  the 
changes  that  are  always  going  on,  everywhere.  Thus  the  lan- 
guage of  a  people  in  one  age  may  become  unintelligible  to  their 
descendants  in  another:  or,  if  a  people  have  parted  company, 
one  portion  going  forth  to  new  seats,  while  the  other  remained  in 
the  old;  or,  if  both  liave  travelled  on,  .separating  continually  from 
one  another,  either  section  niay  cease  to  be  understood  by  the 
other,  and  their  once  common  speech,  by  the  gradual' unfolding 
of  differences,  may  be  separated  into  two.  Thus  the  Celts  in 
Britain  were,  in  time,  unable  to  communicate  with  the  Celts  in 
Gaul;  and  the  Britons  in  Wales  could  no  longer  converse  with 
the  Britons  in  Cornwall,  from  whom  they  were  separated  by  the 
intrusion  of  a  hostile  tribe,  like  a  wedge,  between  them.  Thus 
the  Russian,  and  German,  and  Icelandic,  and  Greek,  and  Latin, 
and  Persian,  and  French,  and  English,  were  all  produced  from 
one  language,  spoken  by  the  common  ancestors  of  these  nations, 
when  they  were  living  together  as  an  undivided  family;  and  the 
multitude  of  human  languages  —  certainly  not  fewer  than  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  in  number — s])rang,  if  not  from  one,  from  two 
or  three  original  tongues.     The  causes  of  this  divergence  are: 

1.  iJiffercnce  of  vccxipation. — The  vocabulary  of  a  farmer 
must  differ  from  that  of  a  mariner,  for  his  subjects  of  thought 
are  different.  When  the  Aryans  distributed  themselves  over  the 
poetic  hills  of  Italy  and  Greece,  they  became,  in  the  former,  a 
nation  of  warriors  —  wars  engrossing  tlieir  thoughts  for  seven 
huiidrt'd  y<'ars;  in  the  latter,  a  nation  of  warriors,  statesmen, 
orators,  historians,  jioets,  critics,  jiainters,  sculptors,  architects, 
})liilos()phors;  and  tliis  difference  was  evermore  at  work  to  make 
two  tli(>  lanu'uages  that  once  were  one.  Language,  in  the  former, 
l)ecanie  copious  in  terms  expressive  of  things  poJiticdl;  in  tlie 
latter,  it  became  lotivirsul,  like  the  ideas  for  which  it  stood. 

;i.    ])ijf'i  r<  jii-i  of  j)i'o<jrtsti  in  the  scie/ice-s  (DkI  the  art!<. — New 


DIVERSITIES   OF  SPEECH.  45 

facts  or  new  ideas  require  new  words.  Wherever  any  science  is 
progressive,  there  must  be  a  corresponding'  progress  in  its  forms 
of  expression.  Any  considerable  change  in  society  —  in  its  gov- 
ernment, religion,  or  habits  —  demands  the  invention  of  words 
which  in  a  former  period  were  not  required. 

3.  Difference  of  yeo(jraphical position. — When  a  people  with 
a  common  tongue  is  divided  into  separate  tribes  by  emigration, 
or  by  any  of  the  causes  which  break  up  large  nations  into  smaller 
fragments,  their  speeches  become  distinct,  as  differences  of  char- 
acter are  developed,  or  in  the  degree  in  which  communication 
between  them  is  interrupted.  («.)  One  branch  comes  into  con- 
tact with  new  races  or  objects  which  the  other  does  not  en- 
counter, and  so  upon  the  old  stock  engrafts  numerous  words 
which  the  other  does  not.  (i.)  In  one  brancli  a  word  will  perish, 
or  be  thrust  out  of  general  use,  but  live  on  in  the  other.  For 
example,  the  words  snay,  bluff,  slick,  and  otliers,  would  now  be 
lost  to  the  English  tongue,  were  it  not  for  the  American  branch 
of  the  English-speaking  race,  (c.)  Words  will  gradually  acquire 
a  different  meaning  in  one  branch  from  what  they  have  in  an- 
other. Thus,  in  Northumberland,  they 'shear' their  ic/te«^/  here, 
we  'shear'  our  sheep,  (d.)  The  pronunciation  and  spelling  of 
the  same  word  will,  in  one,  be  different  from  what  it  is  in  the 
other.  Thus  the  Germans  and  the  English,  using  the  very  same 
word,  pronounce  and  spell  it, —  the  former,  'fowl';  the  latter, 
'  vogel.'  (e.)  The  language  of  one  section  may  remain  station- 
ary, because  their  ideas  remain  so;  while  that  of  the  other  is 
kept  in  motion,  because  their  understanding  is  ever  advancing, 
and  their  knowledge  is  ever  increasing. 

4.  Difference  of  cVanate. — Influences  of  climate  and  soil  ac- 
count, in  large  measure,  for  tlie  harsh  and  guttural  sounds  mut- 
tered by  tliose  wlio  live  in  moist  or  cold  mountainous  regions, 
and  the  soft  and  liquid  tones  of  those  who  live  in  fertile  plains 
under  a  more  genial  sky.      Thus  Byron: 

'I  love  tlie  language,  tlmt  soft  bastnrd  Latin, 

Whicli  iiu'lts  like  kisses  from  a  female  moiilli. 

And  sonnds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 
With  syllables  that  breathe  of  the  sweet  Sonth. 

And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 
That  not  a  single  accent  seems  iincoiitli, 

Like  our  harsh,  northern,  uhistling,  grn/ithiij,  fjitlliiral. 

Which  we're  obliged  to  hins,  and  spit  and  sjxilter  all." 


46  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LANGUAGE. 

Physical  circumstances  reach  far  in  their  effects,  not  alone  upon 
the  organs  of  speech,  but  upon  the  character  as  well.  It  is  not 
too  much  to  assert  that  the  profound  differences  which  are  mani- 
fest between  the  German  races  on  the  one  side,  heavy,  bent  on 
fight incr,  prone  to  drunkenness  and  gluttony,  and  the  Greek  and 
Latin  races  on  the  other,  ready,  flexible,  inquisitive,  artistic, 
loving  conversations  and  tales  of  adventure, —  arise  chieily  from 
the  difference  between  the  countries  in  which  they  are  settled. 
Religion,  to  the  Greek,  is  an  epic;  to  the  Teuton,  a  tragedy. 

Dialects. — Whenever  a  homogeneous  people  is  divided  into 
separate  and  unconnected  tribes  by  emigration  or  local  causes, 
the  speeches  of  the  different  members  of  the  race  become,  there- 
fore, more  or  less  distinct;  and  each,  in  this  changed  condition, 
is  called  a  dialect:  in  other  words,  a  dialect  is  a  branch  of  a 
parent  language,  with  such  alterations  as  time  or  revolution 
may  have  introduced  among  descendants  of  the  same  people, 
living  in  separate  or  remote  situations.  Dialects,  then,  are  those 
forms  of  speech  which  have  a  certain  character  of  their  own  by 
which  they  are  distinguished  from  one  another,  yet  a  conmion 
character  l)y  which  they  are  allied  to  one  anotiier  and  hence  to 
some  mother  tongue,  just  as  indigo  and  sky-blue  are  different 
shades  of  the  same  color.  Their  common  character  will  be 
shown  :  first,  by  their  similar  grammatical  forms,  such  as  the 
endings  of  nouns,  verbs,  and  the  like;  second,  by  their  having 
many  of  the  most  common  and  most  necessary  words  essentially 
the  same.  Thus,  when  the  Teutons  settled  in  the  western  prov- 
inces of  tlu;  Ivoman  Empire,  there  arose;  a  new  state  of  things, 
wiiicli  was  neither  liomaii  nor  Teutonic,  but  a  combination  of 
both.  Being  much  fewer  in  iuinil)er,  the  conquerors  adopted 
the  religion,  and  a  great  deal  of  th(»  laws  and  maimers,  and  esi)e- 
ciallv  tlie  language  of  the  conquered.  At  this  time,  tlie  coin- 
inon  language'  of  S])ain,  Italy,  and  Gaul,  was  iMtin  —  not  quite 
the  same  as  tin-  earlier  Latin  of  Cicero,  and,  no  doubt,  more 
or  It'ss  (lifTeri'Mt  in  different  localities.  As  the  Germans  had 
to  learn  this  Latin  in  order  to  get  on  with  the  ])eop]e,  many 
(Tennaii  wonls  (■nq)t  into  it,  and  it  naturally  became  still  more 
unlike  what  it  had  l)een.  At  last,  men  Ix'gan  to  understand 
that  (juite  new  languag(\s  had  reallv  grown  up.  Thus,  from 
tlie    mixture   of    the    Teutonic    settltM's    with    the    Koman    inhab- 


DIALECTS.  47 

itants,  there  slowly  arose  the  modern  nations  of  Spain,  Italy, 
and  France,  and  from  the  mixture  of  their  languages,  there 
gradually  sprung  the  modern  Spa)iish,  Italian,  and  French, — 
each,  when  considered  with  reference  to  the  Latin,  called  a  dia- 
lect;  but  viewed  by  itself,  as  distinct  from  either  of  the  others, 
a  kmgnafje.  These  newly  formed  languages,  derived  by  more 
or  less  direct  processes  from  one  and  the  same  ancient  tongue  — 
the  Roman  Latin  —  are  known  as  the  lioniance  tongues.  Their 
homogeneity  is  clearly  traceable  in  the  following  versions  of  the 
first  verse,  first  chapter,  of  St.  Jolui : 

Latin.— In  principio  (beginning)  erat  (was)  Verbiim  (Word),  ct  (and)  Verbum  erat 
apud  (with)  Deum  (God),  ct  Dons  erat  Vorbuui. 

Italian. —  Xel  principio  la  Parola  era,  e  la  Paroia  era  appo  Iddio,  e  la  Parola  era  Dio. 

French.—  \\i  commencement  utait  la  Parole,  et  la  Parole  etait  avee  Dieu,  et  cette  Parole 
otait  Dieu. 

Spanish.—  En  el  principio  era  el  Vcrbo,  y  el  Verbo  cstaba  con  Dios,  y  el  Verbo  era  Dios. 

Again,  any  of  these,  as  split  up  into  different  local  forms  or 
provincial  idioms,  may  be  regarded  as  composed  of  an  aggregate 
of  dialects  proper;  for  every  language  is  marked  by  certain  pecu- 
liarities in  different  quarters  of  the  same  country.  Thus  two 
hundred  years  ago,  a  man  in  London  would  say,  '  I  would  eat 
more  cheese,  if  I  had  it.'  One  in  the  Northern  counties  would 
have  said,  '  Ay  sud  eat  mare  cheese,  gin  ay  had  it.'  The  West- 
ern man  said,  'Chud  eat  more  cheese,  and  chad  it.'  The  rustic 
"NVestniorelander,  to  the  question,  'How  far  is  it?'  replies,  'Why, 
like  it  garly  nigh  like  to  four  miles  like.'  The  conjugation  of  the 
Southern  slave  is,  'I  was  done  gone,  you  was  done  gone,  he  was 
done  gone.' 

We  are  not,  however,  to  think  of  a  dialect  as  a  vulgar  form  of 
the  classical  or  literary  speech,  and  its  modes  of  expression  as 
violations  of  grammar,  but  rather  as  one  of  the  forms  in  which 
language,  passing  through  its  successive  phases,  once  existed. 
Hero  and  tliere  its  departures  from  what  we  have  l)een  used  to, 
may  be  set  down  to  the  ignorance  or  stupidity  of  the  speaker. 
But  much  oftener  its  words,  its  singular  combinations,  whicli 
aj)pear  to  us  as  barbarisms,  were  once  reputable,  employed  l)y  all, 
and  happen  to  have  found  an  abiding  place  in  certain  districts 
which  have  not  kept  al)reast  with  the  advances  which  the  lan- 
guage has  made.  Thus,  in  parts  of  England,  for  'we  sing,'  ' y(> 
sing,'   'they   sing,'   they    yet    use    the    plurals   'we    singen,'    'ye 


48  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LANGUAGE. 

singen,'  'they  singen,' — a  mode  of  declension  which  arose  in  the 
time  of  Chaucer,  and  was  constantly  employed  by  Spenser.  We 
are  told,  indeed,  that  this  form  of  the  plural  is  still  retained  in 
parts  of  Maryland.  It  is  not  very  uncommon,  in  the  country,  to 
hear  one  say,  'I'm  afeard^  or  'I'll  ax  him,'  or  'the  price  riz  yes- 
terday,' or  'I'll  tell  ye'' ;  and  we  are  apt  to  esteem  such  phrases 
violations  of  the  primary  rules  of  grammar,  but  they  are  the  forms 
which  the  words  once  regularly  and  grammatically  assumed.  An 
old  Dative,  tham,  from  tha,  is  still  in  use  among  our  lower  orders; 
as,  'Look  at  them  boys.'  Ourn  for  ours,  and  hern  for  hers, 
which  are  not  infrequent  among  us,  were  freely  employed  by 
Wycliffe,  who  wrote  standard  English.  We  are  not  therefore  to 
conclude  that  these  forms  are  good  English  now:  for  in  writing 
or  speaking  we  are  bound  to  conform  to  present  use  and  custom, 
just  as  in  buying  or  selling  we  are  to  use  the  form  of  money  that 
is  circulating,  not  that  which  was  current  in  the  Revolution,  or 
which  has  long  been  withdrawn  from  circulation. 

Idioms. — Nations,  like  individuals,  have  their  ^x'C?///rt7'  ideas; 
and,  since  the  sign  must  correspond  to  the  thing  signified,  these 
peculiar  ideas  become  the  genius  of  their  language.  The  idioms^ 
of  a  given  tongue  are  the  modes  of  expression  in  harmony  with 
its  genius.     For  example: 

Arnia  virumquc      cano,        Trojae        qui  primu?     al)         oris        Italiam,         fato 

Amu  man-and,    (l)-sing    (of)-Troy    niio   flrM   from    coasts    {toyltaly   (by)-fate 

profiitjns,       Laviniaque       venit    litora. —  Virgil. 

(iin)-exHe  Lavinian-and    came    shores. 

Such  an  arrangement,  though  natural  to  Latin,  is  quite  foreign  to 
English: 

I  sinq  of  arms,  and  the  Jium  who , first  from  the  coa-fts  of  Troy,  by  fate  an  exile,  came  to 
Italy  and  the  Lavinian  shores. 

That  order  and  diction  are  idiomatic  which  are  used  habifi(a/li/, — 
in  conversation  or  familiar  letters.  Thus,  when  Dr.  Johnson  said 
of  the  Rehearsal,  '  It  has  not  wit  enough  to  keep  it  sweet,'  he  was 
idiomatic;  but  when,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  exjiressed  it, 
'It  has  not  sufficient  virtue  to  preserve  it  from  putrefaction,'  he 
was  ///Mdiomatic.  When  he  wrote,  'I  bore  the  diminution  of  my 
riches  without  any  outrages  of  sorrow  or  pusillanimity  of  dejec- 
tion,' he  used  a  style  in   which   no  one   (|uarrels,  makes  love,  or 

•  F'roin  the  Onik,  iiicaiiini.'  proper  or  peculiar. 


IDIOMS.      ARYAN    MOTHER-TONGUE.  49 

thinks.     The  native  idiom  is  forcibly  distinguished  from  the  for- 
eign in  the  following: 

Idiomatic— Then  Apollyon  straddled  quite  over  the  whole  breadth  of  the  way,  and  said, 
I  am  void  of  fear  in  this  matter :  prepare  thyself  to  die ;  for  I  swear  by  my  infernal  Den  that 
thou  Shalt  go  no  further:  here  will  I  spill  thy  soul.— Pilgrim's  Progress. 

Unidiomatic.  —  Unquestionably,  benignity  and  commiseration  shall  continge  all  the 
diuternity  of  my  vitality,  and  I  will  eternalize  my  habitude  in  the  metropolis  of  nature. — 
Psalm  xxiii,  6  (a  modern  version). 

It  is  remarked  by  De  Quincey,  that  'the  pure  idiom  of  our 
mother-tongue  survives  only  amongst  our  women  and  children; 
not,  heaven  knows,  amongst  our  women  who  write  books.' 
'Would  you  desire  at  this  day,'  he  continues,  'to  read  our  noble 
language  in  its  native  beauty,  picturesque'  form,  idiomatic  pro- 
priety, racy  in  its  phraseology,  delicate  yet  sinewy  in  its  compo- 
sition,—  steal  the  mail-bags,  and  break  open  all  the  letters  in 
female  handwriting,' 

It  need  not  be  a  matter  of  surprise,  therefore,  that  those  writers 
who  are  most  idiomatic  —  as  Bunyan,  Shakespeare,  Longfellow  — 
are  the  most  popular.     They  are  understood  with  least  effort. 

Indo-European. —  On  noticing  how  closely  our  word /<o^/se 
resembles  the  German  haus,  or  the  English  thou  hast  the  German 
du  hast,  the  reader  might  suspect,  without  other  evidence  than 
this  likeness  in  words  and  in  grammar,  that  the  two  languages 
are  brothers  and  sisters.  By  extending  this  comparison  to  a 
larffe  number  of  laneruasfes,  scholars  have  shown  that  nearly  all 
the  languages  in  Europe,  with  a  part  of  those  in  Asia,  are  related 
by  having  descended  from  a  common  parent,  namely  a  language 
spoken  somewhere  between  the  Indus  and  the  Euphrates.  These 
kindred  tongues  are  therefore  called  the  Indo-European,^  or  the 
Aryan^  family.  This  family  is  subdivided  into  several  groups, 
each  group  consisting  of  those  languages  which  most  resemble 
one  another: 

1.  Celtic,  preserved  to  us  chiefly  in  two  dialects, —  the  ^Welsh, 
whose  oldest  literature  extends  back  to  the  sixth  century;  and 
the  Irish,  with  a  literature  dating  from  the  fifth. 

2.  Latin,  containing  the  dialects  sprung  from  it,  or  the  Ro- 
niance  (modified  Roman)  languages, — Italian,  French,  Spanish, 
and  Portuguese.      Its  oldest  literary  records  date  from  300  \\.<\ 

'  Refcrrinsr  to  the  territorial  position  and  the  geographical  connection  of  the  races 
which  speak  tlic  laiiiTuai^cs  it  reprcsc'iits. 

2  Tlie  historic  name  applied  to  tlie  people  originally  speaking  this  mother-tongue. 

4 


50  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LANGUAGE. 

3.  Greek,  represented  by  the  modern  Greek,  or  Romaic,  which 
is  descended  from  it.  Its  earliest  records  are  the  poems  of  Homer, 
1000  B.C. 

4.  Persian,  containing  Ancient  and  Modern  Persia7i.  Its 
earliest  extant  writing  is  the  Avesta,  or  the  Bible  of  Zoroaster, 
claiming  an  antiquity  of  seven  thousand  years. 

5.  Indian,  containing  the  Sanskrit,^  which  is  the  oldest  of  all 
the  Indo-European  languages,  and  the  modern  dialect  of  India. 
Among  the  earliest  extant  works  in  this  language  are  the  Vedati, 
or  the  Bible  of  the  Hindoos,  written  in  Sanskrit,  probably  five 
thousand  years  ago. 

6.  Slavoitic,^  containing  the  liussiati  (its  most  important  rep- 
resentative), Polish,  and  Pohemian. 

7.  Teutonic,  or  Germanic,  containing: 

(1.)  The  Moeso  -  Gothic,  the  language  of  the  Goths  (a  nation 
of  Teutons),  in  Moesia.  The  oldest  German  dialect  in  existence. 
Extinct  as  a  spoken  language,  but  preserved  to  us  by  one  Ulfilas, 
a  bishop  of  the  Goths,  who  translated  the  Scriptures  into  Gothic 
for  the  benefit  of  his  countrymen,  about  the  close  of  the  fourth 
century.  Only  parts  of  this  translation  remain,  of  which  the  most 
famous  is  the  Silver  Book,  so  called  from  its  being  transmitted  to 
us  in  letters  of  silver  and  gold. 

(2.)  The  High  German,  at  first  only  spoken  in  the  highlands 
of  Central  and  Southern  Germany.  It  may  be  represented  by  the 
modern  literary  German,  the  language  into  which  Luther  trans- 
lated the  Bible. 

(3.)  The  Low  German,  spoken  originally  along  the  low-lying 
shores  of  the  German  Ocean  and  the  Baltic  Sea.  From  this 
region  our  Saxon  fathers  came,  and  hence  tlie  Low  German  in- 
cludes our  present  Englisli.  It  may  now  bo  represented  by  the 
language  of  Holland,  or  Low  I)}(tch,  to  wliicli  English  bears  the 
strongest  likeness,  as  a)i})oars  in  the  following: 

In  (Icii  l)p;jiiiiu>  was  lict  woord,  en  liet  woortl  was  bij  (iod,  on  liet  woord  was  God.— St. 
John  U  1. 

(4.)  The  Scandinavian,  represented  by  the  Danish,  Swedish, 
and  Norwegian;  but  best  bv  the  Icelandic,  from  which  coirie  its 
earliest  litcrarv  niemorials. 

'  MeaninK  cloxsiral  or  literary,  in  distinction  from  the  lanciiasii'  used  by  the  common 
pt'OjiIc. 

^  The  .Slar.i  were  llu'  tliird  stream  of  Aryan  emigrants  into  Europe. 


ELEMENTS   OF    ENGLISH. 


51 


The  accompanying  Linguistic  Tree  may  be  assumed  to  repre- 
sent the  Aryan  mother-tongue  in  process  of  ramification,  while  it 
may  furnish  a  general  conception  of  the  Aryan  migrations.  One 
main  fact  will  be  apparent — 'Westward  the  course  of  empire 
takes  its  way.' 


Ijng^lisll, — This  is  the  language  used  by  the  people  of  Eng- 
land, and  by  all  who  speak  like  them  elsewhere;  for  example,  in 
the  United  States. 

Historical  Elements. —  Its  ingredients  are  derived  from 
sources  as  varied  as  the  English  blood.  Of  these,  as  the  reader 
will  understand  from  the  historical  sketch,  the  most  important 
are: 

1.  Celtic,  the  oldest  of  our  philological  benefactors. — It  does 
not  appear,  however,  to  have  at  all  modified  the  syntax  or  affected 
the  articulation  of  the  language,  but  to  have  remained  a  foreign 
unassimilated  accretion.  It  contributes  to  the  vocabulary  a  large 
number  of  geograj)hical  names,  as  Thunies,  Jvtiit ;  and  some  mis- 
cellaneous words,  as  basket,  hiitto)i,  mop,  }X(il,  rail,  bard,  etc. 
Between   the   Anglo-Saxons  and  the  Celts,   and   hence   between 


52  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   LANGUAGE. 

their  respective  tongues,  there  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  reciprocal 
repulsion. 

2.  Latin. — From  this  we  have  borrowed  more  or  less  freely  for 
many  centuries.  To.  the  Roman  conquest  we  are  indebted  com- 
paratively little.  A  few  civil  and  military  terms  were  adopted 
by  the  Saxon  invaders.  Of  these,  some  are  lost,  and  others  are 
changed.  Thus,  strata,  denoting  a  paved  road,  is  changed  to 
street,'  vallum,  a  rampart,  is  retained  in  wall,'  castra,  a  fortified 
camp,  reappears  in  Gloucester,  once  written  Glevfe  castra;  colo- 
iiia,  a  colony,  is  changed  to  coin,  as  in  Lincoln  {Lindi  colonid). 

The  Christian  missionaries  of  the  sixth  century  made  Latin  the 
official  language  of  the  Church,  and,  to  some  extent,  the  medium 
of  religious,  moral  and  intellectual  instruction;  and  thus  intro- 
duced a  considerable  number  of  Latin  words,  chiefly  ecclesiastical. 
Examples  are,  episcopxis,  bishop;  monachus,  monk;  epistoUiy 
epistle;  which  were  written,  bisceop,  munuc,  pistel. 

But  the  great  majority  of  Latinisms  have  arisen  in  three 
epochs, —  the  thirteenth  century,  which  followed  an  age  devoted 
to  classical  studies;  the  sixteenth,  which  witnessed  a  new  revival 
of  admiration  for  antiquity;  and  the  eighteenth,  when  .Johnson, 
who  loved  to  coin  in  the  Roman  mint,  was  the  dictator  of  prose 
style. 

3.  Danisli.  — The  Danes  have  bequeathed  us  few  words  and 
relatively  unimportant;  such  &?>  felloic,  fro,  (fait,  ill,  etc.,  includ- 
ing some  local  names  extending  over  the  grounds  of  their  settle- 
ments. 

4.  yorman-F'rench. — This  was  spoken  in  Northern  France  — 
Normandy;  and,  as  the  student  should  now  be  aware,  was  com- 
posed of  three  elements, —  the  Celtic,'  the  Latin,  the  Teutonic.'' 
It  was  the  dominant  speech  in  England  between  two  and  three 
hundred  years,  the  vernacular  finding  its  refuge  in  the  cottages  of 
the  rustic  and  illiterate.  By  the  gradual  coalescence  of  the  two 
races,  its  influence  was  very  great,  both  by  introducing  many  new 
words  and  by  changing  the  spelling  and  sound  of  old  ones. 

").  Greek. — To  this  source  we  are  indebted  for  scientific  terms, 
slightly  for  terms  in  common  use;  as,  botany,  phj/sics,  ethicSy 
music,  didactic,  mehtnchoh/  (literally,  hlack-hile). 

'  The  Celts  settled  in  tliis  region  were  known,  it  will  be  remembered,  as  Gauls. 
»  The  Franks  and  Danes. 


EAELY    ENGLISH.  53 

6.  Anglo-Saxon. — This  is  not  so  much  an  element,  evidently, 
as  it  is  the  mother  tongue,  or  the  stock, —  the  stream  to  which  the 
rest  have  been  tributary.  It  is  estimated  that  the  percentage 
of  Anglo-Saxon  in  modern  English,  exclusive  of  scientific  and 
provincial  terms,  is  about  five-eighths;  in  the  vocabulary  of  con- 
versation, four-fifths.  The  following  table  may  be  of  interest,  as 
showing  approximately,  the  relative  proportion  of  Anglo-Saxon 
in  the  departments  of  general  literature: 

Bible, 93         Prayer-Book,      -     -     -     -     87 

Poetry, 88         Fiction, 87 

Essay, T8         Oratory, 76 

History,        73         Newspaper,      -     -     -     -        72 

Rhetoric, G9 

Original    English    (449  — 1066).  — This,    as  we    have 

learned,  was  Aitfjlo-ISaxon.  From  what  has  been  said,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  this  form  of  English,  or  Old  English,  as  it  is  sometimes 
called,  resulted  from  the  blending  together  of  the  several  kindred 
dialects  spoken  by  the  Germanic  tribes  who  invaded  Britain  be- 
tween the  middle  of  the  fifth  and  the  middle  of  the  sixth  centuries. 
We  have  used  the  word  'kindred'  to  indicate  that  while  there 
was  a  difference  of  dialect  among  the  invaders,  they  all  used  sub- 
stantially the  same  language. 

From  the  specimens  already  given,  the  reader  need  not  be  told 
that  the  language  first  brought  from  Northern  Germany  to  Eng- 
land was  so  different  from  ours  that  we  should  not  understand  it 
if  we  heard  it  spoken;  nor  can  we  learn  to  read  it  without  very 
nearly  as  much  study  as  is  required  to  learn  French  or  German. 
Its  alphabet  consisted  of  twenty-four  characters,  only  two  of 
which,  as  Anglo-Saxon  books  are  now  printed,  are  familiar  to  the 
eye.  These  represent  the  two  sounds  of  th  as  heard  in  thine  and 
tJiin.  As  compared  with  our  present  English,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
is  called  an  infect ional  tongue;  that  is,  it  indicated  the  relations 
of  words  by  a  correspondence  of  forms,  the  form  being  varied 
according  to  the  number,  person,  case,  mood,  tense,  gender, 
degree  of  comparison,  and  other  conditions;  whereas,  such  rela- 
tions are  now  indicated  by  ])o.sition,  auxiliaries  and  particles,  the 
words  themselves  remaining  for  the  most  part  unvaried. 

Thus  the  Latin  '■hih-ere''  was  translated  by  'drinc-^/y^,'  but  now 
by  to  drink.     We  now  say  'I  love'  and  'We  love,'  witliout  any 


54  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LANGUAGE. 

change  in  the  form  of  the  word  love;  but  the  Anglo-Saxons  used, 
for  the  first,  lt(Ji(/e,  and  for  the  second  lu/iaih.  To  say  '  I  shall 
help,'  and  '  We  shall  help,'  the  same  form  of  the  verb  serves  us 
equally  well;  but  they  thought  different  forms  were  necessary, — 
sceal  hclpan,  and  sculon  helpan:  whence  we  see  that  our  pres- 
ent auxiliary  verbs,  used  as  mere  indications  of  time,  were  once 
inflected  and  used  as  principal  verbs, —  for  example,  I  shall  to 
help  and  we  shall  to  help.  In  the  sentences,  ^They  tcere  gOOd 
hunters,'  and  '■Tliey  had  the  appecirance  of  good  hunters,' 
the  one  form  'good  hunters'  expresses  equally  well  both  relations; 
but  the  Anglo-Saxons  would  have  expressed  it,  '  hunt-an  g6d-e,' 
and  '  hunt-ena  god-ra,'  varying  the  form  both  of  the  adjective  and 
the  noun.  This  variation  of  form,  therefore,  to  suit  the  offices 
which  a  word  may  have  to  perform  in  the  sentence,  is  what  we 
are  to  uiaderstand  by  inflection.  The  accidence  and  arrangement 
of  English  then,  as  distinguished  from  i.ts  analytic  character  now, 
are  well  illustrated  in  the  following  passage  from  King  Alfred,  in 
whose  time  the  language,  as  a  synthetic  tongue,  reached  its  best 
estate: 

'Fela  spella  him  sirdon  tha  Many  tidings  (to)  him  t^aid  the 

Beormas  iciithcr  ge  of  liym  Beormas  cither  {i.e.  both)  of  their 

ageniim  Lmdc,  ge  of  thioni  lande  the  own  lande,  and  of  them  lands  that 

ymb  hy  utan  woeron;   ac  lie  around  them  about  were:   but  he 

nyste  hwiPt  th:es  sothes  wa?r,  wist-not  what  (of)  the  sooth  (truth)  was, 

for  thiem  he  hit  sylf  ne  ge  scab.'  for  that  he  itself  not  "y-saw. 

Transition  English. — After  a  while  men  began  to  think 
that  so  many  terminations  were  useless,  that  they  were  too  cum- 
bersome, involving  a  waste  of  time  and  energy  In  writing  and 
speaking;  for  man  is  either  a  very  lazy  or  a  very  practical  animal, 
and  dislikes  to  say  do  not,  can  not,  and  sJiall  not,  when  he  can 
more  easily  and  quickly  say  don''t,  can''t,  and  s/ian^t.  I  have 
been  loved  is  not  quite  so  laborious  as  '  Ic  wa's  fulfremedlice 
gelufod.'  So,  as  a  matter  of  economy,  to  save  breath  and  secure 
a  freer  utterance,  sent(>iitial  structure  became  less  periodic,  most 
of  the  inflections  were  dropped;  while  short  auxiliaries,  or  help- 
words,  were  used  instead.  This  result,  though  natural,  was  very 
much  accelerated  by  the  Norman  Conquest;  for  by  that  event 
the  language  was  driven  from  literature  and  polite  society,  being 
there  displaced  by  P^'rench  and  Latin.  No  longer  fixed  in  books, 
and  living  only  on  the  lij)s  of  the  ignorant,  it  was  broken  up  into 


TRANSITION   ENGLISH.  55 

numerous  diverging^  dialects,  of  which  the  chief  were  the  North- 
ern, Midland,  and  Southern;  nor  did  it  again  receive  literary  cul- 
ture till  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century,  from  which 
date  it  steadily  advanced,  till,  in  the  form  of  the  East  Midland 
dialect,  it  acquired  complete  and  final  ascendency  in  the  hands  of 
Chaucer  and  Wycliffe  —  the  first  the  forerunner  of  English  Litera- 
ture, the  second,  of  the  Reformation. 

This,  then,  was  a  period  of  confusion,  alike  perplexing  to 
those  who  used  the  language  and  to  those  who  wish  to  trace  its 
vicissitudes, —  a  period  in  which  the  old  was  passing,  through  a 
state  of  ruin,  into  the  new.  The  two  languages,  native  and 
stranger,  hitherto  repellent,  began  slowly  to  melt  into  a  har- 
monious whole;  and  the  former,  with  a  distinct  and  recognizable 
existence,  though  gorged  with  unorganized  material,  was  fitting 
for  a  vigorous  and  prolific  growth. 

The  process  of  disorganization  and  decay  may  be  exhibited  to 

the  eye  by  the  following  extract  from  the  Saxon  Chronicle,  the 

second  column  sliowing  what   the   text  would   be   if   written  in 

purer  Saxon: 

'Hi  swenct««  th«  wrecce  men  of  Hi  swencon  tha  wreccan  menu  of 

th«  lan'i  mid  castel  weorces.  tliam  lande  mid  castel-weorcum. 

Tha  the  castles  waren  uvdkecl  Tha  tha  castcl  wreron  gemacod 

tha  fyldcn  hi  mid  yvele  men.    Tha  tha  fyldon  hi  mid  yfelon  maniim.    Tha 

namen  hi  tha  men  the  hi  wenden.  namou  lii  tha  menn  tha  hi  wendon 

thiet  am  God  hefclen  bathe  be  thset  lenig  God  lisfdon  batwa  be 

nightes  and  be  dosies.'  nihte  &  be  dage. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  watch,  in  early  versions  of  the  LonVs 
Prayer,  that  series  of  mutations  by  which  Anglo-Saxon  was 
passing  gradually  into  modern  English: 

A.D.  TOO.  Thu  lire  Fader,  the  eart  on  hcofenum. 

Si  thin  noman  gehalgod, 
Cuine  thin  rike, 

Si  thin  Willa  on  eorthan  twa  on  hcofenum; 
Syle  us  todag  orne  dsegwanliean  hlaf, 
And  forgif  us  ure  gylter, 
Swa  we  fogifath  tham  the  with  us  agylthat; 
And  ne  laed  thu  na  us  on  kostnunge ; 
Ac  alys  us  fronn  yfele. 
Si  bit  swa. 

A.D.  890.  Fnedor  ure  thu  the  eart  on  hoefenum, 

Si  thin  nama  gehalgod ; 
To  bccume  thin  rice. 

(iewurthc  thin  willa  on  eorthan  swa  swa  on  hcofenum, 
I'rnc  da'ghwamlican  hlaf  syle  us  to  dipg; 
And  forgyf  us  ure  gyltas,  swa  swa  we  forgifoth  urum  irylteiidum ; 


56  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   LANGUAGE. 

And  ne  gelaedde  thu  us  on  costnunge, 
Ac  alys  us  of  yfele.    Sothlice. 

A.D.  1130.  Ure  Fader  in  Heven  rich, 

Thj"  name  be  halyed  ever  lich. 
Thou  bring  us  thy  michel  bllese, 
AIs  bit  in  heven  y  doe; 
Evcar  in  yearth  been  it  alf^oe. 
That  holy  brede  that  his-teth  ay, 
Thou  send  us  this  ilkc  day. 
Forgive  us  all  that  we  have  done 
As  we  forgive  ech  other  one. 
Nc  let  us  fall  into  no  founding, 
Ne  sheld  us  frym  the  foule  thing. 

A.D.  1230.  Fadir  ur  that  es  In  hevenc, 

Ilalud  be  Ihy  nam  to  nevenc; 
Thou  do  us  thy  rich  rike: 
Tlii  will  on  erd  be  wrought  elk, 
AIs  it  es  wrought  in  heven  ay: 
Ur  ilk  day  brede  give  us  to  day: 
Forgive  thou  all  us  dettes  urs 
AIs  we  forgive  all  ur  detturs: 
And  ledde  us  na  in  na  fanding, 
But  sculd  us  fra  ivel  thing. 

A.D.  1330.  Ure  fadir  that  hart  in  hevene, 

(East  Midland.)       Halged  be  thi  name  with  giftis  sevcnc; 

Samin  cume  thi  kingdom, 

Thi  wille  in  hcrthc  als  in  hevene  be  dou; 

Ure  bred  that  lastes  ai 

Gyve  it  bus  this  hilke  dai, 

And  nre  misdedi,-*  thu  forgyvc  hus, 

Als  we  forgyve  tham  that  misdon  bus, 

And  lood  us  intol  na  fandingc, 

IJot  frels  us  fra  alle  ivele  tliinge.    Amen. 

Native  Features  of  English. — 1.   Its  grammar  is  almost 

exclusively  Anglo-Saxon.  2.  Anglo-Saxon  is  eminently  the  or- 
gan of  ]iractical  action  —  the  language  of  business,  of  the  street, 
market,  and  farm.  3.  Tlie  specific  terms  of  the  English  tongue 
are  Anglo-Saxon,  while  the  generic  terms  are  foreign  —  Latin, 
Greek,  or  French.  Thus,  we  are  Romans  when  we  speak,  in  a 
general  way,  of  rnovin;/ ;  hut  Teutons  when  Ave  run,  ^calk,  Icaj), 
sta(/f/er,  f>li]>i  t'kIp^  !<Jiih',  (/lifhi.  4.  The  Saxon  gives  us  names 
for  the  greater  part  of  natural  objects;  as,  Him,  rnoo)i,  stars, 
ruin,  snow,  hill,  <hih.  5.  Those  words  exi)n^ssive  of  strongest 
feelings  are  Saxon;  wa,  lionu.  In artli,  fri sUh\  I'fc,  death,  tnan 
and  fife,  fdtln  r  and  niothrr,  hrothir  and  sister,  lore  and  hat'', 
Jiejpe  and  fear,  ^/ladnt ss  and  sorrenr,  0.  A  large  proportion  of 
the  langviage  of  invect irr,  humor,  satire^  and  coUoquial  pleas- 
ant nj,  is  Saxon.      T.    In  sliort,  to  the  Saxon  belongs  the  vocabu- 


THE    HISTORY    IN    WORDS.  57 

lary  of  common  life,  including  our  colloquialisms,  idiomatic 
phrases,  and  the  language  of  conversation.  Thus  we  see  that 
the  essential  element  in  English  is  native.  Between  its  past  and 
present  there  is  only  the  difference  that  exists  between  the  sap- 
ling and  the  tree,  or  between  the  boy  and  the  man. 

Anglo-Norman   History  in  English. — Supposing  all 

other  records  to  have  perished,  we  could  still  trace  the  reciprocal 
relations  of  the  Saxon  and  Norman  occupants  of  England  in  their 
contributions  to  the  language  which  they  have  jointly  bequeathed 
us.  Thus  we  should  conclude  that  the  Norman  was  the  ruling 
race  from  the  noticeable  fact  that  nearly'  all  the  words  of  state 
descend  to  us  from  them, —  sovereign,  throne,  croicn,  sceptre, 
realm,  royalty,  j)Tince,  chancellor,  treasurer.  Norman  aristocracy 
transmits  us  duke,  haron,  peer,  esquire,  count,  j)alace,  castle,  hall, 
mansion.  Common  articles  of  dress  are  Saxon, —  shirt,  shoes, 
hat,  breecJies,  cloak  •  but  other  articles,  subject  to  clianges  of 
fashion,  are  of  Norman  origin, — goicn,  coat,  hoots,  mantle,  cap, 
honnet,  etc.  Hooni  and  kitchen  are  Saxon;  chambers,  parlors, 
galleries,  ^:)a>??ri>5,  and  laundries  are  Norman.  The  Saxon's 
stool,  bench,  bed,  and  board — often  probably  it  was  no  more  — 
are  less  luxurious  than  the  table,  chair,  and  couch  of  his  Norman 
lord.  The  boor  wliose  sturdy  arms  turned  the  soil,  opened  wide 
his  eyes  at  the  Norman  carpet  and  curtain.  While  luxury, 
chivalry,  adornment,  are  Norman,  the  instruments  used  in  cul- 
tivating the  earth,  as  well  as  its  main  products,  are  Saxon, — 
plough,  share,  rake,  scythe,  harrou:,  sickle,  sp)adt,  wheat,  rye, 
oats,  grass,  hay,  Jla.r. 

Thus  are  words,  when  we  remove  the  veil  which  custom  and 
familiarity  have  thrown  over  them,  seen  to  be  illustrative  of 
national  life.  As  the  earth  has  its  strata  and  deposits  from  which 
the  geologist  is  able  to  arrive  at  a  knowledge  of  the  successive 
physical  changes  through  whicli  a  region  has  passed,  so  language 
has  its  alluvium  and  drift  from  which  the  linguist  may  disinter, 
in  f(«sil  form,  the  social  condition,  tlie  imaginations  and  feel- 
ings, of  a  jieriod  —  a  period  far  inoiv  remote  than  any  iiere 
suggested. 

Superiority   of   Saxon  English. — Tlie  special   reasons 

assignable  for  this  are: 


58  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LANGUAGE. 

1.  Early  association. — A  child's  vocabulary  is  almost  wholly- 
Saxon.  He  calls  a  thing  nice  or  nasty,  not  pleasant  or  disagree- 
able. Words  acquired  later  in  life  are  less  familiar  —  less  organi- 
cally connected  with  his  ideas,  and  hence  less  rapidly  suggestive, 

2.  Brevity. — The  fewer  the  words,  the  more  effective  the 
idea, —  as,  to  point  to  the  door  is  more  expressive  than  to  say, 
'Leave  the  room.'  On  the  same  principle,  the  fewer  the  syllables, 
the  stronger  the  impression  produced, —  less  time  and  effort  are 
required  to  read  the  sign  and  perceive  the  thing  signified.  Hence 
the  shortness  of  Saxon  words  becomes  a  cause  of  their  greater 
force.  One  qualification  must  be  made.  When  great  power  or 
intensity  is  to  be  suggested,  an  expansive  and  sonorous  word, 
allowing  the  consciousness,  a  longer  time  to  dwell  on  the  quality 
predicated,  may  be  an  advantage.  A  devout  and  poetic  soul 
gazing,  in  stilly  night,  into  stellar  spaces, —  what  verb  will  ex- 
press its  emotion?  aS'cc,  look,  think?  —  only  the  Latin  contem- 
plate. The  noise  going  to  and  returning  from  hill  to  hill, —  what 
word  will  describe  it?  Sound,  boom,  roar,  echo,  are  all  too 
tame;  only  reverberate  tells  the  whole.  Hence  the  value  of  the 
Latin  element  in  contributing  to  copiousness  and  strength  of 
expression.  It  is  a  pleasing  study  to  observe  how,  in  all  the  best 
writers,  the  long  and  short  are  harmoniously  combined,  as  in 
these  lines  from  Macbeth: 

■Will  all  great  Xcptnne's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand?    No!  this,  my  hand,  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  s^cas  incarnadine, 
Makint;  tlie  green  one  red.' 

3.  Deifinilenrss. — '  Well-being  arises  from  well-doing,'  is  Saxon. 
'Felicity  attends  virtue,'  is  Latin.  How  inferior  is  the  second, 
because  less  definite  than  the  first.  The  more  concrete  the  terms, 
the  brighter  the  picture,  as  wayon  and  cart  are  more  vivid  than 
veh  icle.  ' 

Therefore,  though  many  words  of  Latin  origin  are  equally 
simple  and  clear,  those  of  Saxon  origin  are,  as  a  whole,  more  so, 
and  should  be  preferred.  This  is  the  current  maxim  of  com- 
position, most  hap])ily  enforced  in  the  following  lines: 

'Think  not  that  «tronirth  lies  in  the  hitr,  round  word. 
Or  that  the  hrief  and  plain  must  needs  Ix'  weak. 
To  whom  can  this  be  true  who  onee  has  heard 
The  cry  for  help,  the  tongue  tliat  all  men  speak. 
When  want,  or  fear,  or  woe,  is  in  the  throat. 


SUMMARY.  59 

So  that  each  word  gasped  out  is  like  a  shriek 

Pressed  from  the  sore  heart,  or  a  strange,  wild  note, 

Sung  by  some  fay  or  (lend?     There  is  a  strength. 

Which  dies  if  stretched  too  far,  or  spun  too  fine, 

Which  has  more  height  than  breadth,  more  depth  than  length. 

Let  but  this  force  of  thought  and  speech  be  mine. 

And  lie  that  will,  may  take  the  sleek,  fat  phrase, 

Which  glows,  but  burns  not,  though  it  beam  and  shine, 

Light,  but  no  heat,— a  flash,  but  not  a  blaze.'> 

Results. —  So  does  the  English  language  combine,  to  an  ex- 
tent unequalled  by  any  other  living  tongue,  the  classic  (Latin) 
and  the  Teutonic, —  the  euphony,  sonorousness,  and  harmony  of 
the  first;  the  strength,  tenderness,  and  simplicity  of  the  second; 
a  happy  medium  between  French  and  German, —  more  grave 
than  the  former,  less  harsh  and  cumbersome  than  the  latter, 
grammatically  simpler  than  either.  From  its  composite  char- 
acter come  that  wealth  and  compass,  that  rich  and  varied  music, 
which  have  made  English  Literature  the  crown  and  glory  of  the 
works  of  man.  It  has  an  abode,  far  and  wide,  in  the  islands  of 
the  earth;  gives  greeting  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  as  of  the 
Atlantic.  Fixed  in  multitudes  of  standard  works  and  endeared 
to  the  increasing  millions  who  read  and  speak  it,  the  natural 
growth  of  population,  the  love  of  conquest  and  colonization 
which  has  distinguished  the  Saxon  race  since  they  traversed  the 
German  Ocean  in  their  frail  barks,  will  help  to  extend  and  per- 
petuate its  empire. 

'  Dr.  J.  A.  Alexander. 


CHAPTER   III. 


for:ming  of  the  literature. 

Wherever  possible,  let  us  not  be  told  about  this  man  or  that.  Let  us  hear  the  man  him- 
self sjieak,  let  us  see  him  act,  and  let  us  be  left  to  form  our  own  opinions  about  him. — 
Froude. 

My  frieud,  the  times  which  are  gone  are  a  book  with  seven  seals;  and  what  you  call 
the  spirit  of  past  ages  is  but  the  spirit  of  tliis  or  that  worthy  gentleman  in  whose  mind  those 
ages  are  reflected. — Goethe. 

The  view  of  human  manners,  in  all  their  variety  of  appearances,  is  both  profitable  and 
agreeable;  and  if  the  aspect  in  some  periods  seem  horrid  and  deformed,  we  may  thence 
learn  to  cherish  with  the  greater  anxiety  that  science  and  civility,  which  has  so  close  a  con- 
nection with  virtue  and  humanity,  and  which  as  it  is  a  sovereign  antidote  against  super- 
stition, is  also  the  most  effectual  remedy  against  vice  and  disorder  of  every  kind.— //uwe'. 

Politics. —  From  the  j^riinitive  stock — Angles  and  Saxons, 
reinforced  by  the  ])anish  ravagers,  buried,  re-elevated,  and  modi- 
fied, by  the  Conquest  —  were  to  spring  the  nation  and  its  history. 
In  pursuance  of  Germanic  custom,  there  was  an  early  division  of 
the  kingdom,  as  we  have  seen,  into  counties,  and  of  these  into 
hundreds,  the  latter  partition  supposed  to  contain  a  hundred  free 
families.  Each  had  its  trilnnial;  the  Court  of  the  Hundred — 
held  by  an  alderman,  ne.xt  in  authority  to  the  king  —  being  the 
lower.  In  course  of  time,  the  County  Court  became  the  real 
arbiter  of  imjiortant  suits,  the  fir.st  contenting  itself  with  pun- 
isliiiig  jK'tty  ofTences  and  keeping  up  a  local  police.  Chiefly  to 
this  the  English  freeman  looked  for  the  maintenance  of  his  civil 
rights.  The  hutidreds  were  further  distributed  into  decennaries, 
or  tithings,  known  as  'ton  men's  tale.'  In  one  of  these,  every 
freeman  al)ov('  the  age  of  twelve  was  required  to  be  enrolled. 
The  members  wei'(>  a  per]>etual  l)ail  for  each  other;  so  that  if 
one  of  the  ten  committed  anv  fault,  the  nine  were  indirectly 
responsible.  From  (>arliest  English  times  there  had  ])revailed 
the  usage  of  coniiiinujatlon,  under  which  the  accused  could  be 
ac(|uitte(l  by  the  oath  of  his  friends,  who  ])ledged  their  kn(nvl- 
edge,  or  at  least  their  Ix'lief,  of  his  innoccMice.  The  following 
])assage  in  the  laws  of  .Mfred  refers  to  this  ])ractice: 


OLD    ENGLISH    JURISPRUDENCE.  61 

'  If  any  one  accuse  a  king's  thane  of  homicide,  if  he  dare  to  purge  himself,  let  him  do 
it  along  with  twelve  king's  thanes.'  '  If  any  one  accuse  a  thane  of  less  rank  than  a  king's 
thane,  let  him  purge  himself  along  with  eleven  of  his  equals,  and  one  king's  thane.' 

Anglo-Saxon  jurisprudence  proceeded,  as  here,  upon  the  luaxim 
that  the  best  guarantee  of  every  man's  obedience  to  the  govern- 
ment was  to  be  sought  in  the  confidence  of  his  neighbors.  This 
privilege,  the  manifest  fountain  of  unblushing  perjury,  was  abol- 
ished by  Henry  II;  though  it  long  afterwards  was  preserved,  by 
exemption,  in  London  and  in  boroughs.  There  was  left,  how- 
ever, the  favorite  mode  of  defence, —  the  ordeal,  or  'judgment 
of  God.'  Innocence  could  be  proved  by  the  power  of  holding 
hot  iron  in  the  hand,  or  by  sinking  when  flung  into  the  water, 
for  swimming  was  a  proof  of  guilt.  When  these  were  annulled 
in  1216,  the  combat  remained,  but  no  longer  applicable  unless 
an  injured  prosecutor  came  forward  to  demand  it.  This  was 
of  Norman  origin.  The  nobleman  fought  on  horseback  ;  the 
plebeian  on  foot,  with  his  club  and  target.  The  vanquished 
party  forfeited  his  claim  and  paid  a  fine.  It  was  the  function 
of  the  court  to  see  that  the  formalities  of  the  combat,  the  ordeal, 
or  the  compurgation,  were  duly  regarded,  and  to  observe  whether 
the  party  succeeded  or  succumbed, —  a  function  which  required 
neither  a  knowledge  of  positive  law  nor  the  dictates  of  natural 
sagacity. 

The  seed  of  our  present  form  of  Trial  by  Jury  may  be  dis- 
covered in  a  law  of  Ethelred  II,  binding  the  sheriff  and  twelve 
principal  thanes  to  swear  that  they  would  neither  acquit  any 
criminal  nor  convict  any  innocent  person.  In  11  TO,  precise  enact- 
ment established  the  jury  system,  still  rude  and  imperfect,  as  the 
usual  mode  of  trial: 

'The  justices,  who  represented  the  king's  person,  were  to  make  inquiry  by  the  oaths 
of  twelve  knights,  or  other  lawful  men,  of  each  luindred,  together  with  the  four  men  from 
each  township,  of  all  uiurders,  robberies,  and  thefts,  and  of  all  who  had  harboured  such 
offenders,  since  the  king's  (Henry  II)  accession  to  the  tlirone.' 

The  jurors  were  essentially  witnesses  di.stinguished  from  other 
witnesses  only  by  customs  which  imposed  upon  thorn  the  obli- 
gation of  an  oath  and  regulated  their  number.  For  fifty  years 
yet  their  duties  were  to  present  offenders  for  trial  by  ordeal  or 
combat.  Under  Edward  I,  witnesses  acquainted  with  the  par- 
ticular fact  in  question  were  added  to  the  general  jury;  and 
later  these   became  simply  'witnesses,'  without   judicial   power, 


62  FORMATIVE    PERIOD — THE   LITERATURE. 

while  the  first  ceased  to  be  witnesses  and  became  only  judges 
of  the  testimony  given.  It  was  the  abolition  of  the  ordeal  sys- 
tem in  lsJ16  which  led  the  way  to  the  establishment  of  what  is 
called  a  'petty  jury'  for  the  final  trial  of  the  prisoner.  Cen- 
turies were  to  pass,  however,  before  the  complete  separation  of 
the  functions  of  juryman  and  witness  should  be  effected. 

The  'Meeting  of  Wise  Men'  no  longer  retained,  under  Alfred, 
its  character  of  a  national  gathering,  as  when  the  Saxons  pre- 
served in  simplicity  their  Germanic  institutions.  Then  all  free- 
men, whether  owners  of  land  or  not,  composed  part  of  it.  Grad- 
ually, by  the  non-attendance  or  indifference  of  the  people,  only 
the  great  proprietors  were  left;  and,  without  the  formal  exclu- 
sion of  any  class  of  its  members,  it  shrunk  up  into  an  aristo- 
cratic assembly. 

After  the  Conquest,  in  the  reign  of  John,  the  national  council 
was  a  gathering,  at  the  king's  bidding,  of  all  who  held  their  lands 
directly  from  tiie  crown,  both  clerical  and  lay.  It  was  like  the 
'Meeting  of  the  Wise  Men,'  only  more  people  sat  in  it,  and  they 
were  the  king's  feudal  vassals.  Those  who  were  entitled  to  be 
present,  could  only  l)e  present  themselves  —  could  not  send  repre- 
sentatives. At  the  county  courts,  groui)S  of  men  sent  from  the 
various  parts  of  the  shire  represented,  in  the  transaction  of  busi- 
ness, the  whole  free  folk  of  the  shire.  Slowly  and  tentatively 
this  principle  was  applied  to  the  constitution  of  the  Great  Coun- 
cil. Henry  III  and  his  barons  alike  ordered  the  choice  of  'dis- 
creet knights'  from  every  county,  'to  meet  on  the  common 
business  of  the  realm.'  In  1"-24G,  the  wonl  jxirliament  was  first 
used  as  the  name  of  the  couneil.  The  ext(Mision  of  electoral 
rights  to  tlie  froeho](l(>rs  at  large  is  seen  in  the  king's  writ  of 
1'2<J4,  sent  to  the  higher  clergy,  earls,  and  l)arons;  to  the  sheriffs, 
citi*»s,  and  boroughs  throughout  England,  comnianding  the  former 
three  to  coiue  in  jxtsoii,  tlie  latter  to  send  rejiresentatives.  It 
was  long,  however,  l)erore  the  chosen  (lej)uties  were  admitted  to 
a  share  in  deliberative  power.  In  I'^ll."),  Edward  gathered  at 
Westminster  an  assemblv  that  was  in  every  sense  a  national  Par- 
liament. It  straightway  fulfilled  the  sole  duty  of  ;i  I'arlianient  in 
those  days, —  vott>d  the  king  a  sui)])ly.  Two  years  lat<M'  the  one 
thing  still  wanting  was  gained. —  a  solemn  acknowledgment  bv 
the  king  that  it  alone  had  power  to  tax  the  nation.     The  idea  of 


GERMINATION    OF    MODERN    GOVERNMENT.  63 

representation  has  risen.  'It  is  a  most  just  law,'  says  Edward, 
'  that  what  concerns  all  should  be  approved  of  by  all,  and  that 
common  dangers  should  be  met  by  measures  provided  in  common.' 
In  Edward's  reign,  the  barons  began  to  hold  their  deliberations 
privately.  The  knights  from  the  shires  and  the  deputies  from 
the  towns  formed  a  second  chamber.  From  this  time,  therefore, 
dates  the  origin  of  the  House  of  Lords  and  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. 

The  rights  of  self-government,  of  free  speech  in  free  meeting, 
of  equal  justice  by  one's  peers,  were  brought  safely  across  the 
ages  of  Norman  tyranny  by  the  traders  and  shopkeepers,  who 
alone,  unnoticed  and  despised  by  prelate  and  noble,  had  preserved 
the  full  tradition  of  Teutonic  liberty.  Henry  I,  promising  to 
govern  the  English  according  to  their  own  wishes,  with  wisdom 
and  moderation,  granted  them  a  first  charter,  which,  though  of 
short  duration,  was  the  first  limitation  imposed  on  the  despotism 
of  the  Conquest.  A  hundred  years  later,  the  barons  extorted 
from  King  John  the  glorious  and  powerful  Magna  Charta, — 
ever  after  the  basis  of  the  English  freedom,  the  corner-stone  of 
the  noble  edifice  of  the  Constitution.  Life,  liberty,  and  property 
were  protected.  No  man  could  henceforth  be  detained  in  prison 
without  trial.  No  man  would  have  to  buy  justice.  These  words, 
honestly  interpreted,  convey  an  ample  security  for  the  two  main 
rights  of  civil  society: 

'  N'o  freeman  shall  be  seized  or  imprisoned,  or  dispossessed,  or  outlawed,  or  in  any  way 
brought  to  ruin:  we  will  not  go  against  any  man  nor  send  against  him,  save  by  legal  judg- 
ment of  his  i)eers  or  by  the  law  of  the  land.  To  no  man  will  we  sell,  to  no  man  will  we  deny 
or  delay,  justice  or  right.' 

At  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  charters  were  so 
firmly  established  that  no  monarch  would  venture  to  disturb  them. 
Small  and  ob.scure  are  the  beginnings  of  great  political  institu- 
tions, and  unforeseen  are  the  tremendous  results  of  the  actor's 
deeds,  who,  as  he  casts  the  seed  into  the  soil,  little  dreams  of  the 
mighty  and  ])erpetual  germination  it  will  disclose  in  after  days. 

Society. — By  Alfred's  day,  it  was  assumed  that  no  man  could 
exist  without  dependence  upon  a  superior.  The  ravages  and  long 
insecurity  of  the  Danish  wars  drove  the  freeholder  to  seek  pro- 
tection from  the  thane.  His  freehold  was  surrendered  to  be 
received  back  as  a  fief,  laden  with  service  to  its  lord.     Gradually 


64  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

the  'lordless'  man  became  a  sort  of  outlaw;  the  free  churl,  who 
had  held  his  land  straight  from  the  Maker  of  it,  sank  into  the 
villain,'  and  with  his  personal  freedom  went  his  share  in  the  gov- 
ernment. The  bulk  of  the  workmen  are  serfs.  In  a  dialogue  of 
the  tenth  century,  written  for  popular  instruction,  the  ploughman 
savs:  'I  labor  much.  I  go  out  at  daybreak,  urging  the  oxen  to 
the  field,  and  I  yoke  them  to  the  plough.  I  am  bound  to  plough 
everyday  a  full  acre  t)r  more.'  The  herdsman  says:  'When  the 
ploughman  separates  the  oxen,  I  lead  them  to  the  meadows,  and 
all  night  I  stand  watching  over  them  on  account  of  thieves;  and 
again  in  the  morning  I  take  them  to  the  plough,  well-fed  and 
watered.'  And  the  shepherd:  'In  the  first  part  of  the  morning  I 
drive  my  sheep  to  their  pasture,  and  stand  over  them  in  heat  and 
cold  with  my  dogs,  lest  the  wolves  destroy  them.  I  lead  them 
back  to  their  folds,  and  milk  them  twice  a  day;  and  I  move  their 
folds,  and  make  cheese  and  butter,  and  am  faithful  to  my  lord.' 

The  military  oppression  of  the  Normans  levelled  all  degrees 
of  tenants  and  servants  into  a  modified  slavery.  The  English 
lord  was  pushed  from  his  place  by  the  Norman  baron,  and  sank 
into  the  position  from  which  he  had  thrust  the  churl.  The 
peasant  —  the  producer  —  had  no  alternative  but  to  abide  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave  in  one  spot,  and  was  held  to  be  only 
fulfilling  his  natural  destiny  when  he  toiled  without  hope  for 
the  privileged  consumer.  '  Why  should  villains  eat  beef  or  any 
dainty  food?'  asks  one  of  the  Norman  minstrels. 

The  social  organization  of  every  rural  part  of  England  rested 
on  the  manorial  system, —  a  division  of  the  land,  for  purposes  of 
cultivation  and  internal  order,  into  a  number  of  large  estates. 
The  lord  of  the  manor,  instead  of  cultivating  the  estate  through 
his  own  bailiff,  at  length  found  it  more  convenient  and  profitable 
to  distribute  it  among  tenants  at  a  given  rent,  payable  either  in 
money  or  in  produce.  This  habit  of  leasing  afforded  an  oppor- 
tunity In'  which  the  aspiring  among  the  tenantry  could  rise  to 
a  position  of  ap])arent  equality  with  their  older  masters.  The 
growing  use  of  the  words  'farm'  and  'farmer'  from  the  twelfth 
century   mark    the    initial    ste])S   of    a    peasant    revolution.       The 

'  A  |)i'as;iiit,  one  of  thf  lowest  cliiss  of  feudal  teiu'iits;  a  boiiilmail.  and  later  a  vile, 
wicked  perxin.  One  of  the  many  words  which  men  have  draL'ged  downwards  with  them- 
selves, and  made  more  or  less  partakers  of  iheir  own  fall. 


SOCIAL   ORGANIZATION  —  TOWNS.  65 

tenants  were  subject  to  many  exactions.  The  lord's  bull  and 
boar  were  free,  under  the  conditions  of  tenure,  to  range  at  night 
through  their  standing  corn  and  grass;  and  their  sheep, —  for 
they  were  permitted  to  acquire  and  hold  property  upon  suffer- 
ance,—  were  always  to  be  folded  on  their  master's  land.  That 
the  land  was  indifferently  farmed  we  may  well  believe,  when  we 
learn  that  the  highest  rent  was  seven  pence  an  acre,  and  the 
lowest  a  farthing.  The  rise  of  the  farmer  class  was  soon  fol- 
lowed by  that  of  the  free  laborer.  Influences,  indeed,  had  long 
been  quietly  freeing  the  peasantry  from  their  local  bondage. 
Prior  to  the  Conquest,  pure  slavery  was  gradually  disappearing 
before  the  efforts  of  the  Church.  Subsequently  she  urged  eman- 
cipation, as  a  mark  of  piety,  on  all  estates  but  her  own.  The 
fugitive  bondsman  found  freedom  in  chartered  towns,  where  a 
residence  of  one  year  and  a  day  conferred  franchise.  The  pomp 
of  chivalry  and  the  cost  of  incessant  campaigns  drained  the  royal 
and  baronial  purse;  and  the  sale  of  freedom  to  the  serf,  or  of 
exemption  from  services  to  the  villain,  afforded  an  easy  and 
tempting  mode  of  replenishment.  Thus,  by  a  solemn  deed  in 
1302,  for  forty  marks,  'Robert  Crul  and  Matilda  his  wife,  with 
all  his  offspring  begotten  and  to  be  begotten,  together  with  all 
his  goods  holden  and  to  be  holden,'  was  rendered  'forever  free 
and  quit  from  all  yoke  of  servitude.' 

In  the  silent  growth  and  elevation  of  the  people,  the  boroughs 
led  the  way.  The  English  town  was  originally  a  piece  of  the 
general  country,  where  people,  either  for  purposes  of  trade  or 
protection,  happened  to  cluster  more  closely  than  elsewhere.  It 
was  organized  and  governed  in  the  same  way  as  the  manors 
around  it, —  justice  was  adniiriistered,  its  customary  services  ex- 
acted, its  annual  rent  collected,  by  the  officer  of  the  king,  noble, 
or  ecclesiastic,  to  whose  estate  it  belonged.  Its  inhabitants  were 
bound  to  leap  their  lord's  corn  crops,  to  grind  at  his  mill,  to 
redeem  tlieir  strayed  cattle  from  his  pound.  Its  dues  paid  and 
services  rendered,  however,  property  and  person  alike  were  se- 
cured against  arbitrary  seizure.  The  townsman's  rights  were 
rigidly  defined  by  custom,  and  by  custom  were  constantly  widen- 
ing. By  disuse  or  forget  fulness,  services  would  disappear,  while 
privileges  and  immunities  were  being  for  the  most  part  pureliasetl 
by  hard  bargaining.  At  Leicester,  for  instance,  one  of  the  chief 
5 


66  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

aims  of  its  burgesses  was  to  regain  their  old  English  practice  of 

compurgation,  for  which  had  been  substituted  the  foreign  trial 

by  duel.     Says  a  charter  of  the  time: 

'It  chancL-d  that  two  kinsmen  .  .  .  waged  a  duel  about  a  certain  piece  of  land,  con- 
ccrniug  which  a  dispute  had  arisen  between  them;  and  they  fought  from  the  first  to  the 
ninth  hour,  each  conquering  by  turns.  Tlien  one  of  them  lleeing  from  the  other  till  he 
came  to  a  certain  little  pit,  as  he  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  i)it,  and  was  about  to  fall  therein, 
his  kinsman  said  to  him,  "Take  care  of  the  pit,  turn  back  lest  thou  shouUlest  fall  into  it." 
Thereat  so  much  clamor  and  noise  was  made  by  the  by-standers  and  those  who  were  sitting 
around,  that  the  Earl  heard  these  clamors  as  far  off  as  the  castle,  and  he  inquired  of  some 
how  it  was  there  was  such  a  clamor,  antl  answer  was  made  to  him  that  two  kinsmen  were 
flghting  about  a  certain  piece  of  ground,  and  that  one  had  tied  till  he  reached  a  certain  little 
pit,  and  that,  as  he  stood  over  the  pit  and  was  about  to  fall  into  it,  the  other  warned  him. 
Then  the  townsmen,  being  moved  with  pity,  made  a  covenant  with  the  Earl  that  they  should 
give  lum  three  pence  yearly  for  each  house  in  the  High  Street  that  had  a  gable,  on  condition 
that  he  should  grant  to  them  that  the  twenty-four  jurors  who  were  in  Leicester  from  ancient 
times  should  from  that  time  forward  discuss  and  decide  all  pleas  they  might  have  among 
themselves.' 

At  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  all  the  more  important 
towns  had  secured  freedom  of  trade,  of  justice,  and  of  govern- 
ment. Their  liberties  and  charters  served  as  models  and  in- 
centives to  the  smaller  communities  struggling  into  existence. 
While  the  tendency  at  first  seems  to  have  been  agricultural,  at 
the  Conquest  it  had  become  mercantile,  and  the  controlling  class 
was  the  merchant  gviild.  Wealth  and  industry  developed  into 
dangerous  rivalry  a  second  clas.s,  composed  of  escaped  serf.s,  of 
traders  without  lands,  of  the  artisans  and  the  poor.  Without 
share  in  the  right  and  regulation  of  trade,  their  struggles  for 
power  and  privilege  began  in  the  reign  of  the  first  Henry,  and 
their  turbulent  election  of  a  London  mayor  in  12G1  marks  their 
fi:i;il  victory. 

In  the  tenth  century,  a  man  wished  for  two  things, —  not  to  be 
slain,  and  to  have  a  good  leather  coat.  The  state  of  warfare  still 
contends  against  the  state  of  order.  The  right  of  aggrieved 
persons  to  interfere  with  the  sober  course  of  the  law  is  acknowl- 
edged even  l)y  Alfred: 

'We  also  command  tli:it  the  man  who  knows  his  foe  to  be  home-sitting,  fight  not  before 
he  demand  justice  of  him.  If  Ik  liave  sncli  power  tliat  he  can  beset  his  foe  and  besiege 
him  within,  let  liim  keep  hini  within  for  seven  days,  and  attack  him  not  if  he  will  remain 
within.' 

There  are  so  inaiiv  jiagaii  Danes  and  other  disreputable  per- 
sons scattered  u{)  and  down  the  land,  that  society  must  protect 
itself  in  a  svinimary  fashion: 

'If  a  stranger  or  foreigner  shall  wander  from  the  highway,  and  then  neither  call  out 
nor  sound  a  liorn,  he  is  to  be  taken  for  a  tliief  and  killed,  or  redeemed  by  fine.' 


LAWLESSNESS   AND   BRUTALITY.  67 

When  Henry  II,  succeeding  the  Norman  king,  ascended  the 
throne  in  1154,  he  found  his  kingdom  a  prey  to  horrible  anarchy. 
The  royal  domains  were  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  menacing 
fortresses  garrisoned  by  resolute  soldiers  who  recognized  no 
authority  but  that  of  their  chiefs.  Within  three  years,  eleven 
hundred  of  these  castles,  the  haunts  of  robbers,  were  razed  to 
the  ground,  while  the  peasants  and  townspeople  applauded  the 
work  of  destruction.  He  may  be  truly  said  to  have  initiated  'the 
rule  of  law.'  Ten  years  after  his  accession  the  principle  of 
pecuniary  compensation  for  crime  had,  for  the  most  part,  been 
superseded  by  criminal  laws,  administered  with  stern  severity. 
Yet  outrage  continues  to  be  the  constant  theme  of  legislation. 
In  the  reign  of  the  first  Edward,  every  man  was  bound  to  hold 
himself  in  readiness,  duly  armed,  for  the  king's  service  or  the  hue 
and  cry  which  pursued  the  felon.  An  act  for  the  suppression  of 
crimes  directs  that, — 

'For  the  greater  security  of  the  people,  walled  town?  shall  keej)  their  gates  shut  from 
sun-set  to  sun-rise:  and  none  shall  lodge  all  night  in  their  suburbs,  unless  his  host  shall 
answer  for  him.  All  towns  shall  be  kept  as  in  times  past,  with  a  watch  all  night  at  each 
gate,  with  a  number  of  men.' 

Another,  after  reciting  the  commission  of  robberies,  murders,  and 
riots,  in  the  city  of  London,  enjoins: 

'That  none  be  found  in  the  streets,  either  with  spear  or  buckler,  after  the  curfew-bell 
rings  out,  except  they  be  great  lords,  or  other  persons  of  note ;  also,  that  no  tavern,  either 
for  wine  or  ale,  be  kept  open  after  that  hour  on  forfeiture  of  forty  pence.' 

Once,  during  this  reign,  a  band  of  lesser  nobles  disguise  their 
way  into  a  great  merchant  fair;  fire  every  booth,  rob  and  slaugh- 
ter the  merchants,  and  carry  the  booty  off  to  ships  lying  in  wait. 
Molten  streams  of  silver  and  gold,  says  the  tale  of  horror,  flowed 
down  the  gutters  to  the  sea.  Lawless  companies  of  club-men 
maintain  themselves  by  general  violence,  aid  the  country  nobles 
in  their  feuds,  wrest  money  and  goods  fi'om  the  tradesmen. 
I  nder  a  show  of  (courtesy  the  bloodtliirsty  instinct  breaks  out. 
Richard  of  the  Lion-heart  has  a  lion's  apjietite.  Tender  the  walls 
of  Acre  he  wants  some  pork.  There  being  none  to  l)e  had,  a 
young  Saracen  is  killed,  rooked,  salted,  and  served  him.  He  eats 
it  with  a  relisli,  and  desires  to  see  the  head  of  the  pig.  The  cook 
produces  it  trembling,  the  king  huiglis,  and  says  the  army,  having 
provisions  so  coiiveniiMit,  has  nothing  to  fear  from  famine.  The 
town  taken,  he  has  thirty  of  the  most  nol)le  jirisoners  beheaded, 


68  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

bids  his  cook  boil  tlie  heads  and  serve  one  to  each  of  the  ambas- 
sadors who  came  to  sue  for  their  pardon.  Thereupon  the  sixty 
thousand  prisoners  are  led  into  the  plain  for  execution. 

Theodore,  who  founded  the  English  Church,  denied  Christian 
burial  to  the  kidnapper,  and  prohibited  the  sale  of  children  by 
their  parents  after  the  age  of  seven.  The  murder  of  a  slave, 
though  no  crime  in  the  eye  of  the  State,  becaine  a  sin  for  which 
penance  was  due  to  the  Church.  Manumission  became  frequent 
in  wills,  as  a  boon  to  the  souls  of  the  dead.  Usually  the  slave 
was  set  free  before  the  altar;  sometimes  at  the  spot  where  four 
roads  met,  and  tiiere  bidden  go  whither  he  would.  In  tlie  more 
solemn  form,  his  master  took  him  by  the  hand  in  full  shire 
meeting,  showed  him  the  open  road  and  door,  and  gave  him  the 
lance  and  sword  of  the  freeman.  A  hundred  years  after  the 
prohibition,  in  the  ninth  century,  of  the  slave-traffic  from  English 
ports,  men  and  women  are  said  to  have  been  bought  in  all  parts 
of  England  and  carried  to  Ireland  for  sale.  'You  might,'  says  a 
chronicler,  'have  seen  with  sorrow  long  files  of  young  people  of 
both  sexes  and  of  the  greatest  beauty  bound  with  ropes  and  daily 
exposed  for  sale.  .  .  .  They  sold  in  this  manner  as  slaves  their 
own  children.'  Not  till  the  reign  of  Henry  II  was  it  finally  sup- 
pressed in  its  last  stronghold,  the  port  of  Bristol. 

A  law  of   1285,  relating  to  highways,  directs: 

'Tliat  thoso  ways  .shall  be  cnlargpd  where  bushes,  woods',  or  dykes  be,  where  men  may 
lurk,  so  that  there  be  neither  dyke,  tree,  nor  bush  within  two  hundred  feet  on  each  side  of 
those  roads,  j^'reat  trees  excepted." 

A  provision  which  illu.strates  at  once  the  social  and  physical  con- 
dition (jf  the  country  at  the  time.  The  roads  are  narrow  —  from 
four  to  eight  fe(>t  —  and  of  difficult  passage.  A  bishop,  journey- 
ing to  London,  i.s  oljligcd  to  rest  his  beasts  of  burden  on  alternate 
days  of  travel.  Retiiniing,  he  accomplishes  the  first  day  only 
five  miles.  Travellers  ride  on  horseback,  and  convey  their  culin- 
ary wares  or  merchaiuli.se  in  ])ack-.saddles.  The  dead,  the  invalid, 
ladies  of  rank,  aro  carric*!  in  a  horse-litter,  borne  by  horses  and 
mules,  .soiiietinu's  by  iiicii.  dirts  are  the  carriages  of  the  nobil- 
ity, distinguished  from  the  common  description  by  ornament. 
ICven  that  of  King  .John  is  s])riiigless, —  the  body  rests  upon  the 
axletree,  the  wheels  are  cut  from  solid  pieces  of  circular  wood, 
covered    ornamentallv,    and    Ijound    round    with   a   thick    wooden 


ARCHITECTURE  —  THE   CAPITALIST.  69 

tire.  For  obvious  reasons,  a  solitary  journey  in  these  early  days 
will  be  a  matter  of  grave  anxiety.  Friends  setting  out  from  the 
same  place,  or  strangers  becoming  acquainted  upon  the  road, 
join  in  parties  for  mutual  protection  and  cheer  through  the  semi- 
desert. 

The  houses  of  the  people  in  the  thirteenth  century  were  gen- 
erally of  one  story,  consisting  of  a  hall  and  a  bed-chamber.  The 
first  was  kitchen,  dining-room,  reception-room,  as  well  as  sleeping 
apartment  for  strangers  and  visitors  indiscriminately;  the  second 
was  the  resort  of  the  female  portion  of  the  household.  The  door 
opened  outward,  and  was  left  open, —  a  sign  of  hospitality,  which 
even  in  turbulent  times  was  almost  boundless  between  those  who 
had  established  friendly  relations.  The  roof,  covered  with  oval 
tiles,  exhibited  two  ornamental  points.  Dwellings  of  the  opulent 
sometimes  had  upper  floors,  reached  by  an  external  staircase. 
The  upper  part  was  considered  the  place  of  greatest  security,  as 
it  could  be  entered  only  by  one  door,  which  was  approached  by 
a  flight  of  steps,  and  hence  was  more  readily  defended.  The 
hall  was  generally  the  whole  height  of  the  house.  Adjacent  to 
it  was  the  stable,  in  which  the  servants,  if  any,  were  well  con- 
tent to  lodge.  Palaces  and  manor-houses  had  essentially  the 
same  arrangement, —  a  private  room  for  the  lord,  and  the  great 
hall  which  was  the  usual  living  apartment  for  the  whole  family, 
and  in  whicli  retainers  and  guests,  often  to  the  number  of  three 
or  four  hundred,  were  kennelled,  the  floor  being  strewn  witli  dry 
rushes  in  winter,  and  with  hay  or  straw  in  summer. 

Already  the  Jew  was  a  capitalist, — the  only  one  in  Europe. 
He  had  followed  William  from  Normandy.  Without  citizenship, 
absolutely  at  tlie  king's  mercy,  he  was  the  engine  of  finance; 
and,  as  such,  compelled  the  kingly  regard.  Castle  and  cathe- 
dral alike  owed  their  existence  to  his  loans.  His  wealth  — 
wrung  from  him  by  torture  when  mild  entreaty  failed  —  filled 
the  royal  exchequer  at  the  outbreak  of  war  or  revolt.  The 
'Jews'  Houses'  were  almost  the  first  of  stone,  which  superseded 
the  mere  hovels  of  the  English  burghers.  John,  having  wrested 
from  them  a  sum  equal  to  a  year's  revenue,  might  suffer  none  to 
plunder  them  save  himself.  Hated  by  the  people,  persecuted  at 
last  l)y  the  law,  forl^idden  to  ajjpear  in  the  street  without  the 
colored   tablet    which    distinguished   the   race,   their   long   agony 


70  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

ended  in  their  expulsion  from  the  realm  by  Edward.  Of  the 
sixteen  thousand  who  preferred  exile  to  apostasy,  many  were 
wrecked,  others  robbed  and  flung  overboard.  From  that  time 
till  their  restoratioTi  by  Cromwell,  nO  Jew  touched  English  soil. 
Under  the  worst  of  rulers  it  is  '  Merry  England.'  Of  indoor 
amusements,  the  most  attractive  to  high  and  low  is  gambling. 
So  universal  was  the  passion  in  the  twelfth  century,  that  in 
the  Crusades  the  kings  of  France  and  England  made  the  most 
stringent  regulations  to  restrict  it.  No  man  in  the  army  was 
to  play  for  money,  except  the  knights  and  the  clergy;  nor  were 
the  latter  to  lose  more  than  twenty  shillings  in  one  day.  The 
lower  orders  who  should  be  found  playing  without  the  permis- 
sion and  supervision  of  their  masters,  were  to  be  whipped;  and, 
if  mariners,  were  to  be  plunged  into  the  sea  on  three  successive 
mornings.  Love  of  hardy  sports,  so  characteristic  of  the  Eng- 
lish, is  not  of  modern  growth.  It  was  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant parts  of  ])opular  education  seven  centuries  ago.  Wrestling 
was  the  national  pastime.  The  sturdy  yeoman  wrestled  for 
prizes, —  a  ram  or  a  bull,  a  ring  or  a  pipe  of  wine.  Foot-ball 
was  the  favorite  game.  In  the  Easter  holidays  they  had  river 
tournaments.  In  the  summer,  the  youths  exercised  themselves 
in  leaping,  arcliory,  stone-throwing,  slinging  javelins,  and  fight- 
ing with  bucklers.  The  sword-dance  of  the  Saxons,  descending 
to  their  successors,  held  an  honored  place  among  popular  sports. 
The  acrobat  went  about  to  market  and  fair,  circling  knives  and 
balls  adroitly  through  his  hands,  and  the  'musical  girls'  danced 
before  knight  and  peasant  as  the  daughter  of  Herodias  before 
Herod.  A  very  ancient  and  popular  game  was  that  of  throwing 
a  peculiar  stick  at  cocks.  It  was  practised  especially  by  school- 
boys. Three  origins  of  it  have  been  given:  first,  that  in  the 
Danish  wars,  the  Saxons  failed  to  surprise  a  certain  city  in  con- 
sequence of  the  crowing  of  cocks,  and  had  therefore  a  great 
hatrcfl  of  that  birtl;  second,  that  the  cocks  were  special  repre- 
sentatives of  Frenoliinen,  with  whom  the  English  were  constantly 
at  war;  third,  that  tlu^v  were  coiuiected  with  Peter's  denial  of 
Christ.  Two  diversions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  however,  were  a 
pride  and  ornament,  the  theme  of  song,  the  object  of  law,  and 
the  business  of  life, —  hunting  and  hawking.     A  knight  seldom 


PLEASURES  —  SUPERSTITIONS.  71 

stirred  from  his  house  without  a  falcon '  on  his  wrist  or  a  grey- 
hound at  his  feet.  Into  these  pastimes  the  clergy  rushed  with 
an  irrepressible  eagerness.  To  •  the  country  revel  came  the 
taborer,  the  bagpiper,  and  the  minstrel  —  a  privileged  wanderer. 
Music,  with  its  immemorial  talismanic  power  to  charm,  seems 
always  to  have  ranked  as  a  favorite  accomplishment.  The  com- 
plaint of  a  Scotch  abbot  in  1160  suggests  rather  amusingly  the 
innovations  it  was  making  in  the  devotional  customs  of  the 
Church": 

'  Since  all  types  and  figures  are  now  ceased,  why  go  many  organs  and  cymbals  in  our 
churches?  Why,  I  say,  that  terrible  blowing  of  bellows  which  rather  imitates  noise  of 
thunder  than  the  sweet  harmony  of  voice?' 

Again: 

'  One  restrains  his  breath,  another  breaks  his  breath,  and  a  third  unaccountably  dilates 
his  voice.  Sometimes  (I  blush  to  say  it)  they  fall  and  quiver  like  the  neighing  of  horses ;  at 
other  times  they  look  like  persons  in  the  agonies  of  death ;  their  eyes  roll ;  their  shoulders 
are  moved  upwards  and  downwards ;  and  their  fingers  dance  to  every  note.' 

Intellectually,  the  real  character  of  these  times  is  to  be  judged 
by  their  multitude  of  superstitions.  On  the  Continent,  in  particu- 
lar, credulity  was  habitual  and  universal.  The  west  of  Britain 
was  believed  to  be  inhabited  by  the  souls  of  the  dead.  In  a 
lake  in  Munster,  Ireland,  there  were  two  islands.  Into  the  first, 
death  could  never  enter;  but  age,  disease,  and  weariness  wrought 
upon  the  inhabitants  till  they  grew  tired  of  their  immortality, 
and  learned  to  look  upon  the  second  as  a  haven  of  repose;  they 
launched  their  barks  upon  its  dark  waters,  touched  its  shore,  and 
were  at  rest.  The  three  companions  of  St.  Cohnan  were  a  cock, 
which  announced  the  hour  of  devotion;  a  mouse,  which  bit  the 
ear  of  the  drowsy  saint  till  he  rose;  and  a  fly,  which,  if  in  the 
course  of  his  studies  his  thoughts  wandered,  or  he  was  called 
away,  alighted  on  the  line  where  he  had  left  off,  and  kept  the 
place.  In  the  Church  of  St.  Sabina  at  Rome  was  long  shown 
a  ponderous  stone  which  the  devil  had  flung  at  St.  Dominic, 
vainly  hoping  to  crush  a  head  that  was  shielded  by  the  guardian 
angel.  The  Gospel  of  St.  John  suspended  around  the  neck,  a 
rosary,  a  relic  of  Christ  or  of  a  saint, —  any  of  the  thousand  talis- 
mans distributed  among  the  faithful,  would  baffle  the  utmost 
efforts  of  diabolical  malice.  The  more  terrible  phenomena  of 
nature,  unmoved  by  exorcisms  and  sprinklings,  were  invariably 

'  A  bird  of  great  dei?tructive  power,  trained  to  the  purj-uit  of  other  bird^. 


72  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE  LITERATURE. 

attributed  to  the  intervention  of  spirits.  Such  phenomena  were 
by  the  clergy  frequently  identified  with  acts  of  rebellion  against 
themselves.  In  the  tenth  century,  the  opinion  everywhere  pre- 
vailed that  the  end  of  the  world  was  approaching.  Many  charters 
begin  with  these  words:  *As  the  world  is  now  drawing  to  its 
close.'  An  army  was  so  terrified  by  a  solar  eclipse,  which  it 
conceived  to  announce  this  consummation,  as  to  disperse  hastily 
on  all  sides.  More  than  once  the  apparition  of  a  comet  filled 
Europe  with  terror.  In  the  shadows  of  the  universal  ignorance, 
nothing  was  too  absurd  for  belief  and  practice.  In  France,  ani- 
mals were  accused  of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors,  tried,  and 
acquitted  or  convicted,  with  all  the  solemnity  of  law.  The  wild 
were  referred  to  ecclesiastical  tribunals;  the  domestic  to  the  civil. 
In  1120,  a  French  bishop  pronounced  an  injunction  against  the 
caterpillars  and  field-mice  for  the  ravages  they  made  on  the 
crops.  If  after  three  days'  notice  the  condemned  did  not  'wither 
off  the  face  of  the  earth,'  they  were  solemnly  anathematized.  If, 
instead,  they  became  perversely  more  numerous  and  destructive, 
the  lawyers  ascribed  it,  not  to  any  injustice  of  the  sentence  nor 
to  the  inefficiency  of  the  court,  but  to  the  machinations  of  Satan. 
From  the  thirteenth  century  to  the  sixteenth,  there  are  not  a 
few  records  of  proceedings  in  criminal  courts  against  hogs  for 
devouring  children. 

About  the  twelfth  century,  the  brood  of  superstitions,  which 
had  once  consisted  for  the  most  part  in  wild  legends  of  fairies, 
mermaids,  giants,  dragons,  conflicts  in  which  the  Devil  took  a 
promin(Mit  part  but  was  always  defeated,  or  illustrations  of  the 
boundless  efficacy  of  some  charm  or  relic, —  began  to  assume  a 
darker  hue,  and  the  ages  of  religious  terrorism  commenced. 
Never  was  tlie  sense  of  Satanic  power  and  presence  more  pro- 
found and  uiiiver.sal.  In  Christian  art,  the  aspect  of  Christ 
became  less  engaging;  that  of  Satan  more  formidable:  the  Good 
Shepherd  disappeared,  the  miracles  of  mercy  declined,  and  were 
re])laced  by  the  details  of  the  Passion  and  the  horrors  of  the 
Last  .ludgment.  Now  it  was  tliat  the  modern  conception  of  a 
witch  —  namely,  a  woniati  in  compact  with  Satan,  who  could 
exercise  the  miraculous  gift  at  ])leasure,  and  who  at  night  was 
transported  through  the  air  to  the  Sabbath,  where  she  paid  her 
liomage  to  the  Evil  One  —  first  appeared.      Owing  in  part  to  its 


ENGLISH   CHURCH.  73 

insular  position,  in  part  to  the  intense  political  life  which  from 
the  earliest  period  animated  its  people,  there  was  formed  in 
England  a  self-reliant  type  of  character  which  was  essentially 
distinct  from  that  common  in  Europe,  averse  to  the  more  depress- 
ing aspect  of  religion,  and  less  subject  to  its  morbid  fears.  In 
consequence,  the  darker  superstitions  which  prevailed  on  the 
Continent,  and  which  were  to  act  so  tragically  on  the  imagina- 
tions of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  had  not  here  arisen. 
Nevertheless,  as  will  presently  appear  in  our  sketch  of  historical 
method,  there  existed  a  condition  of  thought  so  far  removed 
from  that  of  the  present  day  as  to  be  scarcely  conceivable.  It 
will  show  itself  in  literature  as  a  controlling  love  of  the  marvel- 
lous; in  religion,  as  the  intellectual  basis  of  witchcraft. 

Religion. — When  the  island  was  yet  without  political  unity, 
a  Greek  monk,  sent  from  Rome,  organized  an  episcopate,  divided 
the  land  into  parishes  representing  the  different  provinces  of  its 
disunited  state,  linked  them  all  to  Canterbury  as  ecclesiastical 
centre,  and  thus  founded  the  Church  of  JEnglaud.  In  venera- 
tion of  the  source  of  light,  Anglo-Saxons  began  pilgrimages  to 
the  'Eternal  City,'  in  the  hope  that,  dying  there,  a  more  ready 
acceptance  would  be  accorded  them  by  the  saints  in  Heaven. 
In  gratitude  they  established  a  tax,  called  St. Peter's  penny,  for 
the  relief  of  pilgrims  and  the  education  of  the  clergy.  The 
claims  of  the  Roman  See,  based  as  here  upon  filial  regard,  were 
to  become  a  tremendous  peril  alike  to  monarch  and  to  subject. 

As  Rome  was  the  queen  of  cities,  so,  as  the  chief  seat  of 
Christianity,  her  Church  was  naturally  held  to  be  the  first  of 
Churches,  and  her  bishop  first  of  blsJKjps  —  the  Pope.'  When 
the  capital  was  traJisfcrred  to  Coiistantiiio]>le,  and  tlie  VaTidals 
had  dissolved  the  framework  of  Roman  society,  he  gradually 
becaTiie  the  chief  man  in  Italy,  Indeed  in  the  whole  West.  But 
wealth  Is  dangerous  to  siirqillclty,  and  power  to  moderation. 
From  being  a  father  and  a  couiis(^llor  merely,  forgetting  humllltv, 
lu'  became  a  schemer  and  a  ruler.  Love  of  souls  was  graduallv 
supplant<'d  bv  love  of  cmpin'.  Th(>  evil  was  p()ssil)le  to  the  sys- 
tem. Each  country  in  Christendom  was  mapped  out  into  an  all- 
embracing  territorial  organization,  in  which  the  ))riest  was  under 

'  Mi-atiing  father,  papa,  (inn-k  rraira?. 


74-  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATUKE. 

the  bishop,  he  under  the  archbishop,  and  the  archbishop  in  turn 
responsible  to  the  pope,  who  thus  held  in  his  hand  the  converging 
reins  of  ecclesiastical  control.  While  the  prelates,  each  within 
his  respective  sphere,  were  encroaching  little  by  little  upon  the 
laity,  the  Church  of  Konie  was  forming  and  maturing  her  plans 
to  enthrall  both  the  national  churches  and  the  temporal  govern- 
ments. A  prime  condition  of  conquest  is  a  replete  exchequer. 
Covetousness  was  characteristic.  Gifts  by  the  rich  on  assuming 
the  cowl,  by  some  before  entering  upon  military  expeditions, 
bequests  by  many  in  the  terrors  of  dissolution;  the  commutation 
for  money  of  penance  imposed  upon  repentant  offenders, —  were 
a  few  of  the  various  sources  of  her  revenue.  No  atonement,  she 
taught,  could  be  so  acceptable  to  Heaven  as  liberal  donations  to 
its  earthly  delegates.  The  rich  widow  was  surrounded  by  a 
swarm  of  clerical  sycophants  who  addressed  her  in  terms  of 
endearment  and,  under  the  guise  of  piety,  lay  in  wait  for  a 
legacy.  A  special  place,  it  was  said,  was  reserved  in  purgatory 
for  those  who  had  been  slow  in  paying  their  tithes.  A  man  who 
in  a  contested  election  for  tlie  popedom  had  supported  the  wrong 
candidate,  was  placed  after  death  in  boiling  water.  The  bereft 
widow,  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  anguish,  was  told  that  he  wlio 
was  dearer  to  her  than  all  the  world  besides,  was  now  writhing  in 
the  flames  that  encircled  him,  and  could  be  relieved  only  by  a 
j)ecuniary  present.  Masterly  ada})tation  of  means  to  ends.  The 
end  of  the  twelfth  century  saw  the  Church  at  the  zenith  of  terri- 
torial j>ossession.  She  enjoyed  nearly  one-half  of  England,  and 
a  still  greater  portion  in  some  countries  of  the  Continent.  To 
her  John  solemidy  resigned  his  crown,  and  humbly  received  it  as 
a  fief,  liut  landed  acquisitions  scarcely  contril^uted  so  nuich  to 
her  greatFiess  as  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction  and  immunity.  Her 
spiritual  court,  claiming  a  loftier  origin  than  the  civil,  acquired 
aVjsohite  exemj^tion  from  secular  authority,  and  ended  by  usurp- 
ing almost  the  whole  administration  of  justice.  Kings  were 
expected  to  olitain  its  sanction  as  a  security  to  their  thrones,  and 
to  hold  those  tlirones  i)y  compliance  with  its  demands.  It  could 
try  citizens,  but  ecclesiastics  were  amenable  to  it  only.  The 
mainspring  of  her  machinery  was  excomnuniication  and  interdict. 
The  former  was  equivalent  to  outlawrv.  The  victim  was  shunned, 
as  one  infected  with  the  leprosy,  by  his  servants,  his  friends,  his 


CHURCH    OF   ROME  —  MONASTICISM.  75 

family.  Two  attendants  only  remained  with  an  excommunicated 
king  of  France,  and  these  threw  all  the  meats  that  passed  his 
table  into  the  fire.  By  the  latter  —  inflicted  perhaps  to  revenge 
a  wounded  pride  —  a  county  or  a  kingdom  was  under  suspension 
of  religious  offices;  churches  were  closed,  bells  silent,  and  the 
dead  unburied.  She  also  derived  material  support  from  the  mul- 
titudinous monks,  who,  in  return  for  extensive  favors,  vied  with 
each  other  in  magnifying  the  papal  supremacy.  The  thirteenth 
century  was  the  noonday  of  her  predominance.  Rome  was  once 
more  the  Niobe  of  nations;  and  kings,  as  of  old,  paid  her  homage. 
Vast  sums  from  England  flowed  into  her  treasury,  can-ied  by 
pilgrims;  by  suitors  with  appeals  in  all  manner  of  disputes;  by 
prelates  going  thither  for  consecration  and  for  the  confirmation 
of  their  elections;  by  applicants  for  church  preferment,  which 
was  almost  exclusively  at  tlie  Pope's  disposal,  and  must  be 
bought;  by  Italian  priests  who,  pasturing  on  the  richest  bene- 
fices, drew  an  annual  sum  far  exceeding  the  royal  revenue.  In 
1300,  Boniface  VJII,  straining  to  a  higher  pitch  the  despotic 
pretensions  of  former  pontiffs,  is  said  to  have  appeared  at  a 
festival  dressed  in  imperial  habits,  with  two  swords  borne  before 
him,  emblems  of  his  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual  sovereignty 
over  the  earth. 

As  the  Church  rose  in  splendor,  she  sank  in  vice.  All  her 
institutions  had  been  noble  in  their  first  years,  but  success  had 
ruined  them.  The  monastic  movement,  inspired  by  a  strong 
religious  motive,  tended  to  soften  every  sentiment  of  pride,  to 
repress  all  worldly  desires,  to  make  preeminent  the  practice  of 
charity,  to  give  humility  a  foremost  place  in  the  hierarchy  of 
virtues.  Every  monastery  was  a  focus  whicli  radiated  benevo- 
lence. By  the  monk,  savage  nobles  were  overawed,  the  poor  pro- 
tected, wayfarers  comforted.  Legend  tells  how  St.  Christopher 
planted  himself,  with  his  little  boat,  by  a  bridgeless  stream,  to  ferry 
over  tnivellers.  Not  without  reward,  for  once,  embarking  on  a  very 
stormy  and  dangerous  night,  at  the  voice  of  distress,  he  received 
Christ.  Wlien  hideous  leprosy  extended  its  ravages  over  Euroj)e, 
while  the  minds  of  men  were  filled  with  terror  by  its  contagion 
and  supposed  supernatural  character,  monks  flocked  in  multitudes 
to  serve  in  the  hospitals.  Sometimes,  the  legends  say,  the  leper 
was  in  a  moment  transfigured,  and  he  who  came  in  mercy  to  the 


76  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

most  loathsome  of  mortals,  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  his 
Lord.  As  organized  later  by  St.  Benedict,  the  monastery  was 
the  asylum  of  peaceful  industry,  the  refuge  of  the  flying  peasant, 
the  retreat  of  the  timid,  the  abode  of  the  princely,  the  portal  to 
knowledge  and  dignity  for  the  inquisitive  and  ambitious,  a  field  of 
civilizing  activity  to  the  ardent  and  philanthropic,  the  symbol  of 
moral  power  in  an  age  of  turbulence  and  war,  the  fountain  whence 
issued  far  and  wide  a  constant  stream  of  missionaries, —  often  the 
nucleus  of  a  city,  where  had  been  gigantic  forests  and  inhos- 
pitable marshes.  In  the  tenth  century,  when  the  English  Church, 
inundated  by  the  Danes,  had  fallen  into  worldliness  and  ignorance, 
Dunstan  the  reformer  saw  in  vision  a  tree  of  wondrous  height 
stretching  its  branches  over  Britain,  its  boughs  laden  with  count- 
less cowls.  In  the  revival  of  a  stricter  monasticism,  he  fancied, 
lay  the  remedy  for  Church  abuses.  The  clergy  were  displaced 
by  monks,  bound  by  vows  to  a  life  of  celibacy  and  religious 
exercise.  Freed  ere  long  by  the  popes  from  the  control  of  the 
bishops,  they  speedily  became  ascendant  in  the  Church,  and  so 
continued  till  the  Reformation.  Parish  endowments  were  trans- 
ferred to  monasteries,  of  which  Dunstan  himself  established  forty- 
eight,  setting  an  example  widely  followed  in  every  quarter  of  the 
land.  Pious,  learned,  and  energetic  as  were  the  prelates  of  Will- 
iam's appointment,  they  were  not  English.  In  language,  manner, 
and  sympatliy,  they  were  thus  severed  from  the  lower  priesthood 
and  the  people;  and  the  whole  influence  of  the  Church  was  for 
the  moment  paralyzed.  In  the  twelfth  century  a  new  spirit  of 
devotion  woke  tlie  .slumber  of  the  religious  houses,  and  changed 
the  aspect  of  town  and  country.  Everywhere  men  banded  tliem- 
.selves  together  for  prayer,  hermits  flocked  to  the  woods,  noble 
and  churl  welcomed  the  austere  Cistercians,  a  reformed  offshoot 
of  the  Benedictine  order.  Their  rule  was  one  of  the  most  severe 
mortification  and  self-denial.  Their  lives  were  spent  in  labor  and 
prayc^r,  and  their  one  frugal  daily  meal  was  eaten  in  silence.  They 
humbly  asked  for  grants  of  land  in  the  most  solitary  places,  where 
they  could  meditate  in  retirement,  amidst  desolate  moors  and  the 
wild  gorges  of  inaceessil)le  mountains.  A  hundred  years  later, 
when  the  administration  of  forms  liad  become  the  sole  occupation 
of  the  clergy,  came  the  Fiiars, — Doininicans  and  Franciscans,  to 
win   back  the  public   esteem    and   reanimate   a  waning  religion. 


THE    MENDICANT    FRIARS.  77 

They  called  the  wind  their  brother,  the  water  their  sister,  and 
poverty  their  bride.  Incapable  by  the  principle  of  their  foundation 
of  possessing  estates,  they  subsisted  on  alms  and  pious  remunera- 
tions. 'You  need  no  little  mountains  to  lift  your  heads  to 
heaven,'  was  the  scornful  reply  of  Francis  to  a  request  for  pil- 
lows. Only  the  sick  went  shod.  An  Oxford  Friar  found  a  pair 
of  shoes  one  morning-,  and  wore  them.  At  night  he  dreamed  that 
robbers  leaped  on  him,  with  shouts  of  'Kill,  kill ! '  'I  am  a  Friar,' 
shrieked  the  terror-stricken  brother.  'You  lie,'  was  the  instant 
answer,  'for  you  go  shod.'  In  disproof  he  lifted  up  his  foot,  saw 
the  shoe,  and  in  an  agony  of  repentance  flung  the  pair  out  of  the 
window.     Says  a  contemporary: 

'The  Lord  added,  not  »o  much  a  new  order,  as  renewed  the  old,  raised  the  fallen, 
and  revived  religion,  now  almost  dead,  in  the  evening  of  the  world,  hastening  to  its  end, 
in  the  near  lime  of  the  Son  of  Perdition.  .  .  .  They  have  no  monasteries  or  churclies,  no 
fields,  or  vines,  or  beasts,  or  houses,  or  lands,  or  even  wliere  they  may  lay  their  head. 
They  wear  no  furs  or  linen,  only  woolen  gowns  with  a  hood;  no  head-coverings,  or 
cloaks,  or  mantles,  or  any  other  garments  have  they.  If  any  one  invite  them,  tliey  eat 
and  drink  what  is  set  before  them.  If  any  one,  in  charity,  give  them  anything,  they 
keep  nothing  of  it  to  the  morrow.' 

Self-sacrificing  love,  for  Christ,  was  the  sum  of  their  lives,  food 
and  shelter  their  reward.  The  recluse  of  the  cloister  was  ex- 
changed for  the  preacher.  As  the  older  orders  had  chosen  the 
country,  the  Friars  chose  the  town.  In  frocks  of  .serge  and 
girdles  of  rope,  they  wandered  bare-foot  on  errands  of  salvation, 
fixed  themselves  in  haunts  where  fever  and  ])estilence  festered, 
in  huts  of  mud  and  timber  mean  as  the  huts  around  them.  To 
the  burgher  and  artisan,  who  had  heard  the  mass-jiriest  in  ati 
unknown  tongue,  spelling  out  what  instruction  they  might  from 
gorgeous  ritual  and  graven  wall,  their  preaching,  fluent  and  famil- 
iar, was  a  wonder  and  a  delight.  Not  deviating  from  the  current 
faith,  they  professed  rather  to  teach  it  in  greater  purity,  while 
they  imputed  supineness  and  debasement  to  the  secular  clergy. 
They  addressed  the  crowd  in  the  pul)lic  streets,  with  fervid  appeal, 
rough  wit,  or  telling  anecdote,  and  administered  the  communion 
on  a  portable  altar,  carrying  the  multitude  })v  their  enthusiasm 
and  novelty.  Disinterested  sincerity  is  at  all  times  attractive  to 
the  popular  heart,  and,  when  a.ssoeiated  with  the  hopes  and  fears 
of  life,  is  irresistible.  These  Methodists  started  a  rin-olution. 
There  will  })e  atiother  such  five  hundred  vears  lience.  Ibid  they 
been  as  faithful  to  their  mission  as  tlie  Weslevs  to  their.s,  it  had 


78  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

been  well.  Seeing'  their  power  to  move  the  masses,  the  pontiffs 
accumulated  privileges  upon  them.  The  bishops  were  ordered  to 
secure  them  a  hearty  reception.  They  were  exempted  from  epis- 
copal supervision;  were  permitted  to  preach  or  hear  confessions 
without  leave  of  the  ordinary,  to  accept  legacies,  to  inter  any  who 
d'sired  it  in  their  enclosure.  The  door  was  thus  open  to  wealth, 
and  wealth  brought  ruin.  Even  so  early  as  1243,  Matthew  Paris 
writes  of  them: 

'It  is  only  twonty-foiir  years  since  they  built  their  first  houses  in  England,  and  now 
they  raise  buildings  like  palaces,  and  sliow  their  boundless  wealth  by  making  them 
daily  more  sunipiuons,  witli  great  rooms  and  lofty  ceilings,  impudently  transgressing 
the  vow-i  of  poverty  which  are  the  very  basis  of  their  order.  If  a  great  or  rich  man 
is  like  lo  <lie,  they  take  care  to  crowd  in,  to  the  injury  and  slight  of  the  clergy,  that  they 
may  hunt  up  money,  extort  confessions,  and  make  secret  wills,  always  seeking  the  good 
of  their  order,  as  their  one  end.  They  have  got  it  believed  that  no  one  can  hope  to  be 
saved  if  he  do  not  follow  the  Dominicans  or  Franciscans.  They  are  restless  in  trying 
to  get  privileges;  to  get  tlie  ear  of  kings  and  princes,  to  be  chamberlains,  treasurers, 
bride.<nu'n,  and  n\atch-inakers,  and  agents  of  pa|)al  extortions.  In  their  i)reaching,  they 
either  ilatter  or  abuse  without  bounds,  or  reveal  confessions,  or  gabble  nonsense.' 

So  had  it  ever  lieen, —  so,  under  a  similar  constitution,  must 
it  ever  be.  Vast  societies  living  in  enforced  celibacy,  exercising 
an  unl)ouiided  influence,  and  ])ossessing  enormous  riches,  inevit- 
ably become  hot-beds  of  corru|)tion,  when  the  zeal  that  created 
them  ex])ires.  Monk,  friar,  clergy,  po])e,  and  Church  reached 
ultimately  one  level.  'You  are  a  worthy  man,  though  a'ou  be  a 
])riest,''  savs  a  female  speaker  in  a  jkxmu  of  the  times.  A  bislioj) 
t)f  the  thirteenth  ciMiturv,  wliile  Cf)nsecrating  a  church,  was  ad- 
(Ire.'^siMl  by  the  devil,  who  stood  behind  the  altar  in  a  pontifical 
vestment:  'Cease  from  conserratiiig  the  cliui-cli;  for  it  ])ertainet}i 
to  mv  jurisdiction,  since  it  is  built  from  the  fruits  of  usuries  and 
rol)})eries.'  To  give  monev  to  the  priests  was  the  chief  article 
of  the  moral  (ode.  tlic  surest  means  of  atoning  for  crime  and 
gaining  Paradis(\  'i'ln-  cccjesia.stical  courts  were  jierennial  foun- 
tains, feeding  the  ecclesiastical  coffiM'S.  Instituted  to  visit  with 
teni))or;il  ])enalties  the  breach  of  the  moral  law,  thev  were  imple- 
ments of  niiscliief,  a  jmblic  scandal  and  o])]>ression,  when  saints 
had  ceas*'!!  to  wield  tliein.  So  eoirn])t  w(>re  both  ])riests  and 
moId^s,  that  an  Kiiglish  bislio))  had  to  forbid  those  of  his  diocese 
from  '  haunt  inu'  taverns,  gaml)ling.  or  drinking,  and  from  rioting 
or  deliauclieiv."  The  eoinmon  degeneracy  was  tlu^  normal  result 
of  the  jirofoiind  (■orru])tion  at  tin'  centre  of  the  ( 'hurch  —  the 
See  of    Home.      Savs  Dante,  addressing  the  ])opes: 


DISAFFECTION    OF   THE    LAITY.  79 

'Of  gold  and  silver  ye  have  made  your  god; 
Differing  wherein  from  an  idolater 
But  that  he  worships  one,  a  hundred  ye?' 

Four  of  them,  of  his  own  day,  he  locates  in  hell,  and  makes  the 
last  say: 

'  Under  my  head  are  dragged 
The  rest,  my  predecessors  in  the  guilt 
Of  simony.'    Stretched  at  their  length  they  lie.' 

To  the  ambition  of  the  Papacy  a  spirit  of  resistance,  especially 
in  England,  had  not  been  wanting.  William  the  Conqueror, 
asserting  the  royal  supremacy,  had  sternly  refused  to  do  fealty  for 
his  throne,  and  exacted  homage  from  bishops  as  from  barons. 
While  the  effect  of  his  policy  had  been  to  weld  the  English 
Church  more  firmly  with  Rome  —  a  dependence  from  which  it 
liad  hitherto  been  preserved  by  its  insular  position  —  he  had 
vigorously  maintained  the  subjection  of  the  ecclesiastical  to  the 
civil.  Henry  II,  vindicating  the  authority  of  the  state,  had  re- 
quired that  every  priest  degraded  for  his  misdeeds  should  be 
given  up  to  the  civil  tribunals.  Edward  I  had  compelled  the 
clergy  to  pay  taxes  and  forbidden  bequests  to  any  religious 
bodies  without  the  king's  license.  Pillaged  by  the  pope  upon 
every  slight  pretence,  without  law  and  without  redress,  chafed 
by  the  immunities  of  the  mendicant  orders,  the  clergy  came  to 
regard  their  once  paternal  monarch  as  an  arbitrary  oppressor. 
The  venality  and  avarice  of  pope,  clergy,  and  mendicants,  were 
sa])ping  the  ancient  reverence  of  the  people  for  eacii.  Among 
the  laity,  a  spirit  of  inveterate  hatred  had  grown  up,  not  only 
towards  the  papal  tyranny,  but  the  whole  ecclesiastical  system. 
It  was  complained  that  English  money  was  pouring  into  Pome; 
that  the  best  livings  were  given  by  the  Roman  See  to  non-resi- 
dent strangers;  that  the  clergy,  being  judged  only  by  the  clergy, 
abandoned  themselves  to  their  vices,  and  abused  their  state  of 
immunity.  In  the  first  years  of  the  reign  of  Henry  HI,  a  hundred 
murders  were  committed  by  priests  then  alive.  Walter  Map,  a 
bright  man  of  the  world,  with  a  high  purpose*  in  his  life,  had 
])orsonified  the  prevalent  corruption  mider  the  ussuiuihI  name 
of  a  gluttonous  dignitary, —  Bishop  Golias,^  who  confesses  the 
levity  of  liis  iniiid,  its  lustful  desiri^s;  recalls  the  tavern  he  has 
never  .scorned,  nor  will  till  the  angels  sing  his  rcquicMii;   images 

^15uyin<j;  or  solliiii;  eccU'siasticiil  pri'fiTiiu'iit.  *  From  (pila,  tlic  i^iiUct. 


80  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

the  heavons  opening  upon  him  as  he  lies  intoxicated,  too  weak 
to  hold  the  wine  cup  he  has  put  to  his  lips,  so  dying  in  his 
shame:  'What  1  set  before  me  is  to  die  in  a  tavern;  let  there 
be  wine  put  to  my  mouth  when  I  am  dying,  that  the  choirs  of 
the  angels  when  they  come  may  say,  "The  grace  of  God  be  on 
this  bibber!"'  Golias'  poetry  became  a  fashion,  and  the  earnest 
man  of  genius  had  plenty  of  co-laborers. 

We  must  think  of  these  things  if  we  would  understand  the 
deep  union  that  subsists  between  literature  and  religion,  if  we 
would  comprehend  the  signs  of  the  times  and  the  voices  of  the 
future,  or  interpret  the  countless  crowd  of  quaint  and  often 
beautiful  legends  which,  while  they  witness  to  the  activity  of 
the  time,  reveal,  better  than  decrees  of  councils,  what  was  real- 
ized in  the  imagination  or  enshrined  in  the  heart. 

We  must  think  of  them,  too,  if  we  would  understand  that 
grand  awakening  of  reason  and  conscience  which  is  the  Refor- 
mation. Every  great  change  has  its  root  in  the  soul,  long  pre- 
paring, far  back  in  the  national  soil.  Already  have  we  had 
premonitory  throes  of  the  moral  earthquake.  We  shall  see  the 
storm  gather  and  pass,  once  and  again,  without  breaking.  The 
discontent  will  sjiread.  The  welling  spring,  despite  the  efforts 
to  repress  it,  will  l)ubblc  and  leap,  till  its  surplus  overflows, 
bursting  asunder  its  constraint.  While  men  of  low  birth  and 
low  estate  are  stealing  by  night  along  the  lanes  and  alleys  of 
I^ondon,  carrying  some  dear  treasure  of  books  at  the  peril  of 
their  lives,  the  finger  that  crawls  around  the  dial  plate  will 
touch  the  hour,  and  the  mighty  fabric  of  iniquity  will  be  shivered 
into  ruins. 

But  amid  the  sins  and  failings  of  the  Church,  let  us  not  for- 
get the  ])riceless  blessings  she  bestowed  u])on  mankind.  The 
inundations  of  barbarian  invasion  left  her  a  virgin  soil,  and  made 
her  for  a  long  ])eriod  the  cliicf  and  indeed  the  sole  centre  of 
civilization, —  the  one  mighty  witness  for  light  in  an  age  of  dark- 
ness, for  order  in  an  age  of  lawlessness,  for  personal  holiness  in 
an  epoch  of  licentious  rage. 

She  su])pressed  tlie  bloody  and  inihrutiiig  games  of  the  amphi- 
theatre, discourage(l  the  enslavement  of  jirisoners,  redeemed  cap- 
tives from  servitude,  establislie(l  slowly  the  international  prin- 
ciple that   no  Christian  j)risoners  should   be  reduced  to  slavery; 


REDEEMING    EXCELLENCES.  81 

created  a  new  warrior  ideal, —  the  ideal  knight  of  the  Crusades 
and  chivalry,  wedding  the  Christian  virtues  of  humility  and  ten- 
derness with  the  natural  graces  of  courtesy  and  strength,  rarely 
or  never  perfectly  realized,  yet  the  type  and  model  of  warlike 
excellence  to  which  many  generations  aspired. 

She  imparted  a  moral  dignity  to  the  servile  class,  by  intro- 
ducing into  the  ideal  type  of  morals  the  servile  virtues  of  humil- 
ity, obedience,  gentleness,  patience,  resignation;  and  by  associ- 
ating poverty  and  labor  with  the  monastic  life  so  profoundly 
revered.  When  men,  awed  and  attracted  by  reports  of  the 
sanctity  and  miracles  of  some  illustrious  saint,  made  pilgrimages 
to  behold  him,  and  found  him  in  peasant's  garb,  with  a  scythe  on 
his  shoulder,  sharing  and  superintending  the  work  of  the  farm, 
or  sitting  in  a  small  attic  mending  lamps,  they  could  hardly  fail 
to  return  with  an  increased  sense  of  the  dignity  of  toil. 

By  inclining  the  moral  type  to  the  servile  position,  she  gave 
an  unexampled  impetus  to  the  movement  of  enfranchisement. 
The  multitude  of  slaves  who  embraced  the  new  faith  was  one  of 
the  reproaches  of  the  Pagans.  The  first  and  grandest  edifice  of 
Byzantine  architecture  in  Italy  was  dedicated  by  Justinian  to  the 
memory  of  a  martyred  slave.  Manumission,  though  not  pro- 
claimed a  matter  of  duty  or  necessity,  was  always  regarded  as 
one  of  the  most  acceptable  expiations  of  sin.  Clergy  and  laity 
freed  their  slaves  as  an  act  of  piety.  It  became  customary  to  do 
so  on  occasions  of  national  or  personal  thanksgiving,  on  recovery 
from  sickness,  on  the  birth  of  a  child,  at  the  hour  of  death,  in 
testamentary  bequests.  In  the  thirteentli  century,  when  there 
were  no  slaves  to  emancipate  in  France,  caged  pigeons  were 
released  on  ecclesiastical  festivals,  in  memory  of  tiie  ancient 
charity,  and  that  prisoners  might  still  be  freed  in  the  name  of 
Christ. 

None  of  her  achievements  are  more  truly  great  than  those  she 
effected  in  the  sphere  of  charity.  For  the  first  time  in  history, 
she  inspired  thousands  to  devote  their  entire  lives,  through  saeri- 
lice  and  danger,  to  the  single  object  of  assuaging  the  sufl'erings 
of  humanity.  TTniting  the  idea  of  supreme  goodness  with  that 
of  active  and  constant  l)enevoleiice,  she  covered  the  glolx-  witli 
institutions  of  mercy  miknown  to  pagan  Rome  ami  (rreece. 
Through  disastrous  eclipse  and  wintry  night,  we  may  trace  the 
G 


82  FORMATIVE   PERIOD — THE   LITERATURE. 

subduing  influence  of  her  spell,  blending  strangely  with  every 
excess  of  violence  and  every  outburst  of  superstition.  Of  an 
Irish  chieftain  —  the  most  ferocious  that  ever  defied  the  English 
power  —  it  is  related,  amid  a  legion  of  horrible  crimes,  that,  'sit- 
ting at  meat,  before  he  put  one  morsel  into  his  mouth,  he  would 
slice  a  portion  above  the  daily  alms,  and  send  it  to  some  beggar 
at  the  gate,  saying  it  was  meet  to  serve  Christ  first.' 

The  monastic  bodies  that  everywhere  arose,  were  an  invalu- 
able counterpoise  to  military  violence;  pioneers  in  most  forms  of 
peaceful  labor;  green  spots  in  a  wilderness  of  rapine  and  tumult, 
where  the  feeble  and  persecuted  could  find  refuge.  As  secure 
repositories  for  books,  when  libraries  were  almost  unknown,  they 
bridged  the  chaos  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  linked  the  two  periods 
of  ancient  and  modern  civilization. 

The  Church  peopled  the  imagination  with  forms  of  tender 
beauty  and  gentle  pathos,  which  —  more  than  any  dogmatic  teach- 
ing—  softened  and  transformed  the  character,  till  it  learned  to 
realize  the  sanctity  of  weakness  and  the  majesty  of  compassion. 
Tlie  lowliness  and  sorrow  of  her  Founder,  the  grace  of  His  person, 
the  agonies  of  Gethsemane  or  of  Calvary,  the  gentleness  of  the 
Virgin  Mother,  are  the  pictures  which,  for  eighteen  hundred  years, 
have  inspired  the  hearts  of  men  with  an  impassioned  love,  formed 
the  governing  ideals  of  the  rudest  and  most  ignorant,  furnished 
the  highest  patterns  of  virtue  and  the  strongest  incentives  to  its 
practice.  Here,  in  the  character  and  example  of  the  crucified 
Nazarenc,  Christianity  finds  an  enduring  principle  of  regenera- 
tion, by  which,  though  shrouded  by  disastrous  eclipse  or  dimmed 
by  passing  mist,  her  light  is  never  quenched, —  by  which,  when 
luxury,  ambition,  worldlinoss  and  vice  have  wounded  her  well- 
nigli  to  <l'>ath,  she  lias  renowod  her  strength  like  the  eagle,  has 
run  and  not  l)e(Mi  weary,  has  walked  and  not  been  faint.  So  has 
her  mightiest  apology,  from  ago  to  age,  been  lives  of  holiness 
and  fidelity;  and  never,  though  she  seemed  to  be  dying,  has  she 
lacked  such.  Side  by  side  with  those  who  lived  and  schemed  in 
ecclesiastical  polities  as  their  chosen  element,  wore  men  to  whom 
worldly  lionors  were  indifTorent, —  to  whose  meekness  and  self- 
denial,  more  than  to  diadem,  tiara,  sword,  or  logic,  she  owes  lior 
en)]iire  over  the  human  h(»art. 

Learning. — From   the   age  of  Augustus,   Latin   and  Greek 


LOW   STATES   OF   LEARNING.  83 

learning  which  we  call  ancient  or  classical,  sensibly  declined,  first 
by  organic  decay;  and  its  downfall,  begun  by  disease,  was  acceler- 
ated by  violence.  Libraries  were  destroyed,  schools  closed,  and 
intellectual  energy  of  a  secular  kind  almost  ceased,  in  the  irrup- 
tion of  the  Northern  barbarians,  who  gloried  in  their  original 
rudeness,  and  viewed  with  disdain  arts  that  had  neither  preserved 
their  cultivators  from  degeneracy  nor  raised  them  from  servitude. 

A  collateral  cause  of  this  prostration  was  the  neglect,  by  the 
Christian  Church,  of  Pagan  literature.  For  the  most  part,  the 
study  of  the  Latin  classics  was  positively  discouraged.  The 
writers,  it  was  believed,  were  burning  in  hell.  When  a  monk, 
under  the  discipline  of  silence,  desired  to  ask  for  Virgil,  Horace, 
or  other  Gentile  author,  he  was  wont  to  signify  his  wish  by 
scratching  his  ear  like  a  dog,  to  which  animal  it  was  thought  the 
Pagans  might  properly  be  compared. 

The  human  intellect,  sinking  deeper  every  age  into  stupidity 
and  superstition,  reached  its  lowest  point  of  depression  about  the 
middle  of  the  eleventh  century.  On  the  survey  of  society,  no 
circumstance  is  so  prominent  as  the  depth  of  ignorance  in  which 
it  was  immersed.  It  was  rare  for  a  layman,  of  whatever  rank,  to 
know  how  to  sign  his  name.  Contracts  were  made  verbally. 
The  royal  charters,  instead  of  the  names  of  the  kings,  sometimes 
exhibit  their  mark  —  the  cross.  In  England,  Alfred  declares  that 
he  could  not  recollect  a  single  priest  who,  at  his  accession,  under- 
stood the  common  prayers,  or  could  render  a  Latin  sentence  into 
English. 

The  darkness  which  reigned  far  and  wide  was  rendered  un- 
avoidable, among  other  causes,  by  the  scarcity  of  books,  which  — 
as  they  were  in  manuscript  form,  and  written  or  copied  with 
cost,  labor,  and  delay  —  could  be  procured  only  at  an  immense 
price.  In  855,  a  French  abbot  sent  two  of  his  monks  to  the 
Pope,  to  beg  a  copy  of  Cicero's  I)e  Oratore,  of  Quintilian's  Insti- 
txtis,  and  some  others;  'for,  although  we  have  part  of  these 
books,  yet  there  is  no  whole  or  complete  copy  of  thcni  in  all 
France.'  In  Spain  at  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  century  one 
and  the  same  copy  of  the  Bible  often  served  different  monas- 
teries. In  1'20!),  the  bishop  of  Winchester,  borrowing  a  copy  of 
the  Bible  with  marginal  notes,  gives  a  solenni  bond  for  due 
return  of  the  loan.     A  book  donated  to  a  relisiious  house  was 


84  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

believed  to  merit  eternal  salvation,  and  was  offered  on  the  altar 
with  great  ceremony.  Sometimes  a  book  was  given  to  a  private 
party,  with  the  reservation,  'Pray  for  my  soul,'  When  a  book 
was  bought,  persons  of  consequence  and  character  were  assem- 
bled to  make  formal  record  that  they  were  present  on  the  occa- 
sion. It  was  common  to  lend  money  on  the  deposit  of  a  book. 
In  the  universities  were  chests  for  the  reception  of  books  so 
deposited.  Bede  records  that  Benedict  sold  a  volume  to  his 
sovereign  Alfred  for  eight  hides  of  land  —  about  eight  hundred 
acres. 

Moreover,  when  Latin  ceased  to  be  a  living  tongue,  the  whole 
treasury  of  knowledge  was  locked  up  from  the  eyes  of  the  peo- 
ple. In  this  linguistic  corpse  were  sealed  the  Scriptures,  the 
liturgy,  and  the  teachings  of  the  Christian  Fathers,  and  there 
they  were  tenaciously  held.  Through  this  venerable  medium,  as 
a  learned  language,  the  Church  of  Rome  stood  in  an  attitude 
strictly  European,  enabled  to  maintain  a  general  international 
relation.  Its  prevalence  was  the  condition  of  her  unity,  and 
therefore  of  her  power.  Thus,  intent  upon  her  own  emoluments 
and  temporalities,  by  guarding  from  the  unlearned  vulgar  this 
key  to  erudition,  she  was  yet  the  sole  hope  for  literature.  Learn- 
ing was  confined  almost  wholly  to  the  ecclesiastical  order.  Manu- 
scripts found  secure  repositories  in  the  abbeys,  which  floated 
througli  the  storms  of  war  and  conquest,  like  the  Ark  upon  the 
waves  of  the  flood;  in  the  midst  of  violence  remaining  inviolate, 
througli  the  awful  reverence  which  surrounded  them.  The  mon- 
astery became  the  one  sphere  of  intellectual  labor.  Here  with  no 
craving  for  human  fame,  were  composed  the  sermons  and  de- 
fences of  mediit'val  faith,  and  the  voluminous  Lives  of  Saints  — 
heroic  patterns  of  excellence  which  each  Christian  within  his  own 
limits  was  endeavoring  to  realize.  Here  the  monkish  scholar,  his 
hopes  fixed  upon  the  pardon  of  his  sins  and  the  rewards  of  the 
unseen  life,  pursued  his  studies  in  a  spirit  which  has  now  almost 
faded  from  the  world.  In  the  dee))  calm  and  chilly  barrenness  of 
the  r>rn'j>fon'>'/n — what  the  ])rinting-office  is  to  us  —  might  be 
seen  the  sombre  figures  of  the  tonsured  workmen,  whose  task  it 
was,  seated  at  the  rude  desks  or  tables,  to  copy  and  adorn,  letter 
by  letter,  point  by  j)oint,  the  precious  manuscripts  that  filled  the 
wooden  chests  ranged  around  the  naked  stone  walls.      AVith  pen- 


GRADUAL  RENEWAL — UNIVERSITIES.  85 

cil  of  hair,  pen  of  reed  or  quill,  and  ink  of  many-hued  splendors, 
the  artist  laid  on  colors  and  produced  designs  which  for  richness 
and  beauty  command  our  admiration;  on  papyrus  or  parchment, 
writing  the  headings  in  bright  red;  forming  the  initial  letter  of 
a  chapter  with  a  brilliant  tracery,  in  scarlet  and  gold  and  blue 
lace-work,  of  intermingled  flowers  and  birds;  tracing  in  black 
the  thick  perpendicular  strokes  of  the  text-hand;  then  when  the 
book  is  finished  —  which  may  be  the  work  of  years  if  the  decora- 
tions are  minute  and  profuse,  painting  the  title  in  scarlet,  with 
the  name  of  the  copyist  in  colors  at  the  foot  of  the  last  page, 
and  a  marginal  embroidery  of  angelic  and  human  figures,  birds, 
beasts  and  fishes,  flowers,  shells  and  leaves. 

But  as  in  the  natural  world  every  night  brightens  into  a  new 
morning,  so  in  the  spiritual  the  sun  of  science,  having  reached  its 
nadir  of  decline,  begins  its  reascension  to  the  zenith,  throwing 
out  many  premonitory  gleams  of  light  ere  the  dawn  reddens  into 
the  lustre  of  day. 

The  leading  circumstances  in  the  gradual  renewal  of  European 
thought  are  the  study  of  civil  law,  presaging  progress  in  the  sci- 
ence of  government;  the  development  of  modern  languages,  with 
its  taste  for  poetry  and  its  swarm  of  lay  poets;  the  cultivation,  in 
the  twelfth  century,  of  Latin  classics,  quotations  from  which,  how- 
ever, during  the  Dark  Ages,  were  hardly  to  be  called  unusual; 
the  partial  restoration  of  Greek  literature  —  mathematical,  physi- 
cal, and  metaphysical,  which,  with  the  exception  of  scattered 
instances  where  some  'petty  patristic  treatise'  or  later  commenta- 
tor on  Aristotle  was  rendered  into  Latin,  had  been  almost  entirely 
forgotten  within  the  pale  of  the  Romish  Church,  but  now  in  the 
eleventh  century,  imported  across  the  Pyrenees  into  France  from 
tlie  Arab  conquerors  of  Spain,  glimmered  with  pulsation  of  — 

'That  earlier  dawn 

Whose  glimpses  are  again  withdrawn, 
As  if  the  morn  had  waked,  and  then 
Shut  close  her  lids  of  light  again.' 

Lastly,  as  the  special  mark  of  that  new  fervor  of  study  which 
sprang  up  in  the  West  from  its  contact  with  the  more  civilized 
East, —  the  institution  of  universities. 

From  an  early  period,  in  England  as  well  as  elsewhere,  th(M-e 
were  schools,  though  in  general  confined  to  the  cathedrals  and 
monasteries,    atid    designed    exclusively    for    religious    purposes. 


86  FORMATIVE    PERIOD — THE   LITERATURE. 

Nor  is  it  to  be  presumed  that  the  laity,  though  excluded,  as  a 
rule,  from  the  benefits  of  a  liberal  training,  were  left  wholly  with- 
out the  means  of  obtaining  some  elementary  instruction.  Canter- 
bury, Yarrow,  and  York  commemorate  the  golden  age  of  Old 
English  scholarship.  Alcuin  was  called  from  the  last  to  the  court 
of  Charlemagne,  to  assist  him  in  the  educational  reform  of  France. 
In  a  letter  to  his  patron  he  enumerates,  in  the  fantastic  rhetoric 
of  the  period,  the  branches  in  which  he  instructed  his  pupils  at 
Paris: 

'To  some  I  administer  the  honey  of  the  sacred  writings;  others  I  try  to  inebriate 
with  the  wine  of  the  ancient  classics.  I  begin  the  nourishment  of  some  with  the  apples 
of  grammatical  subtlety.  I  strive  to  illuminate  many  by  the  arrangement  of  the  stars, 
as  from  the  paiut'jd  roof  of  a  lofty  palace." 

That  is.  Grammar,  Greek  and  Latin,  Astronomy  and  Theology. 
Here  is  a  specimen  of  the  literary  conversations  of  the  palace 
school: 

'What  is  writing?— The  guardian  of  History.  What  is  speech?— The  interpreter  of 
the  soul.  What  is  it  that  gives  birth  to  speech? — The  tongue.  What  is  the  tongue?  — 
The  whip  of  the  air.  What  is  air?— The  jjreserver  of  life.  What  is  life? — A  joy  for  the 
happy,  a  pain  for  the  miserable,  the  expectation  of  death.  What  is  death? — An  inevi- 
table event,  an  uncertain  voyage,  a  subject  of  tears  for  the  living,  the  confirmation  of 
testaments,  the  robber  of  men.  .  .  .  What  is  heaven? — \  moving  sphere,  an  immense 
vault.  What  is  light?— The  torch  of  all  things.  What  is  the  day?— A  call  to  labor. 
What  is  the  sun?— The  splendor  of  the  universe,  the  beauty  of  the  firmament,  the  grace 
of  nature,  the  gli.ry  of  the  day,  the  distributor  of  the  hours.  .  .  .  What  is  friendship?  — 
The  similarity  of  souls.  .  .  . 

'.\s  you  are  a  youth  of  good  disjiosition,  and  endowed  with  natural  capacity,  I  will 
put  to  you  several  other  unusual  questions:  endeavor  to  solve  them.— I  will  do  my  best; 
if  I  make  nustaives,  you  must  correct  them.  I  shall  do  as  you  desire.  Some  one  who  is 
unltnown  to  me  has  conversed  with  me,  having  no  tongue  and  no  voice;  he  was  not 
before,  he  will  not  be  hereafter,  and  I  neither  heard  nor  knew  him.  What  means  this? 
— Perhaps  a  dream  moved  you,  master?  E.xactly  so,  my  son.  Still  another  one.  I  have 
seen  tin-  dead  en::ender  the  livin<:,  and  the  dead  consumed  by  the  breath  of  the  living. 
— Fire  was  born  from  the  rubbing  of  branches,  and  it  consumed  the  branches.' 

Such  are  the  giants  of  a  generation  —  glimmering  lights  that, 
hardly  breaking  the  leaden  cloud  of  ignorance,  owe  much  of  their 
distinction  to  the  surrounding  gloom.  The  studies  pursued  at 
York,  the  same  writer  informs  us,  comprehended,  besides  gram- 
mar, rhetoric,  and  poetry, — 

'The  hnrmnny  of  tlie  sky,  the  labor  of  tiie  sun  and  moon,  the  five  zones,  the  seven 
wanderini:  plani'ts:  the  laws,  risings,  and  setting's  of  the  stars,  and  the  aerial  motions 
of  the  sea:  eartlKiuakes ;  the  nature  of  man.  cattle,  birds,  and  wild  beasts,  with  their 
various  kinds  and  forms;  and  tlie  >M(red  Scriptures." 

In  short,  a  long  established  division  of  literary  and  scientific 
knowledge  was  the  lYicinm,  embracing  Grammar,  Rhetoric,  and 


PRIMITIVE    OXFORD.  87 

Logic;  and  Quadrivium,  embracing  Music,  Arithmetic,  Geom- 
etry, and  Astronomy;  all  of  which  were  referred  to  theology,  and 
that  in  the  narrowest  manner..  To  be  perfect  in  the  three  former 
was  a  rare  accomplishment;  and  scarcely  any  one  mastered  the 
latter  four.  John  of  Salisbury,  writing  in  the  twelfth  century, 
when  the  simplicity  of  this  arrangement  had  been  outgrown,  says: 

*  The  Trivium  and  the  Quadrivium  were  so  much  admired  by  our  ancestors  in  former 
ages,  that  they  imagined  they  comprehended  all  wisdom  and  learning,  and  were  suffi- 
cient for  the  solution  of  all  questions  and  the  removing  of  all  difficulties;  for  whoever 
nnderslood  the  Trivium  could  explain  all  manner  of  books  without  a  teacher;  but  he 
who  was  farther  advanced,  and  was  master  also  of  Quadrivium,  could  answer  all  ques- 
tions and  unfold  all  the  secrets  of  nature.' 

But  in  the  twelfth  century,  the  older  educational  foundations 
burst  into  the  larger,  freer  life  of  the  universities,  whose  demo- 
cratic spirit  threatened  feudalism,  and  whose  intellectual  spirit 
threatened  the  Church,  though  to  outer  seeming  they  were  eccle- 
siastical bodies.  None  of  these  grew  so  early  into  fame  as  that 
of  Paris,  unrivalled  for  theological  discussion.  Here  the  rational- 
ism of  Abelard,  the  knight-errant  of  philosophy,  drew  down  the 
menaces  of  councils  and  the  thunders  of  Rome.  Said  the  Coun- 
cil of  Sens  in  1140: 

'He  makes  void  the  whole  Christian  faith  by  attempting  to  comprehend  the  nature 
of  God  through  human  reason.  He  ascends  up  into  Heaven;  he  goes  down  into  hell. 
Nothing  can  elude  him,  either  in  the  height  above  or  in  the  nethermost  dei)ths.  His 
branches  spread  over  the  whole  earth.  He  boasts  that  he  has  disciples  in  Rome  itself, 
even  in  the  College  of  Cardinals.  He  draws  the  whole  earth  after  him.  It  is  time, 
therefore,  to  silence  him  by  apostolic  authority.' 

So  great  was  the  influx  of  his  disciples,  that  the  boundaries  of 
the  city  were  enlarged.  When  he  retired  to  solitude  the  wilder- 
ness became  a  town.  Twenty  cardinals  and  fifty  bishops  had 
been  among  his  hearers. 

At  the  opening  of  the  thirteenth  century,  Oxford  was  second 
only  to  Paris  in  the  multitude  of  its  students  and  the  celebrity 
of  its  disputations.  Thirty  thousand  scholars,  thinking  more  of 
success  in  polemics  than  of  the  truths  involved,  swelled  the  stir 
and  turbulence  of  its  life.  Yet  be  not  deceived.  Thousands 
of  pupils  poorly  lodged,  clustering  around  teachers  as  poor  as 
themselves, —  drinking,  quarrelling,  begging;  retainers  fighting 
out  the  feuds  of  their  young  lords  in  the  streets;  roisterer  and 
reveller  roaming  with  torches  through  the  dark  and  filthy  lanes, 
defying  bailiffs  and  cutting  down  citizens;  a  tavern  row  spread- 


88  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

ing  into  a  general  broil,  bells  clanging  to  arms, —  this  is  the 
seething,  surging  Oxford  of  mediiwal  history.  Upon  the  vision 
of  these  young  and  valiant  minds  flashed,  as  they  thought,  the 
temple  of  truth,  and  they  rushed  at  it  headlong,  as  knightly 
warriors  with  battle-axe  might  storm  a  castle. 

Lang^ag^e. — The  principal  literature  was  in  Latin,  and,  after 
the  Conquest,  in  French.  The  former — the  only  language  in 
which  the  scholar  might  hope  to  address,  not  merely  the  few 
among  a  single  people,  but  the  whole  Republic  of  Letters  —  was 
used  in  books  habitually,  as  the  connnon  language  of  the  edu- 
cated throughout  Europe.  In  it  were  written,  in  particular, 
most  works  on  subjects  of  theology,  science,  and  history;  in  the 
latter,  those  intended  rather  to  amuse  than  to  instruct,  and  ad- 
dressed, not  to  students,  but  to  the  idlers  of  the  court  and  the 
gentry,  by  whom  they  were  seldom  read,  but  only  heard  as  they 
were  recited  or  chanted.  In  the  thirteenth  century,  French  ac- 
quired that  widely  diffused  currency  as  a  generally  known  and 
hence  convenient  common  medium  which  it  has  ever  since  main- 
tained. A  Venetian  annalist  of  the  time  composed  his  chronicle 
in  it,  because,  to  use  his  own  words:  'The  French  tongue  is  cur- 
rent throughout  the  world,  and  is  more  delectable  to  read  and 
hear  than  any  other.'  Dante's  teacher  employed  it,  and  thus 
apologized  for  using  it  instead  of  Italian: 

'  If  any  shall  ask  why  this  book  is  writti'ii  in  Romance,  according  to  the  patois  of 
France,  I  beinj,'  born  Italian,  I  will  say  it  is  for  divers  reasons.  The  one  is  that  I  am 
now  in  France:  the  other  is  that  French  is  the  most  delightsome  of  tongues,  and  par- 
taketh  most  of  tlie  common  nature  of  all  other  languages.' 

Its  frequent  use  by  English  writers  is  to  be  ascribed,  not  wholly 
to  the  predominance  of  Norman  influence,  but,  in  a  considerable 
degree,  to  tiio  fact  that,  for  the  time,  it  occupied  much  the  same 
position  as  had  hitherto  })een  awarded  to  the  Latin  as  the  com- 
mon dialect  of  learned  Europe. 

Of  the  vernacular,  many  of  the  most  important  terms,  ethical 
and  mental,  had  becotno  obsolete.  Of  foreign  words  in  it,  there 
wore  yet  relatively  few.  The  whole  number  of  Romance  deri- 
vatives found  in  the  ])riiited  works  of  authors  of  the  thirteenth 
century  scarcely  excerils  one  thousand,  or  one-eighth  of  the  total 
vocabulary  of  that  era.  What  would  the  myriad-minded  Shake- 
S])eare,  with   his  vast  requirement  of  fifteen  thousand,  have  done 


POETRY    OLDER   THAN    PROSE.  89 

in  this  age,  with  its  pittance  of  eight  thousand  words?  The  fol- 
lowing extract  is  from  the  Proclamation  of  Henry  III,  addressed 
in  1258  to  the  people  of  Huntingdon,  copies  being  sent  to  all  the 
shires  of  England  and  Ireland.  Prepositions,  it  will  be  observed, 
are  doino-  the  work  of  the  lost  inflections;  and  the  sense  is  made 
to  depend  upon  the  sequence  of  the  words  alone: 

'  Henry,  thurg  Godes  fultume  '  Henry,  through  Gods  grace 
King  on  Englene-loande  .  .  .  king  in  England  .  .  . 
uend  igretinge  to  all  hise  sends  greeting  to  all  his 
halde  ilaerde  and  ilaewede.  subjects,  learned  and  unlearned. 
Thaet  witen  ye  wel  alle,  thaet  we  Thi^^  know  ye  well  all,  that  we 
willen  and  unnen  thaet  thaet  ure  raedes-  will  and  grant,  that  what  our  council- 
men  alle  other,  the  moare  dael  of  heom,  lors  all  or  the  more  deal  of  them, 
thaet  beoth  ichosen  thurg  us.  .  .  .  And  that  are  chosen  by  us.  .  .  .  And 
this  wes  idon  act  foreu  ure  isworene  redes-       this  was  done  before  our  sworn  council- 
men.    And  al  on  tho  ilche  worden  is  lors.    And  all  in  the  same  words  is 
isend  in  to  aeurihce  othre  schirc  over  all  sent  into  every  other  shire  over  all 
thaere  kuneriche  on  Englene-loande  and  ek     the  kingdom  in  England  and  eke 
Intel  Irelaude.'  into  Ireland.' 

The  popular  speech  was  forcing  its  way  to  the  throne. 

Poetry. — In  early  periods,  feeling  and  fancy,  with  nations  as 
with  children,  are  strongest.  Emotion  seeks  utterance  before 
logic;  and  the  natural  expression  of  emotion  is  a  chant,  a  song. 
There  is  a  real  kinship  between  the  waves  of  excited  feeling  and 
the  rhythmical  cadence  of  words  which  utter  it.  Early  literature, 
therefore,  is  almost  exclusively  one  of  poetry.  Language,  too, 
then  picturesque  and  bold,  lives  chiefly  on  the  tongue  and  in  the 
ear;  and  poetry,  by  its  rhythm,  uniting  with  the  charm  of  music, 
allows  an  oral  transfer  which  prose  does  not.  Rhythm  —  the 
recurrence  of  sounds  and  silences  at  regular  intervals  of  time, 
the  essential  principle  of  poetry  —  is  the  oldest  and  widest  artistic 
instinct  in  man;  for  man  is  the  emotive  part  of  nature,  and  the 
nioveitient  of  nature,  it  is  the  grand  distinction  of  modern  science 
to  have  shown,  is  rhythmic.  Light  and  heat  go  in  undulations; 
the  seasons,  the  sun-spots,  come  and  go  in  correspondencies;  the 
variable  stars  brighten  and  pale  at  rhythmic  intervals;  the  ocean- 
tides  and  trade-winds  flow  by  rhythmic  rule;  planet,  satellite,  and 
comet  revolve  and  return  in  proportionate  periods.  The  mystic 
Hindoo's  doctrine  of  the  primal  diffusion  of  matter  in  space,  the 
aggregation  of  atoms  into  worlds,  the  revolution  of  these  worlds, 
their  necessary  absorption  into  Brahma,  their  necessary  rediffu- 
sion,  a2:ain  to  be  aijw'regated,  and  again  to  be  absorbed, —  ever 


90  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

contracting,  ever  expanding, —  what  is  this  but  the  rhythmic 
beating  of  the  heart  of  the  Eternal  —  a  divine  shuttle  that  weaves 
a  definite  pattern  into  the  chaotic  fabric  of  things?  After  two 
thousand  years  or  more,  we  are  beginning  to  see  dimly  into 
Pythagoras'  fanciful  dream  of  'the  music  of  the  spheres';  Plato's 
dictum,  'Time  itself  is  the  ipoving  image  of  Eternity';  and  the 
Orphic  saj'ing  of  the  seer,  'The  father  of  metre  is  rhythm,  and 
the  father  of  rhythm  is  God' 

During  the  antique  and  mediaeval  periods,  music,  though  in 
process  of  differentiation,  has  no  confirmed  separate  existence 
from  poetry;  and  both  are  at  first  united  in  closest  bonds  with 
the  dance.  The  poet  is  then  a  wandering  minstrel  —  GleeniaUy 
the  Saxons  called  him.  His  training  from  early  childhood  was  to 
store  his  memory  with  the  poetic  legends  of  his  land;  and  when 
later  he  wove  into  rude  verse  the  story  of  his  own  day,  it  went 
nameless  into  the  common  stock  of  the  craft.  When  the  shadows 
had  fallen,  and  the  festive  hall  was  filled,  while  the  beer-horn 
passed  merrily  from  mouth  to  mouth,  the  Gleeman  with  his  'wood 
of  joy'  roused  or  soothed  the  fiery  passions  of  the  warriors  as  he 
related  the  deeds  of  the  heroic  dead  or  sung  the  praises  of  their 
posterity,  chanting  to  liis  harp,  now  one  adventure,  now  another, 
as  the  guests  or  their  lord  might  call  for  this  or  that  favorite  inci- 
dent. No  festival  was  complete  without  him  and  his  harp.  He 
travelled  far  and  wide,  songster,  poet,  and  historian,  everywhere 
received  with  consideration.  By  the  winter  fire  or  beneath  the 
summer  trees,  fluslied  brows  grew  a  darker  red,  or  the  war-shout 
faded  into  gentler  tones,  as  war  or  love  varied  the  theme  of  his 
wild  rough  melody.  Proudly  says  one  of  them,  who  had  dwelt 
with  the  high-born  of  many  lands: 

*Tlni?<  'V.)rt)i  and  South,  where'er  they  roam. 
Tile  xiiis  of  soiitr  >'tin  find  a  home, 
Speak  imreiirovcd  tlieir  wants,  and  raise 
Tlieir  L'ratefiil  lay  of  thanks  and  praise; 
For  still  the  chief  who  seeks  to  irrace 
By  fairest  fame  his  pride  of  plaee, 
Witliholds  not  from  the  sacred  Bard 
Hi-  well-earned  ])raise  and  hii'li  reward; 
But  free  of  hand  and  lartre  of  -oul. 
Where'er  extends  liis  wide  control, 
L'nnnmhered  j-'ifts  his  ])rincely  love  iiroclaim, 
Unniunhereil  voices  raise  to  heaven  his  princely  name.' 


SAXON   VERSE-FORM. 


91 


As  to  form,  Saxon  poetry  illustrates  the  overpowering  passion 
of  the  English  ear  for  3-rhythm,  or  the  recurrence  of  the  rhythmic 
accent  at  that  interval  of  time  represented  by  three  units  of  any 
sort, —  no  matter  among  how  many  sounds  this  amount  of  time 
may  be  distributed.  The  prevailing  type  is  an  alternation  of  feet, 
or  '  bars,'  of  the  form  %  L,  h  1/  \  with  bars  of  the  form  ^  *  T  |  ; 
the  musical  sign  jT  —  called  an  'eighth-note' — representing  a 
sound  whose  duration  is  that  of  an  ordinary  syllable,  and  the 
sign  I* — called  a  'quarter-note' — representing  a  sound  twice  as 
long.  The  type  may  be  varied  from  bar  to  bar,  to  prevent  the 
movement  from  growing  monotonous,  thus  yielding  the  effect  of 
an  'air  with  variations.'  In  the  rhythm  of  hurrying  rush  and 
martial  din,  Byrhtnoth  defies  the  invading  pirates  in  The  Battle 
of  3Ialdon : 


3- 


Brim   -  man 


bod 


p=  :=pzzi=?iiz=r*i= 


-i/ 1?=±— t 


-jn^z 


beod       eft 


)±~-.t 0 ^_ •_I m—^JIW: 


11^ 


se  -  ge  thin  -  iiin       lood-um  micl  -  e 


lath 


spell. 


thaat 


l^' m 0— : 0 0 .0 — +— « — ^ « — ■  - 0 0 • - 


her 


for  -  cuth        eorl      mid      his 


de 


-• ^- 


the 


wi     -     le        freak 


e      -      tliel         tliys     -     ne. 


PP 


Mi\\ 


ried  -  e; 


card. 


eald 


mill       -       es, 


'  Briiuniana  boda,  abeod  eft  oncean;  Herald  of  jiirateH,  be  herald  once  more: 

sege  thiiuim  leodnm  micle  lathre  -ipell,  bear  to  thy  people  a  bitterer  messuage.— 

Ih.ethersteiit  unforcuth  eorl  mid  his  werode,    that  here  stands  dauntless  an  earl  with 

his  warriors, 
the  wile  ".'ealL'ian  ethel  thysne,  who  will  keep  us  this  country, 

.•Kthelru'des  eard,  ealdres  mines,  land  of  my  lord,  Prince  .Ethelred, 

folc  and  foldan :  feallan  sceolon  folk  and  Held:  ])erisli  shall 

hietheneat  hilde.   Too  heanlic  me  thynceth,     the    heathen    in    battle.     Too   base,   me 

thinketh. 


92 


FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 


tha>t  ge  nitd  urum  sccattum  to  scipe  gangon  that  ye  with  gold  should  to  ship  get 

uiibefohtoiu',  nu  ge  thug  feor  hider  iinfought,  now  ye  thus  far  hither 

on  urne  card  inn  bcconion:  to  be  in  our  land  have  come; 

ne  sceole  ge  swa  softe  sine  gegangan,  never  f  hall  ye  so  soft  go  hence  with  your 

treasure: 

us  sceal  ord  and  ecg  a?r  geseman  us  shall  point  and  blade  persuade  — 

grimm  guthplega,  rer  we  gafol  syllon.'  grim  game  of  war  — ere  we  pay  for  peace. 

Each  line,  it  is  seen,  consists  of  four  bars;  each  bar,  of  a  number 
of  sylhibles  which  mark  off  determinate  periods  of  time  for  the 
ear.  Tlie  first  note  in  a  bar.  as  every  musician  understands,  is  to 
be  given  with  a  slight  increase  of  intensity'  —  stress  or  accent. 
The  same  form  appears  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  epic  of  Beowulf: 


*    f 

0 

• 

0 

0 

0 

# 

r 

0 

*  ^ 

\^ 

\> 

\ 

\> 

1 

l^ 

^ 

Thrt    waes 

on 

heal      - 

le 

heard 

ecg 

to      - 

gen. 

There 

uas 

in 

hall 

{(he) 

falch 

ion 

brand  ■ 

•  ished. 

0 

0 

0 

1      0 

0 

0 

J 

0 

0 

!^ 

^ 

> 

1      1 

P 

1 

1 

^ 

Sweord 

o    - 

fer 

setl     - 

um, 

Bid 

- 

rand 

man     - 

ig 

Swords 

0    - 

rer 

bench     - 

es. 

buck 

- 

ler 

7nan, 

■    y 

0 

0 

0       0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

1 

1^ 

^       ^ 

> 

\^ 

^J 

> 

1 

^ 

haf 

- 

en 

hand  -  a 

fast 

helm  1 

lie 

ge 

mund 

-    e 

{was)  fiov 

- 

en. 

hand -in 

fast. 

hehnei 

not 

mind 

•  ed. 

Again,  in  the  mournful  melody  of  IVie  Watiderer : 


± 

# 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

P 

1 

t^ 

'> 

^ 

^ 

\i 

^^ 

u 

1 

Off 

him 

an    - 

ha 

-    ga 

a 

re 

ge     - 

bid      - 

elh, 

Oft 

the 

Solita 

'■y 

(/on 

?ner 

-  cy 

jiray    - 

eth. 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

c  ; 

0 

^ 

> 

> 

1 

l^ 

^ 

^ 

l^ 

L^ 

Met 

od     - 

es 

mills 

e, 

theah 

the 

he 

mod  -  cea 

-rig 

(/or) 

(iwV 

*' 

covipa. 

ciiion. 

thO'Kjl 

1 

he. 

mood  -  careful, 

J 

0 

• 

I      • 

0       1 

1       • 

0 

0 

0 

'^ 

> 

1 

U       1 

1      i 

> 

'^ 

geond 

hiir 

-     u 

lad 

e 

long 

- 

e 

sceold    - 

e 

over 

(//(-»! 

prater 

iraijK 

long 

(tiin") 

sliould 

0 

0 

0        1 
'^        1 

r 

• 

0 

0 
> 

• 

0 

1 

•J 

hr.'   - 

ran 

mid 

hond 

11  m 

brim  - 

cald 

-    e 

su\ 

!^t;r 

v\th 

{III  ft 

hands 

rime  - 

cold 

ttlif\ 

i<ea. 

Olil  Eii<rlish  verso  has  otx'  ])<'culiaritv  to  establish  and  fortify  its 
rhvthm.  This  is  alliteration.  The  first  three  bars  or  feet  begin, 
in  most  lines,  with  the  same  consonant-cfjlor;  less  frequently  with 
the  same  vowel-color;   sometimes  the  two  mid<lle  bars  begin  alike, 


ALLITERATION  —  RHYME.  93 

or  the  first  and  third.  The  dominant  type  is  illustrated  by  the 
following  passage  from  The  Phoenix, —  the  third  line  excepted, 
which  presents  the  second: 

'  Ne  ^orestes  Fncest,  ne  Fyrea  blcest, 
ne  /fegles  Hryre,  ne  //rymes  dryre, 
ne  ^Sunnan  haetii,  ne  /Sincald, 
ne  PTarm  Wedcr,  ne  Winter  sour, 
irihte  ge   THrdan,  ac  se   H'ong  seoniath.' 

Inasmuch  as  the  alliterative  letter  is  the  initial  letter  of  an  impor- 
tant word, —  moreover,  of  an  important  sound  of  that  word, —  the 
rhythmic  beat,  by  this  coincidence  of  pronunciative,  logical,  and 
rhythmic  accent,  is  rendered  strong  and  commanding.  Anon  we 
may  hear  the  sharp  ringing  blows  of  the  hammer  upon  the  anvil: 

'Fl&h  mah  /"liteth  The  strong  dart  flitteth, 

^lan  man  hwiteth.  The  spear  man  whetteth, 

Bnrg  sorg  liiteth.  The  town  sorrow  biteth, 

Bald  aid  thwiteth,  The  bold  age  quelleth, 

Tfrsec-fii'c  TFriteth,  Wreck  suspicion  worketh, 

TTrath  ath  smiteth.'  Wrath  the  city  smitcth.' 

This  fondness  for  alliteration  lives  imperishably  in  a  thousand 
proverbs,  saws,  and  sayings;  as,  '3/any  men,  many  minds,'  'Tin\e 
and  ^ide  wait  for  no  man.' 

As  suggested  by  these  extracts,  another  feature  of  Saxon 
verse,  though  occurring  much  less  freely,  is  rhyme,  at  once  a 
color  and  an  artifice  to  mark  agreeably  for  the  ear  each  rhythmic 
group  of  bars, —  a  marble  statue  on  the  highway  instead  of  a 
mile-stone.  In  brief  resounding  metre,  with  the  measured  stroke 
of  a  passing  bell,  a  converted  warrior,  passing  into  the  shadows  of 
the  Night,  reviews  in  quick  luminous  vision  the  pride  and  g'lory 
of  his  morning  and  noon: 

Wic  o 

0 

I 

Wen 

Lis      -     S(. 
Lci)    -    ma 

'  From  the  Exeter  Book,  comprising  the  main  body  of  the  first  English  poetry. 


0 

r 

0 

fcr 

wong 

urn 

0 

1           0 

0 

nan 

gong      ■ 

u  m 

0 

0 

f 

^ 

1 

P 

mid 

long 

um 

gc 

long 

um. 

94 


FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 


Me  liffg  oiiluh 

Se  thi!-  leoht  oinvrah, 

And  tha?t  torlite  geteoh 

Tillicc  oiiwrah. 

Ghed  was  ic  gliwuin, 

Glcnged  hiwum, 

Bliiiira  bleouni 

I3lo$tma  hiwum.  .  . 

Hortice  nu'C  herodoii, 

Hildc  geiKTfdon, 

Fiegre  feri'doii, 

Feoiulon  biweredon.  .  . 

Scoalcas  wivron  scearpe 

Scyl  wies  hearpe. 

Hiildi'  hljiicde, 

Hlcothor  dynede, 

Swfgl-rad  swinijade 

Swithf,  no  iniiisude.  .  . 

Nil  mill  lirethor  is  hrcoh 

Heoli-sithum  s-ceoh, 

Xyd  bisgum  iieah; 

Gfwited  nihtes  inHeah 

S'"  !Pr  in  drt'gc  was  dyre.  .  • 

Wid  sith  onginncth, 

Sar  ne  s-inneth, 

Sorgum  cinnitli, 

Blu'd  hi*  bjinnith, 

Biisise  linnath, 

Listum  liiincth, 

Liistum  ne  cinneth. 

Dreamas  swa  her  gedrcsath, 

Urylit  .-^cyrc  gehreosath;  .  .  . 

Thoiine  liclioma  ligeth, 

Liniia  wyrni  fritetli, 

Ac  liim  wen  iie  gewigeth. 

And  tlia  wis^t  gehygith; 

Oththiet  beatli  tha  ban  an.  . 


He  raised  me  to  life 

Who  displayed  this  light. 

And  tliis  bright  possession 

Bountifully  disclosed. 

Glad  was  I  in  glee, 

Adorned  with  [fair]  colors. 

With  the  hues  of  bliss 

And  the  tints  of  blossoms.  .  . 

Warriors  obeyed  nie, 

Delivered  me  in  battle. 

Fairly  supported  me, 

Protected  me  from  enemies.  .  . 

My  servants  were  sagacious. 

There  was  skill  in  their  harping. 

It  resounded  loud. 

The  strain  reechoed. 

Melody  was  heard 

Powerfully,  nor  did  it  cease.  .  . 

But  now  my  breast  is  stormy 

Shaken  by  the  season  of  woe. 

Need  is  nigh; 

And  night's  approach  torments  him 

Who  before  in  the  day  was  dear.  .  . 

A  wide  journey  beginneth, 

AfTliction  ceaseth  not; 

He  cxclaimeth  in  sorrows. 

His  joy  hatli  ceased, 

His  bliss  hath  declined. 

He  is  fallen  from  his  delights; 

He  exclaimelh  not  in  happiness. 

Thus  glories  here  are  i)rostratcd. 

And  the  lordly  lot  brought  low;  .  .  . 

Then  the  corpse  lieth, 

Worm  fretteth  the  limbs. 

And  the  worm  doparteth  not. 

And  there  chooscth  its  repast, 

Until  there  be  bone  only  left."  .  .  . 


Ill  .stylo,  it  is  seen  to  be  elliptical  and  inverted,  abrupt,  ex- 
clamatory, and  trlowing,  the  more  vigorous  by  the  absence  of  the 
u.siial  ])arti('I('s, —  a  concrete  of  quick,  jKissionate  images,  like  a 
.•lucc^'ssion   of  lightninof-flashes.      Alfred  thus  renders  a  sentence 


'  .\fter  this  exposition  of  AnL'lo-Saxon  verso-form,  the  following  statements  may 
appear  to  tlie  rca(l<T  not  a  little  siirprisliiir: 

'In  iKitic  (of  llie  Anirlo-Saxon  i)oeins)  is  found  the  slitrhtest  trace  of  temporal 
rhythm."—/;'/-,  (litest, 

'The  nunibcr  of  unaccented  syllables  is  indifferent." — Street . 

'It  was  not  written  in  rime  nor  were  its  r-yllnbles  counted." — Rev.  StopforU  lirooke. 

'  We  do  not  see  iiuy  marks  of  ^tlHlie(l  alliteration  in  tlie  old  Saxon  ]>()elry." — Tyrwhitt. 

'Tliere  is  no  rliynic,  Mid  no  <-oiintini:  of  >ynat)lcs."— .l/o/-//')/. 

'Tlicir  poets  .  .  .  ariimirid  their  verniuiilar  \erses  without  any  distinct  rules'' ;  and 
again,  'Tluy  n-ed  It  [allitrratioii j  witliout  special  rule*." — Copjiie. 

•Nor  is  tliere  ,iny  rliyinini.'.  for  rhyme  was  an  adoriiineiit  unknown  in  English  poetry 
until  after  the  Noriiian  ( "oiHiucst."— .'VAfl"-. 

'No  work  in  wliii  li  rhyme  or  metre  was  used,  can  l)e  traced  in  onr  literature  until 
after  ttie  Norman  ("omiuesl. "  —  t'o^iitr. 


THE   SAXON   IDEAL.  95 

of  prose  — *  So  doth  the  moon  with  his  pale  light,  that  the  bright 
stars  he  obscures  in  the  heavens' — into  verse: 

'With  pale  light 
Bright  stars 
Moon  k'sscneth.' 

Or  again: 

'Then  went  over  the  sea-waves,  So  that  the  sailors 

Hurried  by  the  wind,  The  land  saw. 

The  ship  with  foamy  neck,  The  shore-cliffs  shining. 

Most  like  a  sea-fowl;  Mountains  sleep. 

Till  about  one  hour  And  broad  sea-noses. 

Of  the  second  day  Then  was  the  sea  sailing 

The  curved  prow  Of  the  Earl  at  an  end.' 
Had  passed  onward. 

From  the  life  we  have  traced,  we  can  infer  the  kind  of  poetry 
most  in  harmony  with  Old  English  sentiments.  Its  poetry  will 
be  the  revelation  of  its  soul, —  the  embodiment  of  its  ideals;  and 
human  ideals,  in  the  young  generations  of  the  world  as  in  the  old, 
are  determined  by  the  point  of  view  at  which  men  stand,  being 
little  or  great,  serene  or  stormy,  sincere  or  hollow,  as  is  the  life 
of  the  artist,  Avhether  that  artist  be  one  or  a  community,  one  age 
or  many  ages.  Every  people  has  its  Hercules  or  Samson  —  its 
ideal  of  brute  force,  of  vast  bodily  strength  or  cunning,  who 
strangles  serpents,  rends  lions,  and  slaughters  hostile  hosts.  A 
type  perceptibly  higher  is  the  valiant  one  whose  might,  prowess, 
and  indomitable  will  exorcise  his  native  land  of  giant-fiends  or 
dragons, —  a  heroic  Captain,  peradventure,  true-hearted,  just,  and 
noble.  Such  is  the  central  figure  of  our  nameless  English  epic, — 
Jteoicidf,  im])orted  from  the  Continental  homestead  and  revised 
l)y  an  unknown  Christian  bard:  Christian,  for  none  other  could 
have  spoken  of  Cain;  none  other  would  have  called  the  people 
lieathens;  none  other  would  have  said: 

'When  sorrow  on  him  came  and  i)ain  befell, 
He  left  (he  joy  of  men  and  chose  God's  light.' 

IJeowulf  is  a  hero,  a  knight-errant  before  the  days  of  chivalry, 
who,  witli  his  sword  hard  in  his  hand,  has  rowed  'amidst  the 
fierce  waves  and  coldest  of  storms,  and  the  rage  of  the  winter 
hurtled  over  the  waves  of  the  deep';  whom  the  manv-colored 
foes,  sea  monsters,  drew  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  held  fast  in 
tlieir  gripe,  l)ut  he  reached  'the  wretches  with  his  point  and  with 
his  war-l)ill.'     Across  the  path  of  the  swans  (the  sea)  lie  comes 


96  FOKMATIVE    PEllIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

to  succor  the  ])aiiisli  King  Ilrotligar,  in  whose  hall,  where  the 
banquet,  the  song,  and  the  dance  were  wont  to  go  on,  is  much 
sorrow;  for  Grendel,  'a  mighty  haunter  of  the  marshes,'  has 
entered  during  the  night,  seized  thirty  of  the  sleeping  warriors, 
and  returned  with  their  carcasses  to  iiis  fen-dwelling.  For  twelve 
winters'  tide,  the  fiend  has  devoured  men,  till  the  best  of  houses 
stand  empt}-.  Beowulf,  the  valiant,  offers  to  grapple  with  the 
dreadful  ogre,  asking  only  that  if  death  takes  him,  they  will  mark 
his  burial  place,  and  send  to  his  chief  the  war-shroud  that  guards 
his  breast.  When  the  mists  have  risen  and  all  is  still,  Grendel 
enters  in  hope  of  dainty  glut,  seizes  a  sleeping  warrior,  bites  his 
bone-casings,  drinks  the  blood  from  the  veins,  and  swallows  him 
with  'continual  tearings.'  But  the  hero  seizes  him  in  turn,  and, 
when  he  would  fain  return  to  his  haunt,  holds  him: 

'These  warders  strong  waxed  wrathful,  licrcer  grew. 
The  hall  resounded;  wonder  much  there  was 
That  it  so  well  withstood  the  warring  beasts,— 
That  fell  not  lo  the  earth  this  fair  land-house. 


And  then  arose  strange  sound;   ujion  the  Danes 
Diie  terror  stood,  of  all  who  heard  the  whoop. 
The  horrid  lay  of  God's  denier, 
The  song  that  sang  defeat  and  pain  bewailed  — 
Hell's  captive's  lay  —  for  in  his  grasp  too  tirm 
Did  he,  of  men  the  strongest,  hold  his  i)rey.' 

In  his  efforts  to  get  away,  the  monster's  sinews  spring  asunder, 
the  bone-casings  burst;  and  leaving  on  the  ground  his  hand,  arm, 
and  shoulder,  he  flees  to  his  jo\-less  home,  'sick  unto  death,'  for 
'the  number  of  liis  days  was  gotie  by.'  Then  are  great  rejoic- 
ings in  the  palace.  But  there  remains  the  'sea-wolf  of  the 
abyss,  the  mighty  sea-woman,'  his  mother,  who  comes  by  night, 
and  amidst  drawn  swords  tears  and  devours  the  king's  chosen 
friend.  Again  Bef)wulf  offers  himself,  seeks  the  ogress  in  her 
dread  abode,  where  strange  dragons  and  ser))ents  swim,  and  one 
by  night  may  Ix-hold  tlie  marvel  of  fire  u])()n  the  flood,  wliih^  ever 
and  anon  the  horn  sings  a  wild  terrible  dirge.  He  ])lunges  into 
the  surge,  descends,  ])a'iscs  tnonstcrs  who  tear  his  coat  of  mail, 
to  the  'hateful  man-slayer.'  She  seizes  the  chamjiion  in  her 
horrid  cliitclu's,  and  Ix'ars  Iiini  off  to  her  den,  where  a  j)ale 
gleam  shines  brightly  and  sliows  them  face  to  face.  With  fiis 
'beam  of  war'  lu;  smites  on   licr  head   till   'tlie  ring-mail'  sings 


BEOWULF   THE    VALIANT.  97 

'aloud  a  greedy  war-song';  but  the  weapon  will  not  'bite.'  She 
overthrows  him,  but  he  rescues  himself,  espies  'an  old  gigantic 
sword,  doughty  of  edge,  ready  for  use,  the  work  of  giants.' 
'Fierce  and  savage,  despairing  of  life,'  he  strikes  furiously,  so 
that  it  grapples  'hard  with  her  about  the  neck,'  breaks  'the  bone- 
rings,'  passes  through  the  doomed  body,  which  sinks,  and  all  is 
silent: 

'  The  sword  was  bloody,  the  man  rejoiced  in  hi*  deed;  the  beam  shone,  light  stood 
within,  even  as  from  heaven  mildly  shines  the  lamp  of  the  firmament.' 

Another  triumph,  and  renewed  joy.  Afterwards  he  is  himself 
ruler.  When  he  had  reigned  fifty  years,  a  dragon,  who  had 
been  robbed  of  his  treasure  which  he  had  guarded  three  hun- 
dred years,  came  from  the  hill  and  burned  men  and  houses  with 
'  waves  of  fire.'  Ordering  for  himself  a  variegated  shield,  all  of 
iron,  he  goes  to  battle  with  'the  foul,  insidious  stranger,'  in  a 
cavern  'under  the  earth,  nigh  to  the  sea  wave,'  full  within  of 
embossed  ornaments  and  wires;  'too  proud  to  seek  the  wide 
flier  with  a  troop,  with  a  large  company';  yet  sadly,  as  if  with 
a  presentiment  that  the  end  is  near: 

'Firm  rose  the  stone-wrought  vault,  a  living  stream 
Burst  from  the  barrow,  red  with  ceaseless  flame 
That  torrent  glowed;   nor  lived  there  soul  of  man 
Might  tempt  the  dread  al)yss,  nor  feel  its  rage. 
So  watched  the  fire-drake  o'er  his  hoard;— and  now 
Deep  from  his  laboring  breast  the  indignant  Goth 
Gave  utterance  to  the  war-cry.     Loud  and  clear 
Beneath  the  hoar  stone  rung  the  deafening  sound. 
And  strife  ui)rose:   the  watcher  of  the  gold 
Hud  marked  the  voice  of  man.     First  from  his  lair. 
Shaking  firm  earth,  and  vomiting,  as  he  strocfe, 
A  foul  and  fiery  blast,  the  monster  came. 
Yet  stood  beneath  the  barrow's  lofty  side 
The  Goth's  iinsliaken  champion,  and  oi)i)osed 
To  tliat  infuriate  foe  his  fiill-orbcd  shield. 
Then  the  good  war-king  bared  his  trencliant  blade: 
Tried  was  its  edge  of  old,  the  stranger's  dread. 
And  keen  to  work  the  fonl  airgrcssor's  woo. 


Thj  kinu'ly  Goth 
Reared  high  liis  hand,  and  smote  the  grisly  foe; 
But  the  dark  steel  upon  the  iinyieldinLT  mail 
Fell  impotent,  nor  served  its  master's  need 
Now  at  his  utmost  peril.     Nor  less  that  stroke 
To  maddening  mood  the  barrow's  warder  roused: 
Outburst  the  (lame  of  strife,  and  blaze  of  war 
Beamed  horribly:    still  no  triinni)li  won  the  (ioth, 
Still  failed  his  keen  brand  in  tlie  unequal  fray  .  . 


98  FORMATIVE   PERIOD — THE   LITERATURE. 

Again  tliey  met  — again  with  freshened  strength 
Forth  from  his  breast  the  iinconqiiered  monster  poured 
That  pestilent  breath.     Encompassed  by  its  flames, 
Sad  jeopardy  and  new  the  chieftain  held.' 

With  the  assistance  of  a  trusty  comrade,  he  carves  the  worm  in 
twain.  Burning  and  faint  with  mortal  wounds,  he  forgets  him- 
self in  death,  thinking  only  that  his  valor  profits  others;  and 
says,  grandly,  the  man  breathing  manifest  beneath  the  hero: 

'  I  have  held  this  people  fifty  years ;  there  was  not  any  king  of  my  neighbors,  who 
dared  to  greet  me  with  warriors,  to  oppress  me  with  terror.  ...  I  held  my  own  well, 
I  sought  not  treacherous  malice,  nor  swore  unjustly  many  oaths;  on  account  of  all  this, 
I,  sick  with  mortal  wounds,  may  have  joy.  .  .  .  Now  do  thou  go  immediately  to  behold 
the  hoard  under  the  hoary  stone,  my  dear  Wiglaf.  .  .  .  Now,  I  have  purchased  with  my 
death  a  hoard  of  treasures;  it  will  be  yet  of  advantage  at  the  need  of  the  people.  .  .  . 
I  give  tlianks  .  .  .  that  I  might  before  my  dying  day  obtain  such  for  my  people  .  .  . 
longer  may  I  not  here  be." 

He  dies,  killed  by  the  dragon's  flame-breath,  and  is  solemnly 
buried  under  a  great  barrow  rising  high  above  the  deep  blue 
waves: 

'And  round  about  the  mound  rode  his  hearth-sharers,  who  sang  that  he  was  of  kings, 
of  men,  the  mildest,  kindest,  to  his  people  sweetest,  and  the  readiest  in  search  of  i)raise.' 

There  — 

'No  sound  of  harp  shall  tlic  warrior  awake;  but  the  dusky  raven  ready  o'er  the 
fallen  shall  speak  many  things,— to  the  eagle  shall  tell  how  he  fared  at  his  food  while 
with  the  wolf  he  spoiled  the  slain.' 

Here,  under  the  liglit  of  poetry,  through  the  nii.st  of  real 
events,  transformed  into  legendary  marvels,  we  see  the  actual 
life  of  Scandinavian  English, —  its  pride,  its  molancholy,  its  re- 
liance upon  strengtli  of  arm,  its  practical  spirit  of  adventure,  its 
fatalism — 'What  is  to  be  goes  ever  as  it  must' — tinged  with  the 
energetic  sense  tiiat  'the  Must-Be  often  helps  an  undoomed  man 
when  he  is  bravo.'  Thougl't  is  too  imj^assioned  for  the  details  of 
com])arison, —  a  cliaractcristic  of  all  Anglo-Saxo?i  verse.  In  the 
si.x  thousand  and  odd  lines  there  are  only  five  similes.  Compare 
the  Celtic  fancy,  with  its  love  of  ornament,  as  displayed  in  an 
average  stanza  o^^  a  Cvmric  chief  who  fell  before  the  advancing 
Sa.xon: 

'Both  sliiiiildcrs  covered  with  his  painted  sliield 
The  hero  there,  swift  as  the  war-horse,  rushed. 
Noise  in  the  inouiit  of  slaughter,  noise  and  (ire; 
The  diirtiuir  lances  were  as  gleams  of  sun. 
There  tlie  glad  ra\eii  fed.     The  foe  must  lly 


TRAGIC   TONE   OF   SAXON    POETRY.  99 

While  ha  so  swept  them  as  when  in  his  course 
An  eagle  strikes  the  morning  dews  aside, 
And  like  a  whelming  billow  struck  their  front. 
Brave  men,  so  say  the  bards,  are  dumb  to  slaves. 
Spears  wasted  men,  and  ere  the  swan-white  steeds 
Trod  the  still  grave  that  hushed  the  master  voice. 
His  blood  washed  all  his  arms.    Such  was  Buddvan, 
Son  of  Bleedvan  the  Bold.' 

A  vehement  phrase,  without  connectives,  without  order,  with  no 
ornament  but  three  words  beginning  alike,  an  exclamation,  a  cry, 
a  glowing  image, —  such  is  the  style  of  the  Saxon  poets.  Joy 
and  fury  neglect  art.  When  passion  bellows,  ideas  are  crowded 
and  clashed.  See  it  all  in  the  battle-song  of  7Vie  Fight  at 
Finsburg : 

'The  army  goes  forth:  the  birds  sing,  the  cricket  chirps,  the  war-weapons  sound, 
the  lance  clangs  against  the  shield.  Now  shinoth  the  moon,  wandering  under  the  sky. 
Now  arise  deeds  of  woo,  which  the  enmity  of  this  peoi)le  prepares  to  do.  .  .  .  Then  in 
the  court  came  the  tumult  of  war-carnage.  .  .  .  The  raven  whirled  about,  dark  and 
sombre,  like  a  willow  leaf.  There  was  a  sparkling  of  blades,  as  if  all  Finsburg  were 
on  fire.    Never  have  I  heard  of  a  more  worthy  battle  in  war.' 

From  the  introduction  of  Christianity,  the  predominant  tone 
of  Saxon  poetry  is  religious.  But  its  voice,  if  less  savage,  is 
otherwise  unchanged.  Still  its  soul  is  tragic;  its  tones  passion- 
ate and  lightning-like.  It  is  the  old  heart  in  transition, —  yet  a 
strong  barbarous  heart.  If  it  essays  a  Bible  narrative,  as  in  the 
tragedy  of  Judith,  we  may  see  the  pagan  flesh  and  blood  in  the 
tumult,  murder,  vengeance,  and  combat  of  the  verses.  Holo- 
fernes  gives  a  feast : 

'All  his  fierce  chiefs,  bold  mail-clad  warriors,  went  at  the  feast  to  sit,  eager  to  drink 
wine.  There  were  often  carried  the  dec))  bowls  behind  the  benches;  so  likewise  ves- 
sels and  orcas  full  to  tliose  sitting  at  supper.  .  .  .  Then  was  Holofernes  rejoiced  with 
wine;  in  the  halls  of  his  guests  he  laughed  and  shouted,  he  roared  and  dinned.  .\far 
off  migtit  the  stern  one  be  heard  to  storm  and  clamor.  .  .  .  So  was  the  wicked  one  — 
the  lord  and  his  men  — drunk  with  wine,  .  .  .  till  that  they  swimming  lay  ...  as  they 
were  death-slain.' 

The  night  having  arrived  he  falls  drunk  on  his  bed.  The  moment 
is  come  for  .Tuditli,  'the  maid  of  the  Creator,  the  holy  woman,' 
to  deliver  Israel: 

'She  took  the  heatlten  man  fast  by  his  hair;  she  drew  him  by  his  limbs  toward  her 
disgracefully;  and  the  mischief-full,  odious  man,  at  her  pleasure  laid,  so  as  the  wretch 
slic  might  the  easiest  well  command.  She  with  the  twisted  locks  struck  tlie  hateful 
enemy,  meditating  hate,  with  the  red  sword,  till  she  bad  half  cut  off  his  neck;  so  tliat 
lie  lay  in  a  swoon,  drunk  ami  mortally  wounded.  He  was  not  then  dead, —  not  entirely 
lifeless;    earnest    then  she  struck  another  time  tlie  heathen   houtid  — slie  tlie  woman 


100  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

illustrious  in  strength  — till  that  his  head  rolled  forth  upon  Jhe  floor.  Cofferlcss  lay 
the  foul  one;  downward  turned  his  si)irit  under  the  abyss,  and  there  was  plunyed 
below  with  sulphur  fastened;  forever  afterward  wounded  by  worms.  In  torments 
bound  — hard  imprisoned  —  he  burns  in  hell.  After  his  eourse  he  need  not  hope  that 
he  may  escape  from  that  nvansion  of  worms,  with  darkness  overwhelmed;  but  there  he 
shall  remain  ever  and  ever  —  without  end  — henceforth  void  of  the  joys  of  hope,  in  that 
cavern  home.' 

Judith,  returning  to  the  city  witli  the  liead  of  this  wicked  one,  is 
met  by  the  people,  and  the  warrior  instinct  swells  into  flame,  as 
she  exhorts  them  to  battle: 

'Men  under  helms  (went  out)  from  the  holy  city  at  the  dawn  itself.  They  dinned 
shields;  men  roared  loudly.  At  this  rejoiced  the  lank  wolf  in  the  wood,  and  the  wan 
raven,  the  fowl  greedy  of  slaughter,  both  from  the  west,  that  the  sons  of  men  for  tliem 
should  have  thought  to  prepare  their  fill  on  corpses.  And  to  them  flew  in  their  paths 
the  active  devourer,  the  eagle,  hoary  in  his  feathers.  The  willowed  kite,  with  his 
horned  beak,  sang  the  song  of  Hilda.  The  noble  warriors  proceeded,  they  in  mail,  tf> 
the  battle,  furnished  with  shields,  w'ith  swelling  banners.' 

jMen  of  any  high  mental  power  must  be  serious,  whether  in 
ancient  or  modern  days.  Only  consider  the  reflective  mood,  the 
intense  seriousness  of  this  Saxon  poetry.  The  IL/driotaphia  of 
Browne  and  the  ThcuiatopHls  of  Bryant  are  here  in  the  bud. 
There  is  no  passing  by  on  the  other  side;  but  down  to  its  utter- 
most depth,  to  its  most  appalling  detail,  it  strives,  like  the 
Greek,  to  sound  the  secrets  of  sorrow.  If  any  hope,  relief,  or 
triumph  may  hereafter  seem  possible, —  well;  but  if  not,  still 
hopeless,  reliefless,  eternal,  the  sorrow  shall  be  met  face  to  face. 
This  Northern  imagination,  which  comjiared  life  to  the  flight  of 
a  bird, —  in  at  one  door  and  out  at  another,  whence  it  came  and 
whither  it  went  being  equally  unknown  to  the  lookers-on,  now 
contemplates  the  .stern  agonv  of  the  'breathless  darkness'  in  a 
poem  called  Tim  Grare,  sad  and  grand  like  the  life  of  man. 

'For  thee  was  n  house  built  ere  thou  wert  born;  for  theo  a  mould  shapen  ere  thou 
of  thy  mother  earnest.  Its  hci;4lit  is  not  deterinined,  nor  is  its  depth  measured;  nor  is 
it  closed  up  (however  loiiir  it  in.iy  t)i>,  until  I  thee  bring  where  thou  shalt  remain;  until 
I  shall  mea-iure  thee  and  tlie  sod  of  the  earth.  Thy  house  is  not  highly  built;  it  is  un- 
hit;h  and  low.  When  thou  art  in  it,  the  heel-ways  are  low,  the  side-ways  unhigh.  The 
roof  is  Ijiiilt  thy  breast  full  nit:h:  so  thou  shalt  in  earth  dwell  full  cold,  dim,  and  dark. 
Doorless  is  that  house,  and  dark  is  it  wiiliin.  There  thou  art  fast  detained,  and  Death 
holds  the  key.  Loathly  is  that  eartli-hoMse,  and  grim  to  dwell  in.  There  thou  shalt 
dwell,  and  worms  shall  share  'liee.  Thu'^  tliou  art  laid,  and  leavest  thy  friends.  Thou 
hast  no  friend  that  will  come  to  thee,  who  will  ever  in(iuirc  how  that  house  liketh  thee, 
who  shall  ever  open  for  thci-  the  door,  and  i-eek  thee,  for  soon  thou  beconiest  loathly 
and  hateful  to  look  ui)on." 

To  this  people,  \vlii(  h  has  forgotten  the  halls  of  Valhalla, 
to  which   danger  is  a  delight,  wliich   loves  gloomy  pictures,  the 


SOMBRE   IMAGINATION   OF  THE   NORTH.  101 

shadowy  is  a  fascination,  as  to  the  Hindoo,  the  Egyptian  and  the 
Greek.  The  SouPs  Complaint  of  the  Body  suggests  the  under- 
world rivers  and  the  wandering  hapless  ghosts  of  Greek  and 
Roman  mythology: 

'Befits  It  well  that  man  should  deeply  weigh 
His  soul's  last  journey;  how  he  then  may  fare 
When  death  comes  on  him,  and  breaks  short  in  twain 
The  bond  that  held  his  flesh  and  spirit  linked: 
Long  is  it  thence  ere  at  the  hands  of  Heaven 
The  spirit  shall  reap  joy  or  punishment. 
E'en  as  she  did  in  this  her  earthly  frame. 
For  ere  the  seventh  night  of  death  hath  past. 
Ghastly  and  shrieking  shall  that  spirit  come, — 
The  soul  to  find  its  body.    Restless  thus 
(Unless  high  Heaven  first  work  the  end  of  all  things) 
A  hundred  years  thrice  told  the  shade  shall  roam.' 

So  Virgil  represents  the  souls  of  the  unburied  haunting  the 
banks  of  the  Styx,  sad  and  tombless,  vainly  entreating  in  pa- 
thetic suppliance  the  dread  Charon  to  ferry  them  over: 

'There  stood  the  first  and  prayed  him  hard  to  waft  their  bodies  o'er, 
With  hands  stretched  out  for  utter  love  of  that  far-lying  shore; 
But  that  grim  sailor  now  takes  these,  now  those,  from  out  the  band, 
While  all  the  others  far  away  he  thrusteth  from  the  sand.'  .  .  . 

For— 

'Those  borne  across  the  wave 
Are  buried:  none  may  ever  cross  the  awful  roaring  road 
Until  their  bones  are  laid  at  rest  within  their  last  abode. 
An  hundred  years  they  stray  about  and  wander  round  the  shore, 
Then  they  at  last  have  grace  to  gain  the  pools  desired  so  sore.' 

All  who  know  what  pathos  there  is  in  the  memory  of  faces 
that  have  vanished,  of  joys  that  have  faded,  of  days  gone  by, — 
holy  as  spots  of  earth  where  angel-feet  have  stepped,  will  appre- 
ciate the  rare  poetical  power  of  the  mutilated  poem  of  The 
Till  in  : 

'Wondrous  is  this  wall -stone,  the  fates  have  broken  it  — have  burst  the  burgh- 
place.  Perishes  the  work  of  giants;  fallen  are  the  roofs,  the  towers  tottering  — the 
hoar  gate-towers  despoiled  — rime  on  tlie  Wmc—hrim  on  lime;  shattered  are  the  battle- 
ments, riven,  fallen  under  tlie  Eotnish  race;  the  earth-grave  has  its  powerful  work- 
men; decayed,  departed,  the  hard  of  gripe  are  fallen  and  passed  away  to  a  luindred 
generations  of  i)eople.  .  .  .  Briglit  were  the  burgh-dwellings,  many  its  princely  halls, 
high  its  steepled  splendor;  there  was  martial  sound  great,  many  a  mead-liall  full  of 
human  joys,  until  obdurate  fate  changed  it  all;  they  perished  in  wide  slaughter.  .  .  . 
There  many  a  chief  of  old,  joyous  and  gold-bright,  splendidly  decorated,  proud,  and 
with  wine  elate,  in  warlike  decorations  shone;  looked  on  treasures,  on  silver,  on  curious 
gems,  on  luxury,  on  wealth,  on  precious  stone,  on  this  l)right  bnrgli  of  a  l)r()ad  realm.' 

Among  the  unknown  poots,  there  is  one,  CSBdmoil,  who.se 
vigor  and  grandeur  will  prosontly  be  the  subject  of  special  con- 
sideration.      Meanwhile,   that    which    is   sown   is   not   quickened 


102  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

except  it  die.  The  decay  of  an  old  literature  is  the  antecedent 
condition  for  a  new  mode  of  intellectual  life.  This  old  poetic 
genius  of  sublimity  and  fury,  waning  before  the  Conquest,  dis- 
appears after  it,  to  emerge  once  more  when  the  wounds  have 
closed  and  the  saps  have  mingled.  Till  then,  the  current  that 
flows  shallow  and  fantastic  above  ground  is  of  French  origin. 
•  What  was  this  new  literature,  by  which  a  broader  spreading 
•  and  a  more  generous  vine  should  spring  from  the  regenerated 
root  of  the  old  stock  ?     Romantic  fiction. 

Its  oriyin. —  The  child  personifies  the  stone  that  hurts  him, 
and  his  first  impulse  is  to  resent  the  injury  as  if  he  imagined  it 
to  be  endowed  with  consciousness  and  to  be  acting  with  design. 
The  childhood  of  superstition  personifies  each  individual  exist 
ence, —  the  plant  and  the  rock.  The  childhood  of  philosophy  per- 
sonifies the  universe.  The  barbarian  is  fascinated  by  the  incom- 
prehensible. Unable  to  assign,  for  a  natural  phenomenon,  a  cause 
within  nature,  he  has  recourse  to  a  living  personality  enslirined 
in  it.  To  every  grotto  he  gives  a  genius;  to  every  tree,  river, 
spring,  a  divinity.  Out  of  the  darkness  he  carmot  tell  what  alarm- 
ing spectre  may  emerge.  Everywliere  he  is  a  believer  in  sor- 
cery, witchcraft,  enchantments.  In  an  advanced  stage  of  develop- 
ment, he  conceives  a  number  of  personal  beings  distinct  from  the 
material  creation,  which  preside  over  the  different  provinces  of 
nature, —  the  sea,  the  air,  the  winds,  the  streams,  the  heavens,  and 
assume  the  guardianship  of  individuals,  tribes,  and  nations.  Re- 
membering this  tendency  for  personification  which  marks  the 
early  life  of  man,  his  necessity  of  referring  effects  to  their  causes, 
and  his  inter]ir(>tation  of  things  according  to  outward  appear- 
ances, we  shall  better  understand  how  the  Hours,  the  Dawn,  and 
the  Night,  witli  her  t)lack  mantle  bespangled  with  stars,  came  to 
receive  their  forms;  how  the  clouds  were  sacred  cattle  driven  to 
their  milking,  or  sheep  of  the  golden  fleece;  liow  the  fall  of  the 
dew  was  the  shedding  of  divine  tears,  and  the  fatal  sun-shafts 
the  arrows  of  Apollo  shot  from  his  golden  how;  how  tlie  west, 
when'  the  sun  and  stars  gf)  down,  was  the  jiortal  of  descent  to 
hell,  and  the  morning  twilight  a  reflection  from  the  Elysian 
Fields;  how  the  eruptions  of  the  volcano  were  due  to  the  throes 
of  the  agonized  giant,  vainly  struggling  to  rise;  how  earthquakes, 
famine,  hail,  snow,  and  tempests  were  the  work   of   supernatural 


MYTH-MAKING  —  IDEALIZATION".  103 

fiends;  how  the  traditions  of  every  land  are  replete  with  the  ex- 
ploits of  gods,  magicians,  and  devils.  Further,  under  the  opera- 
tion of  this  principle,  a  similarity  of  imagery  will  exist  wherever 
there  exists  a  resemblance  in  the  objects  calling  it  forth;  and  a 
multitude  of  the  symbols  thus  brought  into  circulation  will  be 
found  recurring,  like  the  primitive  roots  of  a  language,  in  almost 
every  country,  as  common  property  inherited  by  descent.  Thus, 
a  mound  of  earth  becomes  the  sepulchre  of  a  favorite  hero;  a 
pile  of  enormous  stones,  the  labor  of  a  giant;  a  single  one,  the 
stupendous  instrument  of  daily  exercise  to  a  fabled  king;  the 
figure  of  a  rock,  proof  of  some  deity's  wrath  or  presence, —  the 
foot-print  of  Hercules  or  the  weeping  Niobe:  every  one,  of  Aryan 
blood,  knows  that  the  moon  is  inhabited  by  a  man  with  a  bundle 
of  sticks  on  his  back,  exiled  thither  many  centuries,  and  so  far 
away  that  he  is  beyond  the  reach  of  death;  from  the  remotest 
period,  the  rod  has  been  employed  in  divination;  in  Bohemia, 
in  Scotland,  in  Switzerland,  in  Iceland,  in  North  America,  is  the 
story  of  some  Rip  Van  Winkle  who  slumbers  while  years  or  ages 
glide  by  like  a  watch  in  the  night;  and  of  that  great  mystery  of 
human  life  which  is  an  enigma  never  solved,  and  ever  originating 
speculation,  is  born  the  myth  of  the  Wandering  Jew.  Consider, 
again,  how  incidents  change  by  distance,  and  we  by  age.  How 
a  thing  grows  in  memory  when  love  or  hate  is  there  to  idealize 
it !  The  philosophic  Agis  had  to  console  his  desponding  coun- 
trymen with  a  remark  which  every  man's  experience  has  made 
familiar, —  that  'the  fading  virtues  of  later  times  were  a  cause  of 
grief  to  his  father,  who  in  turn  had  listened  to  the  same  regrets 
from  Ills  own  venerable  sire.'  Washington,  whose  picture  even 
now  transcends  the  fact,  would  be  a  riujth,  had  there  been  no 
books.  In  tlie  days  of  Alfred,  golden  bracelets  hung  untouched 
in  the  open  road.  In  the  native  vigor  of  the  youthful  world,  a 
thousand  years  are  given  to  the  life  of  man.  The  national  hero, 
through  the  lengthened  vista,  acquires  a  gigantic  stature.  The 
body  of  Orestes  when  found  measured  seven  cubits,  and  the  san- 
dals of  Perseus  two.  How  prismatic  must  be  the  imagination, 
when  the  national  mind,  as  here,  is  yet  in  the  fresh  young  radi- 
ance of  hope  and  wonder,  as  of  the  young  child's  thoughts  in 
the  wild  lion-hearts  of  men.  Time  is  a  camera  obscura,  tlu-ough 
which  a  man,  if  great  while  living,  becomes  ten-fold  greater  when 


104  FORMATIVE    PERIOD — THE    LITERATURE. 

dead.  Henceforward  he  exists  to  society  by  some  shining  trait 
of  beauty  or  utility  which  he  had;  and,  borrowing  his  propor- 
tions from  the  one  fine  feature,  we  finish  the  portrait  symmetri- 
cally. That  feature  is  the  small  real  star  that  gleams  out  of  the 
dark  vortex  of  the  ages  through  the  madness  of  rioting  fancy  and 
the  whirlwind-chaos  of  images,  expanding,  according  to  the  glass 
it  shines  through,  into  wondrous  thousand-fold  form  and  color. 

Such  is  the  foundation  of  fiction  in  general;  originating  as  a 
whole  from  no  single  point  as  to  country  or  to  time,  but  in  part 
springing  from  common  organic  causes,  and  in  part  travelling 
from  region  to  region,  on  airy  wing  scattering  the  seeds  of  its 
wild  flowers  imperceptibly  over  the  world,  from  the  gorgeous 
East  to  the  virgin  West  and  the  frozen  North.  Its  radical  types, 
much  as  the  root-words  of  speech,  are  amplified  and  compounded 
to  meet  the  demands  of  new  occasions,  transferred  from  one  sub- 
ject to  another,  and  embellished  according  to  the  taste,  temper, 
and  resources  of  the  artist.  Thus,  the  Macedonian  conqueror 
and  his  contemporaries  are  accoutred  in  the  garb  of  feudal- 
ism, and  his  wars  transformed  into  chivalrous  adventures.  The 
Naiads  of  Greece  differ  only  in  name  from  the  Nixen  of  Ger- 
many, and  the  Norwegian  Thor  is  brother  to  Olympian  Jove. 
The  Persian  Goblet  of  the  Sun  reappears  as  the  horn  of  the  Celtic 
Bran,  producing  whatever  liquor  is  called  for;  or  as  the  Saint 
Graal,  of  the  Round  Table, —  for  which  is  reserved  the  'Seat  Per- 
ilous,'—  the  miraculous  cup,  the  giver  of  sumptuous  banquets, 
the  healer  of  maladies,  to  the  pure  the  interpreter  of  the  will 
of  Heaven.  The  magic  ship  of  Odin,  which  could  be  folded  like 
a  handkerchief,  becomes,  under  the  play  of  Homeric  fancy,  self- 
directing  and  prophetic: 

'So  slialt  thou  instant  reach  the  realm  a?sijrn'd, 
In  wondrous  ships,  self-moved,  instinct  with  mind: 
No  helm  secures  their  course,  no  pilot  guides; 
Like  men  intelligent,  they  plough  the  tides. 
Conscious  of  every  coast  and  every  bay 
That  lies  beneath  the  sun's  alluring  ray.' 

The  story  of  Jack  and  .Till  is  a  venorablo  one  in  Icelandic  my- 
thology, and  .Tack  and  the  Beanstalk  has  found  oagor  listeners  in 
Africa,  as  in  every  quarter  of  Europe.  All  the  machinory  of  the 
Iliad  is  reproduced  in  the  legend  of  Charlemagne,  and  if  in  his 
case  myth  were  not  controlled  and  rectified  bv  historv,  he  would 


MIDDLE-AGE   FICTION.  105 

be  for  us,  under  his  adventitious  ornaments,  as  unreal  as  Aga- 
memnon. Thus  the  popular  literature  of  tlie  Middle  Ages,  indi- 
genous and  imported,  fostered  by  a  like  credulity,  vision,  and 
mystery,  was  invested  with  the  same  tissue  of  marvels, —  person- 
ified and  supernatural  agents,  heroes,  elves,  fairies,  dwarfs,  giants, 
enchanters,  spells,  charms,  and  amulets.  Written  in  the  Romance 
dialects  —  principally  in  French  and  Italian  —  tales  of  dimly  re- 
membered kings,  of  marvellous  agency  and  gallant  daring,  are 
hence  designated  as  B.oniailces»;  and  differ  from  the  similar 
productions  of  antiquity  chiefly  in  a  change  of  names  and  places, 
with  an  admixture  of  the  refinement  and  pageantry  of  feudal 
religion  and  manners. 

Its  themes. — Duritig  a  long  period,  saintly  legends,  in  which 
self-torture  was  the  chief  measure  of  excellence,  formed  the 
guiding  ideals  of  Christendom;  and  the  first  romances  were  little 
more  than  legends  of  devotion,  containing  the  pilgrimage  of  an 
old  warrior.  As  chivalry  grew  in  splendor  and  fascination,  mar- 
tial exploits  were  added  to  his  youth,  his  religious  shaded  into  the 
heroic  character,  and  the  penitent  was  lost  in  the  knight-errant. 
Penance,  which  was  the  governing  image  of  the  one,  gradually 
became  the  remote  sequel  of  the  other,  till  it  was  almost  an  estab- 
lished rule  of  romance  for  the  knight  to  end  his  da^'s  in  a  hermit- 
age. By  the  reactionary  influence  of  worship,  valor  was  conse- 
crated, and  a  Christian  soul  gave  tone  and  coloring  to  the  whole 
body  of  romantic  fiction.  Thus  the  Holy  Graal,  in  the  midst  of 
tlie  bright  animal  life  of  the  Arthur  legends,  became  a  type  of 
the  mystery  of  Godliness.  Whatever  impure  man  sat  in  the  Seat 
Perilous  the  earth  swallowed.  When  men  became  sinful,  it,  visi- 
ble only  to  pure  eyes,  disappeared;  and  in  the  quest  for  it,  only 
the  spotless  Sir  Galahad  succeeded. 

A  general  homao-o  to  the  fair,  independent  of  personal  attach- 
ment, forms  a  distinguisliing  and  most  important  element  of 
medion-al  romance.  This  also,  in  its  best  development,  was  the 
offspring  of  the  Christian  dispensation.  True,  as  we  liave  seen, 
its  rudiments  already  existed  in  the  deference  paid  to  the  female 
SOX  bv  the  Teutons,  who  believed  some  divine  quality  to  be  inher- 
ent in  their  women.  Thus  Tacitus  relates  that  Vclleda,  a  German 
proi)hetess,  held  frequent  conferences  with  the  Roman  generals; 
and  on  some  occasions,  on  account  of  the  sacredness  of  her  person, 


106  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE, 

was  placed  at  a  great  distance  on  a  high  tower,  whence,  as  an 
oracle,  she  conveyed  her  answers  by  a  chosen  messenger.  But 
that  rapturous  adoration  of  woman  which  produced  the  spirit  of 
gallantry  was  the  inevitable  result  of  the  new  ideal  introduced  by 
Christianity,  which,  over  the  qualities  of  strength,  courage,  self- 
reliance,  and  patriotism,  enthroned  the  gentler  virtues  of  meek- 
ness, patience,  humility,  faith,  and  love.  This  was  no  other  than 
change  from  a  type  essentially  masculine  to  one  which  was  essen- 
tially feminine.  The  Virgin  ^lary  was  exalted  by  the  Church  to 
a  central  figure  of  devotion,  and  in  her  elevation,  woman,  from 
being  associated  with  ideas  of  degradation  and  of  sensuality,  rose 
into  a  new  sphere,  and  became  the  object  of  a  reverential  regard 
unknown  to  the  proudest  civilizations  of  the  past.  Love  was 
idealized.  The  moral  charm  of  female  excellence  was  felt.  Into 
a  harsh  and  benighted  age  were  infused  a  conception  of  gentle- 
ness and  of  purity,  a  sense  of  delicacy  and  elegance,  around  which 
clustered  all  that  was  best  in  Europe.  Chivalry  took  s^'Stematic 
shape  as  the  adventurous  service  of  God  and  womankind.  The 
Crui^ades  were  its  first  outgrowth  in  action,  and  love-poetry  its 
first  symmetrical  expression  in  art.  Valor  was  exerted  to  protect 
the  innocent  from  violence,  to  succor  the  distressed,  to  release 
captive  beauty  from  embattled  walls.  The  knight,  fond  dreamer 
whom  the  dream  forever  fled,  turned  him  to  far  lands  and  con- 
flicts, to  merit  and  win  the  favor  of  his  fair  adored,  whose  point 
of  honor  it  was  to  be  chaste  and  inaccessible." 

But  loving  chivalry  for  its  nobleness,  let  us  not  be  blind  to  its 
folly  and  excess.  To  a  bitter  winter's  day  it  gave  the  tint  of 
amethyst.  Over  the  darkness  it  threw  a  cheering  light.  Its 
incentives,  exalted  and  sublime  as  they  were,  too  often  in  this 
unripe  civilization  made  its  possessors  implacable  and  infuriate. 
The  feudal  hero  did  less  than  he  imagined.  His  profession  of 
courtesy  and  courage  was  not  infrequently  the  brilliant  disguise 
that  concealed  tyranny  and  ra})ine.  A  reduction  and  softening- 
down  of  a  rough  and  lawless  period,  it  often  rose  to  fanaticism  or 

'  This  respectful  enthiisiiisin  for  woman  forms  one  of  the  most  remarkable  facts  in 
the  intellectual  (levelci|)ment  of  Eiirojie.  Warton  derives  it  from  Teutonic  manners: 
Hallani.  frf>m  the  secular  institutions  of  Home  and  the  iray  idleness  of  the  nobility.  A 
profouiuler  iihilosoohy  must  have  shown  them  that  more"  influential  than  any  of  "these 
causes,  or  all  combined,  were  the  prominence  triven  by  Christianity  to  the  female 
virtues,  woman's  conspicuous  position  in  the  conversion  of  the  Empire  by  reason  of  the 
better  ada|>tation  of  her  srenius  to  piety,  the  elevation  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  consequent 
change  from  an  ideal  type  especially  masculine  U>  one  especially  feminine. 


LOVE-COURTS   OF   CHIVALRY.  107 

sunk  into  gross  impurity.  From  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  until 
the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century,  it  had  its  Courts  of  Love, 
which,  sanctioning  much  that  the  courts  of  law  forbade,  instituted 
obligations  antagonistic  to  the  duties  of  domestic  life.  Here  love- 
verses  were  sung,  love-causes  were  heard,  and  judgments  rendered 
with  formal  citations  of  precedents.  They  had  a  code,  said  to 
have  been  established  by  the  king  of  love,  and  found  by  a  Breton 
cavalier  and  lover  in  Arthur's  court,  tied  to  the  foot  of  a  falcon. 
Its  first  rule  was  that  marriage  does  not  excuse  from  love,  and 
the  ladies'  courts  enacted  that  love  and  marriage  are  things 
wholly  asunder.  Thus,  A  seeks  from  a  lady  permission  to  love, 
and  is  told  that  she  already  has  a  lover,  B,  but  willingly  will  take 
A  when  B  is  lost.  She  marries  B,  and  immediately,  in  fulfilment 
of  promise,  A  claims  his  right  to  be  her  lover.  She  wishes  to 
withdraw,  but  is  sued,  and  the  court  decides  for  the  plaintiff, 
saying: 

'We  do  not  venture  to  contradict  the  decision  of  the  Countess  of  Champagne,  who, 
by  a  solemn  judgment,  has*  pronounced  that  true  love  cannot  exist  between  those  who 
are  married  to  each  other.''  • 

The  central  figures  of  romance  were  Ai'thur"  and  the  Knights 
of  the  Round  Table,  Charlemagne  and  his  Peers,  the  heroes^  of 
the  Crusades,  and  the  Anglo-Danish  Cycle,  the  most  famoUs  of 
which  were,  Havelock,  King  Horn,  and  Guy  of  Warwick.* 

A  series  of  fictions  destined  to  operate  powerfully  on  the 
general  body  of  our  old  poetry,  was  a  Latin  compilation  entitled 
Gesta  Ronianorxiii},  or  Deeds  of  the  Romans,  whose  stories, 
saintly,  chivalrous,  or  allegorical,  of  home-growth  or  transplanted 
from  the  East,  were  often  used  by  the  clergy  to  rouse  the  indif- 
ference and  relieve  the  languor  of  their  rude  and  simple  hearers. 
It  is  a  characteristic  expression  of  the  manners  and  sentiments 
of  the  time.     Thus, — 

'■('hap.  LXIII. —Tho  srardeu  of  Vespasian's  daughter.  AH  her  lovers  are  obliged  to 
enter  Iliis  garden  before  they  can  obtain  her  love,  but  none  returns  alive.  The  t;arden 
is  liaunted  by  a  lion,  and  has  only  one  entrance  whicli  divides  into  so  many  windini,'s 

'  Tlie  Love-Courts,  so  far  from  being  a  jest  or  idle  amusement,  as  ^lorley  under- 
stands them,  were  one  of  the  moral  and  social  phenomena  of  the  time,  siinmrini:  from 
the  prolonged  barbarity  of  the  feudal  marriaire-tie.  The  lady-love,  almost  always  of 
bigli  rank,  fre<nieiitly  aii  lieiress  in  her  own  right,  was  sure  t<i  be  disposed  of  for  pru- 
dential or  political  reasons  before  she  had  any  choice  in  the  matter;  and  the  sutfcnngs 
to  wliich  women  were  exposed  as  wives,  explain  to  a  certain  extent  the  adoration  wliich 
they  exacted  and  obtained  as  the  ladies  of  tlie  chevaliers. 

■•'See  Tennyson's  lUijls  of  the  King,  in  whicli  these  characters  are  splendidly  por- 
trayed. 

'  Kichard  ('(eur  de  Lion,  for  example,  one  of  the  most  celebrated. 

<See  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


108  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

that  it  never  can  be  found  again.  At  length,  she  furnishes  a  knight  with  a  ball  or  clue 
of  thread,  and  teaches  him  how  to  foil  the  lion.  Having  achieved  this  adventure,  he 
marries  the  lady.' 

*Chap.  LXVI. — A  knight  offers  to  recover  a  lady's  inheritance,  which  had  been 
seized  by  a  tyrant,  on  condition,  that  if  he  is  slain,  she  shall  always  keep  his  bloody 
armour  hanging  in  her  chamber.  He  regains  her  property,  although  he  dies  in  the 
attempt;  and  as  often  as  she  was  afterwards  sued  for  in  marriage,  before  she  gave  an 
answer,  she  returned  to  her  chamber,  and  contemplating  with  tears  her  deliverer's 
bloody  armour,  resolutely  rejected  every  solicitation.' 

'■Chap.  C7X— [Best  illustrated  by  a  like  story  of  the  Boy,  in  Boccaccio's  Decameron.] 
A  king  had  an  only  son.  As  soon  as  he  was  born,  the  physicians  declared  that  if  he 
was  allowed  to  sec  the  sun  or  any  Are  before  he  arrived  at  the  age  of  twelve  years,  he 
would  be  blind.  The  king  commanded  an  apartment  to  be  hewed  within  a  rock,  into 
which  no  light  could  enter;  and  here  he  shut  up  the  boy,  totally  in  the  dark,  yet  with 
proper  attendants,  for  twelve  years.  At  the  end  of  which  time,  he  brought  him  abroad 
from  his  gloomy  chamber,  and  placed  in  his  view  men,  women,  gold,  precious  stones, 
rich  garments,  chariots  of  exquisite  workmanship  drawn  by  horses  with  golden  bridles, 
heaps  of  purple  tapestry,  armed  knights  on  horseback,  oxen  and  sheep.  These  were  all 
distinctly  pointed  oiit  to  the  youth:  but  being  most  pleased  with  the  women,  he  desired 
to  know  by  whai  name  they  were  called.  An  esquire  of  the  king  jocosely  told  him  that 
they  were  devils  who  catch  men.  Being  brought  to  the  king,  he  was  asked  which  he 
liked  best  of  all  the  fine  things  he  had  seen.    He  replied,  "The  devils  who  catch  men." ' 

'  Chap.  CXX. — King  Darius's  legacy  to  his  three  sons.  To  the  eldest  he  bequeaths  all 
his  paternal  inheritance:  to  the  second,  all  that  he  had  acquired  by  conquest:  and  to  the 
third,  a  ring  and  necklace,  both  of  gold,  and  a  rich  cloth.  All  the  three  last  gifts  were 
endued  with  magical  virtues.  Whoever  wore  the  ring  on  his  finger,  gained  the  love  or 
favor  of  all  whom  he  desired  to  please.  Whoever  hung  the  necklace  over  his  breast, 
obtained  all  his  heart  could  desire.  Whoever  sate  down  on  the  cloth,  could  be  instantly 
transported  to  any  part  of  the  world  which  he  chose.' 

Not  unlike  the  lighter  stories  of  the  Gc^fa  were  the  fabliaux, 
short  familiar  pictures  of  society,  keyed  to  minor  occasions, 
usually  satirical,  and  levelling  their  wit  most  frequently  at  the 
ladies. 

Its  form. — The  versification  of  Latin,  it  is  well  known,  was 
based  upon  syllabic  quantity,  which  acknowledged  among  verse- 
sounds  but  two  possible  time-values  —  the  long  and  the  short, 
of  which  the  former  was  strictly  to  the  latter  as  two  to  one.  The 
ratio,  moreover,  was  fixed,  so  that  a  long  syllable  was  always 
long,  and  a  short  one  always  short.  The  bar  or  foot  was  signal- 
ized by  the  rliythmic  accent;  as  — 

'Anna  virunique  cano,  Trojae  qui  primus  ab  6ris:' 

but  this  was  scarcely  the  accentuation  of  prose  or  familiar  utter- 
ance,—  a  difference  whicli  every  one  may  see  illustrated  in 
Shakespeare,  if  first  the  ])assage  be  supposed  to  conform  to  the 
typic  scheme.     Thus  — 

'Tills  my  mean  task 
Would  bi'  as  heavy  to  me  as  odious;   but 
The  mistress  which  I  serve  (juickens  wliat's  dead.' 


FORM    OF   THE    ROMANCE    POETRY.  109 

Of  course,  it  would  be  absurd  to  read,  in  the  manner  of  cur- 
rent discourse:  'This  m;^  mean  task  would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as 
odious;  biit  the  mistress  which  I  serve  quickens  what's  dead.' 
The  distinction  of  'longs'  and  'shorts,'  never  attended  to  by  the 
uninstructed,  required  study  to  attain  it,  even  while  Latin  re- 
mained a  living  tongue.  Just  as  the  people  corrupted  and  muti- 
lated the  classic  speech  founding  a  new  upon  the  ruins  of  the 
old, —  so,  under  the  shadow  of  this  cultured  poesy,  which  moved 
with  the  regularity  of  changeless  fate,  there  sprang  up,  away  in 
the  provinces  and  among  the  ignorant  everywhere,  an  humble 
growth  of  popular  song  which  knew  nothing  of  artificial  quanti- 
ties and  arbitrary  caesuras,  but  was  simply  —  and  often  rudely  — 
rhymed  and  accented  more  nearly  after  the  style  of  actual 
speech;  and  when  the  foreign  graces  of  Roman  letters  perished 
with  the  Empire,  this  lowly,  indigenous  poetry  escaped  by  its 
insignificance,  and  began  to  increase.  Related  to  the  former,  as 
a  dialect  to  its  parent,  it  imitated  the  ancient  syllabic  arrange- 
ment. Thus  the  spirited  trochaic  (-*-')  and  iambic  (  ^  -  ) 
measures  were  common  in  the  rhyming  chants  of  the  early 
Church.  The  Song  of  Aldhehn  shows  us  an  Anglo-Saxon  poet, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eighth  century,  versifying  Latin  words 
in  the  metre  of  the  Raven: 

'Once  upon  a  midnight  dri'ary 
Lector  caste  cdtholice 

While  I  p6ndered  weak  and  weary.' 
Atque  obtes  dthletice. 

'Lector  caste  catholice  Usque  diram  Dornoniam 

Atque  obscs  athletice  Per  carentum  Cornubiam 

Tuis  pulsatus  prccibus  Florulentis  cespitibus 

Obnixe  flagitantibus  Et  f»cundis  graminibus.' 

This,  then,  was  the  poetic  form  which  began,  in  the  eleventh 
century,  to  give  expression  to  the  romantic  sentiments,  the  war- 
like genius  of  France, —  a  form  in  which  the  quantity  of  the 
verse-sounds  was  variable,  the  same  word  or  syllable  doing  the 
duty  of  a  'long'  or  a  'short,'  according  to  its  position  among 
neighboring  sounds;  a  form,  too,  in  which  the  bar  or  root  was 
more  especially  signalized  to  the  ear,  as  at  present,  by  the  stress 
of  current  utterance,  coinciding  with  the  rliytliinic  accent,  and 
having  its  origin  in  the  logical  preeminence  of  the  ro()t-sylhil)le 
over  the  other  sounds  in  a  word;  —  a  form  wliose  beat,  revealing 


110 


FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 


the  peculiar  genius  of  those  who  adopted  it,  was  less  the  pulse  of 
march-time  than  the  free  and  airy  swing  of  a  waltz.  Themes 
were,  indeed,  supplied  from  all  quarters;  but  the  romance-setting 
whicli  was  common  to  them  all,  and  which  won  the  heart  and 
imagination  of  Europe,  was  French.  It  was  this  that  constituted 
for  the  French  literature  and  language,  at  the  height  of  the 
Middle  Age,  a  clear  predominance. 

Its  poets. —  Of  this  literature  there  were  two  divisions,  corre- 
sponding to  the  two  dialects  of  France, —  the  Langue  D^  Oc  and 
the  Langue  D''  Ogl,  so  named  from  the  words  for  yes,  which  were 
oc  in  the  South  and  oyl  in  the  North.  The  first,  or  Provencal,  is 
irrecoverably  dead;  the  second,  or  Norman,  is  unalterably  estab- 
lished as  the  French  tongue.  The  poets  of  the  former  were 
called  Troubadours ;  of  the  latter,  Trouvhres,  which  are  evi- 
dently dialectic  forms  of  the  same  word,  meaning  inventors. 
From  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  the  troubadours  were 
numerous  as  the  gay  insects  of  spring,  till  the  close  of  the  thir- 
teenth, when  they  came  to  an  end, —  a  lisping,  brilliant,  short- 
lived school  of  song.  Their  poetry  was  chiefly  lyric,  and  its  chief 
inspiration  was  love.  Each  selects  the  fair  object  of  his  melo- 
dious homage,  flings  himself,  body  and  soul,  into  love's  thrall, 
exults  or  wails,  mopes  and  dreams,  sighs,  faints,  and  falls,  rises 
and  sings,  while  the  April  air,  the  nightingale,  and  the  dewy 
dawn  dilate  his  joy  by  accord  or  intensify  his  agony  by  contrast: 


'Such  is  now  my  glad  (•lation, 
All  things  change  their  seeming; 
All  with  flowers,  white,  blue,  carnation, 
Hoary  frosts  are  teeming; 
Storm  and  flood  but  make  occasion 
For  my  hajjpy  scheming; 
Welcome  is  my  song's  oblation, 
Praise  out  runs  my  dreaming. 
Oh,  ay  I   this  heart  of  mine 
Owns  a  rapture  so  divine. 
Winter  doth  in  blossoms  shine, 
Snow  with  verdure  gleaming! 

When  my  love  was  from  me  riven. 

Steadfast  failh  uplMire  me; 

She  for  whom  I  so  have  striven 

Seems  to  hover  o'er  me; 

All  the  joys  that  she  hath  given 

Memory  can  restore  me; 


All  the  days  I  saw  her,  even 
Gladden  evermore  me. 
Ah,  yes  I   I  love  in  bliss; 
All  my  being  tends  to  this; 
Yea,  although  her  sight  I  miss. 
And  in  France  deplore  me. 

Yet  if  like  a  swallow  flying 

I  might  come  nnto  thee. 

Come  by  night  where  thou  art  lying, 

Verily  I'd  sue  thee. 

Dear  and  hapi)y  lady,  crying, 

I  must  die  or  woo  thee, 

Though  my  soul  dissolve  in  sighing 

And  my  fears  undo  me. 

Evermore  thy  grace  of  jorc 

I  with  folded  hands  adore. 

On  thy  glorious  colors  jiore. 

Till  despair  goes  through  me.' 


ROMANCE    POETS.  Ill 

This  style  early  extended  itself  to  the  Northern  dialect. 
Abelard,  poet  and  philosopher,  was  the  first  of  recorded  name 
who  taught  the  banks  of  the  Seine  to  resound  a  tale  of  love. 
Says  the  gifted  and  noble  Eloise,  of  whom  he  sung: 

'You  composed  many  verses  in  amorous  measure,  so  sweet  both  in  their  language 
and  in  their  melody,  that  your  name  was  incessantly  in  the  mouths  of  all;  and  even  the 
most  illiterate  could  not  be  forgetful  of  you.  This  it  was  chiefly  that  made  women 
admire  you;  and,  as  most  of  these  songs  were  on  me  and  my  love,  they  made  me 
known  in  many  countries,  and  caused  many  women  to  envy  me.  Every  tongue  spoke 
of  your  Eloise;  every  street,  every  house,  resoundeJ  with  my  name." 

The  poetry  of  the  North,  however,  was  mostly  epic,  with  his- 
torical and  romantic  themes;  written  for  the  luxurious  few, 
ambitious  and  astir  with  action;  expressing  and  circulating  the 
chivalrous  sentiments  of  life,  of  love,  and  of  loyalty.  The 
trouveres  —  minstrel-poets  —  were  the  idealizing  spirits  of  the 
knight,  who  in  hours  of  leisure  and  festivity  rehearsed  his  ex- 
ploits, in  transfigured  and  poetic  form,  to  his  flattered  and  de- 
lighted senses,  holding  before  him  a  magic  mirror  in  which  he 
saw  with  what  nobleness  and  enchantment  he  Was  invested.  No 
wonder  that  they  were  caressed  and  richly  rewarded, —  first  in 
France,  where  they  were  native;  then  in  England,  where  they 
were  transplanted. 

Such,  then,  was  the  literature  at  this  time  domiciled  across 
the  Channel, —  a  literature  into  which  were  gathered  the  delicate 
fancies  of  the  Celtic  poems,  the  grand  ruins  of  the  German  epics, 
the  marvellous  splendors  of  the  conquered  East,  with  the  whole 
medley  of  imaginary  creatures; — a  poetry  of  mailed  knights  and 
radiant  ladies,  of  polite  and  witty  love,  of  vague  reveries  and 
elegant  visions;  —  a  poetry  whose  facile  ideas,  expounded  and 
repeated  ad  infinitum,  flow  through  interminable  and  insipid 
rhymes  with  the  careless  grace  of  a  clear  and  purling  brook. 
Bent  on  pleasure,  brilliant  but  shallow,  it  will  die, —  die  for  lack 
of  depth  and  perspective.  Society  itself  nnist  purge  or  perish 
when  it  becomes  operatic.  But  first  it  will  Ijecome  the  leaven 
which  throws  into  fermentation  the  now  torpid  elements  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  character,  secretly  and  silently  training  and  cos- 
tuming the  drumath  personrv  for  a  new  and  nobler  entry  u})on 
the  literary  stage.  Form  will  inherit  its  refinement,  its  grace, 
its  music;  thought,  its  piquaiicv,  order,  and  transparency.  Its 
heaped-up    tales,    incoherent    and   mutilated,   wliich    in   the   weak 


112  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

hands  of  the  trouveres  lie  like  rubbish  or  rough-hewn  stones, 
Chaucer  and,  above  all,  Spenser  will  build  into  a  monument. 

Meanwhile,  ideas  are  imported.  The  Normans,  incapable  of 
great  poetry,  continue  to  copy,  arrange,  and  develop,  with  their 
eyes  glued  to  a  series  of  exaggerated  and  colored  images.  Even 
the  English  become  rhymesters  in  French.  Several  write  the  first 
half  of  the  verse  in  English  and  the  second  in  French, —  as  if 
French  influence  were  at  once  moulding  and  oppressing  them! 
A  few  employ  the  vernacular,  garnish  sermons  or  histories  with 
rhymes,  and  call  them  poems.  All  are  imitative  and  mediocre, 
repeating  what  they  imitate,  with  fewer  merits  and  greater 
faults.  Translations,  copies,  imitations, —  there  is  little  or  noth- 
ing else.  First  of  the  iiew  singers  is  Liayamon,  a  monk,  who  in 
120.5  translates  into  verse  and  amplifies  the  lirnt^  a  subject  sup- 
plied him  from  a  four-fold  source, —  the  supposed  original  Celtic 
poem,  which  is  lost;  the  Latin  chronicle  of  Geoffrey;  the  dull- 
rhymed  rhapsody  of  Gaimar;  and  the  duller  paraphrase  of  Wace, 
Through  its  more  than  thirty-two  thousand  lines  the  babble  goes 
on,  in  irregular  verse,  sometimes  rhymed,  oftener  alliterative, 
mixing  both  systems,  and  employing  either  at  convenience;  in 
general  adhering,  by  its  rhythm  and  short  quick  phrases,  to  the 
fashion  of  the  ancient  Saxons,  without  their  fire;  never  rising  to 
interest  but  by  virtue  of  the  theme,  as  in  the  account  of  Arthur's 
nativity: 

'The  time  cO  the  wes  icoren,  that  he  scokle  beoii  riche  king, 

tha  wes  Arthur  iboren.  heo  giuen  hi  that  tliridde, 

Sone  swa  he  com  an  eorlhe,  tliat  lie  scolde  longe  libbon. 

allien  liine  inciigcn.  heo  gifen  liim  that  kine-bern 

heo  bigoleii  that  child  custen  swithe  gode, 

mid  galdere  swithe  slronge;  that  he  wes  inete-custi 

heo  gene  him  iiiihte  of  alle  quikemonnen; 

to  beon  bezst  aire  cnihten.  this  tlie  alue  him  gef, 

heo  geuen  liim  an  other  thing,  and  al  swa  that  child  ithaeh."  ' 

Or,  again,  where  Arthur,  'lying  of  fifteen  'dreadful  wounds,'  into 
the  least  of  which  'one  might  thrust  two  gloves,'  is  transported 
after  death  in  a  boat,  by  fairy  elves,  to  Avalon,  the  abode  of  their 
(jueen: 

'  The  time  came  that  was  cliosen,  then  was  Artliiir  born.  So  soon  as  he  came  on 
earth,  elves  took  him:  they  enriianted  the  child  with  ma'.'ic  mo-t  stroiiir,  they  gave  him 
might  t')  be  the  be-it  of  all  knii.'hts:  they  L'ave  him  another  tliinir,  that  lie  sliouid  be  a  rich 
king:  they  irave  liim  tlie  third,  that  he  should  live  loiiL':  they  i:ave  to  him  the  jiriiice 
virtues  most  good,  so  that  he  was  iiio-^t  generous  of  all  men  alive.  This  the  elves  gave 
him,  and  thus  the  child  thrived. 


THE    NEW    SINGERS.  113 

'Arthur  was  wounded  wondrously  much.  There  came  to  him  a  lad,  who  was  of  his 
kindred;  he  was  CaSor's  son  the  earl  of  Cornwall;  .  .  .  Arthur  looked  on  him,  where 
he  lay  on  the  ground,  and  said  these  words,  with  sorrowful  heart:  "Constaniine,  thou 
art  welcome;  thou  wert  Cador's  son.  I  give  thee  here  my  kingdom,  and  defend  tliou  my 
Britons  ever  in  thy  life,  and  maintain  them  all  the  laws  that  have  stood  in  my  days,  and 
all  the  good  laws  that  in  Uthers  days  stood.  And  I  will  fare  to  Avalun,  to  the  fairest  of 
all  maidens,  to  Argante  the  queen,  an  elf  most  fair,  and  she  shall  make  my  wounds  all 
sound;  make  me  all  whole  with  healing  draugti-ts.  And  afterwards  I  will  come  to  my 
kingdom,  and  dwell  with  the  Britons  with  mickle  joy."  Even  with  the  words  there 
approached  from  the  sea  that  was  a  short  boat,  floating  with  the  waves ;  and  two  women 
therein,  wondrously  formed;  and  they  took  Arthur  anon,  and  bare  him  quickly,  and  laid 
■luni  softly  down,  and  forth  they  gan  depart.  Tlien  was  it  accomplished  that  Merlin 
whilom  said,  that  mickle  care  should  be  of  Arthur's  departure.  The  Britons  believe  yet 
that  he  is  alive,  and  dwelleth  in  Avalun  with  the  fairest  of  all  elves;  and  the  Britons 
ever  yet  expect  when  Arthur  shall  return.  Was  never  the  man  born,  of  ever  any  lady 
chosen,  that  knoweth  of  the  sooth,  to  say  more  of  Arthur.  But  whilom  was  a  sage  hight 
Merlin;  he  said  with  words, —  his  sayings  were  sooth, —  that  an  Arthur  should  yet  come 
to  help  the  English  (Britons).' 

Another  poem,  of  later  date,  1250,  with  no  merit  but  that  of 
just  design  and  regular  versification,  is  the  Orrnuhini,  by  Orm, 
also  a  monk.  Its  plan  is  to  explain  to  the  people  the  spiritual 
import  of  the  daily  Service.  A  religious  hand-book,  simple  and 
rustic,  it  marks  the  rise  of  English  religious  literature.  The  ideal 
monk  is  to  be  'a  very  pure  man,  and  altogether  without  property, 
except  that  he  shall  be  found  in  simple  meat  and  clothes.'  He 
will  have  'a  hard  and  stiff  and  rough  and  heavy  life  to  lead.  All 
his  heart  and  desire  ouglit  to  be  aye  toward  Heaven,  and  his 
Master  well  to  serve.'  This,  as  we  have  seen,  was  the  popular 
religion.     In  pardonable  vanity  the  author  says: 

'Thiss  boc  iss  nemmnedd  Orrmulum 
Forrthi  thatt  Orrm  itt  wrohhte.' 

Another  poem  —  for  we  must  call  it  such,  if  phrases  ending 
with  the  same  sound  are  poetry  —  is  the  chronicle  of  Robert  of 
Gloucester,  writteit  in  Alexandrines '  about  tlie  year  130(>,  and 
deserving  notice  chiefly  as  the  most  ancient  professed  history  in 
the  English  language.  Begirniing  with  the  siege  of  Troy,  it  ends 
with  the  death  of  Hern-y  IH,  1272.  It  conveys  some  information 
of  vahu;  upon  the  social  and  physical  condition  of  England  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  as  the  following  lines  suggest: 

'From  South  to  North  he  ys  long  eigte  hondred  myle: 
And  foure  hondred  myle  brod  from  Est  to  West  to  wende, 
A  mydde  tho  loud  as  yt  be,  and  nogt  as  by  the  on  ende. 
Plente  me  may  in  Engelond  of  alle  godo  y  se, 

'  Verics  of  twelve  syllables,  or  six  iambic  feet.  Tlic  Alexandrine,  as  the  desiLrnation 
of  a  particular  metro,  took  its  name  from  its  emi)loyment  in  the  popular  and  widely  cir- 
culated poems  on  Alexander  the  Great. 


114  FORMATIVE   PERIOD — THE   LITERATURE. 

Bute  folc  yt  for  gulte  other  yeres  the  worse  be. 

For  Engelond  ys  full  ynow  of  fruyt  and  of  tren, 

Of  wodes  and  of  parkes,  that  ioye  yt  ys  to  sen. 

Of  foules  and  of  bestes  of  wylde  and  tame  al  so. 

Of  salt  fysch  and  eche  fresch,  and  sayre  ryneres  ther  to. 

Of  Welles  swcte  and  colde  ynow,  of  lesen  and  of  mede.  [pastures 

Of  seluer  and  of  gold,  of  tyn  and  of  lede. 

Of  stel,  of  yrn  and  of  bras,  of  god  com  grct  won. 

Of  whyte  and  of  wolle  god,  betere  ne  may  be  non. 

Wateres  he  hath  eke  gode  y  now,  ac  at  be  fore  alle  other  thre  [but 

Out  of  the  lond  in  to  the  see,  arnies  as  thci  be. 

Ware  by  the  schippes  mowe  come  fro  the  se  and  wende, 

And  brynge  on  lond  god  y  now,  a  boute  in  eche  ende.' 

But  shall  we  look  upon  a  desert  of  stumps,  and  exclaim,  'O 
my  soul,  what  beauty  ! '  What  is  here  in  these  metrical  Lives  of 
Saints,  rhymed  dissertations  and  chronicles,  which  are  so  well 
prolonged  and  so  void  of  pleasure?  What  but  poverty  of  intel- 
lect and  taste?  Wholly  destitute  of  poetical  merit,  unable  to 
develop  a  continuous  idea,  they  disregard  historical  truth  without 
securing  the  graces  of  fable  by  the  sacrifice.  They  are,  it  is  true, 
of  interest  to  the  lover  of  antiquities,  and  of  importance  to  the 
linguist,  as  are  fo.ssil  remains  to  the  geologist.  They  exhibit  the 
physiology  of  the  English  speech  in  its  transition  or  larva  and 
chrysalis  states.  Thus  tlie  J^rut,  though  rendered  from  the 
French,  contains  fewer  than  fifty  Norman  words.  A  remarkable 
peculiarity  of  its  grammar  is  the  use  of  the  proTioun  his  as  a  sign 
of  the  possessive  ease,  as  when  in  more  modern  English  it  was 
not  unusual  to  write  John  his  hook.  The  Orinuluin  differs  from 
the  Anglo-Saxon  models  in  wanting  alliteration,  and  from  the 
Norman-French  in  wanting  rhyme.  It  contains  a  few  words  from 
the  ecclesiastical  Latin,  but  scarcely  a  trace  of  Norman  influ- 
ence. It  has  a  ])eculiar  device  of  spelling,  consistent  and  uni- 
form,—  the  doubling  of  the  con.sonant  after  every  short  vowel, — 
to  indicate  wliat,  at  a  period  of  great  confusion,  the  autlior 
deemed  the  standard  pronunciation.  Its  immediate  purpose, 
perhaps,  was  to  guide  the  half-Normanized  priests  when  the 
verses  were  read  aloud  for  the  good  or  pleasure  of  the  people. 
On  adherence  to  its  ortliography  by  readers  and  copyists,  it  lays 
great  stress: 

'And  whase  willen  shall  this  Ixxikc  And  whoso  shall  wish  this  book 

Eft  other  sithe  writen,  After  other  time  to  write. 

Him  l)idde  ice  tliat  he't  write  riirlit  Him  bid  I  that  he  it  write  right, 

Swa  sum  this  twoke  him  teacheth."  So  as  this  book  him  teacheth. 


POVERTY  OF  IXTELLECT  AND  TASTE.  115 

In  Robert's  Chronicle  of  England,  the  infusion  of  Norman 
Avords  is  still  not  more  than  four  or  five  per  cent,  while  it  repre- 
sents the  language  in  a  decidedly  more  advanced  stage.  He 
distinctly  states  the  prevalence  of  French  in  his  own  day: 

'Vor  bote  a  man  couthe  French,  me  tolth  of  him  well  lute 
For  unless  a  man  know  French,  one  talketh  of  him  little; 
Ac  lowe  men  holdeth  to  Englyss,  and  to  her  kunde  speche  zute 
But  low  men  hold  to  English,  and  to  their  natural  speech  yet.' 

Let  us  omit  The  Lay  of  Havelok  the  Dane,  an  orphan  who 
marries  an  English  princess;  King  Horn,  who,  thrown  into  a 
boat  when  a  lad,  is  wrecked  upon  the  coast  of  England,  and, 
becoming  a  knight,  reconquers  the  kingdom  of  his  father;  Sir 
Guy,  who  rescues  enchanted  knights,  cuts  down  a  giant,  chal- 
lenges and  kills  the  Sultan  in  his  tent;  Alexander,  the  great 
hero  of  the  heathen  world,  whose  forgotten  glory,  after  the 
downfall  of  the  Empire,  was  revived  on  the  Levantine  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  then  in  Western  Europe;  —  all  which  are 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  restored  or  adapted  from  the 
French;  all  which,  while  they  serve  to  illustrate  the  continuity 
of  the  English  tongue,  the  growth  of  the  French  romantic  man- 
ner of  story-telling  as  the  years  grow  nearer  to  1300,  and  the 
demand  of  the  Middle  Age  for  glare  and  startling  events,  are 
utterly  without  power  in  delineating  character  or  unity  of  con- 
ception in  plan  and  execution. 

In  the  midst  of  the  story-tellers  are  satirists  who,  writing 
mostly  in  French  or  Latin,  censure  political  abuses  and  Church 
corruptions,  sometimes  in  a  tone  of  mournful  seriousness,  as  if 
the  degradation  to  which  the  profession  was  reduced  by  the 
depravity  of  the  higher  clergy  was  deeply  felt;  sometimes  with 
more  force  than  respect  or  elegance.  Thus  an  English  poem  of 
the  Land  of  Cockaigne, —  from  coquina,  a  kitchen, —  a  form  of 
satire  current  in  many  parts  of  Europe: 

'Lisit,  for  now  my  tale  begins,  There  the  Pope  for  my  offence, 

How  to  rid  me  of  my  ^*in■',  Biule  me  straight  in  penance,  thence, 

Once  I  journcy'd  far  from  home,  Wandering  onward  to  attain 

To  the  gate  of  holy  Home.  The  wondrons  land  that  hight  Cockaigne.' 

We  are  told  of  a  region  free  from  trouble,  where  the  rivers  rtui 
witli  oil,  milk,  wine,  and  honey;  wherein  the  white  and  groy 
monks  have  an  al^bev  of  which  the  walls  are  l)ui]t  of  pasties, 
which  are  paved   with   cakes,  and  have  jniddings   for  pinnacles. 


116  FORMATIVE   PERIOD — THE   LITERATURE. 

Roasted  geese  fly  about  crying,  'Geese  all  hot 'I     This  is  the  tri- 
umph of  gluttony. 

Here,  also,  like  prophecies  of  the  perfect  bloom,  are  some 
bright  lyrics, —  religious,  amatory,  pastoral,  warlike.  The  chival- 
ric  adoration  of  the  sovereign  Lady,  the  real  deity  of  mediieval 
society,  breathes  in  this  pleasing  hymn,  which  bears  witness  to 
its  origin: 

'Blessed  beo  thu,  lavedi,  Ai  inin  hope  is  nppon  the, 

Ful  of  hovene  blisse;  Bi  clay  and  bi  nicht  .  .  . 

Sweet  flur  of  parais,  Bricht  and  scene  qiien  of  storre, 

Moder  of  inilternisse  ...  So  me  liht  and  lore. 

I-blessed  beo  thu,  Lavedi,  In  this  false  fikele  world, 

So  fair  and  so  briht;  So  me  led  and  steore.' 

What  could  be  farther  from  the  Saxon  sentiment?  A  poem 
of  some  interest  as  the  earliest  imaginative  piece  of  native  inven- 
tion after  the  Conquest  is  Tlte  Owl  and  the  N^lghtingale,  in 
octosyllabic  rhyme,  composed  in  the  reign  of  Henry  HI.  It  is  a 
dispute  between  the  two  birds  as  to  which  has  the  finer  voice. 
After  much  reciprocal  abuse,  the  question  of  superiority  is  re- 
ferred to  the  author. 

Love  of  nature  is  deep  and  national.  To  the  Frenchman  it  is 
a  light  gladsomeness,  soon  gone,  suggesting  only  a  pleasing- 
couplet  as  it  passes, — '  Now  is  winter  gone,  the  hawthorn  blos- 
soms, the  rose  expands,  the  birds  do  voice  their  vows  in  melody.' 
To  the  Englishman,  all  sad  and  moral,  tiic  curcling  seasons  sug- 
gest a  spiritual  lesson, —  chiefly  'vanity  of  vanities.'  So  is  the 
following,  of  the  reign  of  Edward  I,  trulv  English  in  spirit: 

'Wynter  wakeneth  al  my  care, 
Nou  this  Icves  waxeth  bare, 
Ofte  y  sike  ant  mourne  sare. 
When  hit  cometh  in  my  thoht 
Of  this  workles  joie,  lioii  hit  goth  al  to  noht. 

Now  hit  is,  and  now  hit  nys, 

.\lso  hit  nere  y-wys, 

That  moni  mon  seith  soth  his  ys, 

Al  goth  bote  Godes  wille, 

.•Vile  we  shiile  deye,  thath  us  like  ylle. 

Al  that  gren  me  graueth  grenc, 

Xou  liit  faleweth  al  by-dene; 

.Ihcsu,  help  that  hit  be  sene, 

.\nd  shild  us  from  hcllc, 

For  y  not  whider  y  shal,  lie  hou  loiige  her  duelle.' 

Yeomen  and   liarpers  throw  off  some  spirited  products;   but  their 
songs,  first   ignored,  then  transformed,  reacli   us   only  in  a  late 


RISE   OF   ENGLISH    PROSE.  117 

edition,  as  Hobin   Hood,    Chevy    Chase,  and  the   Nut-Broion 
Maid. 

Enough.  The  Saxon  stock,  stripped  of  its  buds  by  the  Nor- 
man axe,  grows,  though  feebly.  An  occasional  slioot  displays 
genuine  England  to  the  light,  as  a  vast  rock  crops  up  here  and 
there  from  beneath  the  soil. 

Prose. — When  the  preservation  of  literary  compositions  by 
writuig  has  given  opportunity  for  their  patient  study,  the  next 
step  is  possible, —  the  use  of  prose;  and  histories,  rude  and  meagre, 
serving  rather  to  fix  a  date  than  to  illuminate  it,  are  its  principal 
products.  Nature  makes  men  poets, —  art  makes  them  philoso- 
phers and  critics. 

English  prose  looks  fondly  back  to  Alfred,  in  his  translations 
of  Bede,  for  its  true  parentage.  As  Whitby,  in  the  person  of 
Caidmon,  is  the  cradle  of  English  poetry,  so  Winchester  is  that  of 
English  prose.  Failing  soon  after,  it  is  revived  in  ^Elfric,  who, 
turning  into  English  the  first  seven  books  and  part  of  Job,  becomes 
the  first  large  translator  of  the  Bible;  repressed  by  the  Danes, 
and  again  by  the  Normans,  it  dies  in  the  death  of  the  Saxon 
Chronidi',  nor  lives  again  in  any  extended  form  till  the  reign  of 
Edward  111. 

There  may  be  mentioned  a  curious  work  in  the  vernacular, 
belonging  to  the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth  century, —  tlie  Ancren 
Hiicle,  that  is,  the  Anchoresses''  Hide,  a  code  of  monastic  precepts 
for  the  guidance  of  a  small  nunnery,  or  rather  religious  society  of 
ladies: 

'  Ye  nc  schnlen  eteii  vleschs  lie  seiin  biiten  ine  muchelc  secnesse;  other  liwoso  is 
eiier  feble  etetli  potai^e  blitheliclie;  and  wunieth  on  to  Intel  dnincli.  .  .  .  Ve,  mine 
lootie  sustren.  ne  schulen  babben  no  best,  bute  kut  one.  .  .  .  Nexsit  tieslie  ne  scliai  inon 
werieu  no  linene  clotli,  l)Ute  yif  hit  beo  of  herde  and  of  greate  heorden.  Staniin  habbe 
hwose  wule;  and  liwose  wille  niei  beon  buten.  Ye  scliiilen  liggen  in  on  heater,  and 
i-gurd.  .  .  .  Ower  sclione  beon  greate  and  warmo.  Ine  sinner  ye  liabbetli  leaiie  norto 
gon  and  sitten  burnot.  .  .  .  Ye  ne  schulen  scnden  lettres,  ne  underuon  lettres,  ne  writen, 
biiten  leane.  Ye  schulen  l)eon  i-dodded  four  sithen  ithe  yere,  norto  lihten  ower  heaued: 
and  ase  ofte  i-leten  blod  :  and  oftere  yif  neod  is ;  and  liwoso  inei  beon  tlier  withuten,  ich 
hit  niei  wel  i-tholien."  ' 

'  Ye  shall  not  eat  flesh  nor  lard  but  in  much  sickness;  or  whoso  is  ever  feeble  may 
eat  i)()tage  blitliely:  and  accustom  yourselves  to  little  drink.  .  .  .  Ye,  my  dear  sisters, 
shall  have  but  one  cat.  .  .  .  Xe.xt  the  tlesh  ye  shall  wear  no  linen  cloth, "but  if  it  be  of 
hard  and  of  coarse  canvas.  Whoso  will  may  have  a  shirt  of  woolen  and  linen,  .md 
whoso  will  may  be  without.  Ye  shall  lie  in  a  garment  and  girt.  .  .  .  Let  your  shoes  he 
larirc  and  warm.  In  summer  ye  are  permitted  to  iro  and  sit  bare-foot.  .  .  .  Ye  shall  not 
send  letters,  nor  receive  letters,  nor  write  without  leave.  Ye  shall  be  cropped  four  tinie< 
in  the  year,  to  iiichten  your  head;  and  as  often  bled,  oftener  if  need  be:  but  w  ho-^o  may 
dispense  with  this,  well. 


118  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

Again : 

'The  slowc  lith  and  slepeth  ithe  deofles  bermc,  ase  his  deore  deorling;  and  te  deouel 
leieth  his  tutel  adun  to  his  earen,  and  tuteleth  him  al  thet  he  euer  wule.  .  .  .  The  giure 
gliitun  is  thes  fondes  manciple,  for  he  stiketh  euer  ithe  celere,  other  ithe  kuchene. 
His  heorte  is  ithe  disches;  his  thouht  is  al  ithe  neppe;  his  lif  ithe  tunne;  his  soule  ithe 
crocke.' '  .  .  . 

History.  —  Between  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  history 
are  legendary  traditions,  credulous  chronicles,  barren  annals,  the 
glitter  and  clatter  of  kings  and  warriors,  luxuriant,  tangled,  and 
fanciful  narratives.  When,  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  credulity  and 
looseness  of  thought  are  universal,  it  is  impossible  for  men  to 
engage  in  a  pliilosophic  study  of  the  past,  or  even  to  record  with 
accuracy  what  is  taking  place  around  them.  So  great  is  the 
general  aptitude  for  the  marvellous,  that  even  the  ablest  writers 
are  compelled  to  believe  the  most  childish  absurdities.  Thus,  it 
was  well  known  that  the  city  of  Naples  was  founded  on  eggs; 
also,  tliat  the  order  of  St.  Michael  was  instituted  in  person  by  the 
archangel,  who  was  himself  the  first  knight.  The  Tartars,  it  was 
taught,  proceeded  from  Tartarus,  which  some  theologians  said 
was  an  inferior  kind  of  hell,  but  others  declared  to  be  hell  itself. 
Hence,  as  the  Turks  were  identical  with  the  Tartars,  it  was  only 
a  proper  and  natural  consequence  that,  since  the  Cross  had  fallen 
into  Turkish  hands,  all  Christian  children  had  ten  teeth  less  tlian 
formerly.  Here  is  a  story  which  Anselm,  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, one  of  the  greatest  and  most  vigorous  minds  in  the 
twelfth  century,  tells  of  a  certain  St.  Kieran.  The  saint,  with 
thirty  of  his  companions,  has  been  executed  in  a  wood  by  order 
of  a  Pagan  prince,  and  their  bodies  are  left  lying  there  for  the 
wolves  and  the  wild  birds.  Note  the  fact,  as  the  grave  and  good 
Anselm  has  really  ascertained  it: 

'  But  now  a  miracle,  such  as  was  once  hoard  of  before  in  the  Church  in  the  person  of 
the  holy  Denis,  was  again  wrou^'ht  by  Divine  Providence  to  preserve  the  bodies  of  these 
saints  from  profanation.    The  trunk  of  Kieran  rose  from  the  ground,  and  selecting  first 

'  The  shigtrard  liith  and  slcepeth  in  the  devil's  bosom,  as  his  dear  darling:  and  the 
rlevil  npplietli  his  mouth  to  his  fars,  and  tells  him  whatever  he  will.  J  For,  this  is  certainly 
the  case  with  every  one  who  is  not  occupied  in  anvthing  good:  tlie  devil  as^duotisly 
talks,  and  the  idle  lovinirly  receive  his  lessons.  He  that  is  idle  and  careless  is  the  devil's 
hosoin-sleeper :  but  lie  shall  on  Doomsday  be  fearfully  startled  with  the  dreadful  sound 
of  the  aiiu'els"  trumpets,  and  ^hall  awaken  in  terrible  amazement  in  hell,  ".\rise,  ye 
dead,  who  lie  in  graves:  arise,  and  come  to  the  Saviour's  judgment."]  .  .  .  The  greedy 
glutton  is  the  devil's  purveyor:  for  he  always  haunts  t4ie  cellar  or  the  kitchen.  His  heart 
is  in  the  dishes:  all  his  thought  is  of  the  table-cloth:  his  life  is  in  the  tun,  his  soul  in  the; 
pitcher.  (He  cometh  into  th<-  presence  of  his  lord  besiuutted  and  besmeared,  with  a  dish 
in  one  hand  and  a  bowl  in  the  other.  He  talks  much  incoherently,  and  staggerelh  like  a 
drunken  man  who  seemeth  about  to  fall,  looks  at  his  great  belly,  and  the  devil  laughs  so 
that  he  bursteth.J 


HISTORICAL   METHOD  —  LEGENDARY   STAGE.  119 

his  own  head,  and  carrying  it  to  a  stream,  and  there  carefully  washing  it,  and  afterwards 
performing  the  same  sacred  office  for  each  of  his  companions,  giving  each  body  its  own 
head,  he  dug  graves  for  them  and  buried  them,  and  lost  of  all  buried  himself/ 

With  the  appetite  for  the  fabulous  and  superhuman  is  coupled 
—  as  if  the  heart  were  searching  for  its  dead  kindred  —  the  love 
of  antiquity.  Hence  history,  in  its  first  efforts,  usually  begins  at 
a  very  remote  period,  and  traces  events  in  an  unbroken  series, 
even  from  the  moment  when  Adam  passed  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
.  Add  to  this,  that  the  historians  were  essentially  theological, — 
priests,  who  lived  remote  from  public  affairs,  considered  the  civil 
transactions  as  entirely  subordinate  to  the  ecclesiastical,  were 
strongly  infected  with  the  love  of  wonder,  and  conceived  it  their 
business  to  enforce  belief  rather  than  to  encourage  inquiry.  Thus 
Mattliew  Paris,  the  most  eminent  historian  of  the  thirteenth 
centur}-,  to  explain  why  the  Mahometans  abominate  pork,  informs 
us  that  Mahomet,  having  on  one  occasion  gorged  himself  with 
food  and  drink  till  he  was  in  an  insensible  condition,  fell  asleep 
on  a  dunghill,  and  in  this  disgraceful  state  was  attacked  and 
suffocated  by  a  litter  of  pigs;  for  which  reason  his  followers  have 
ever  since  refused  to  partake  of  their  flesh.  This  celebrated 
writer  tells  us  further,  to  account  for  the  origin  of  the  Mahom- 
etan sect,  that  Mahomet  was  originally  a  cardinal,  and  became  a 
heretic  only  because  he  failed  in  his  design  of  being  elected  pope. 

Perhaps  the  most  reliable  standard  of  the  knowledge  and 
opinions  of  these  Ages  of  Faith  is  GeoflErey's  History  of  the 
Uritons  (1147).  This  Welsh  monk  ascertains  that  after  the 
capture  of  Troy,  Ascanius  fled  from  the  city,  and  begat  a  son, 
who  became  father  to  Brutus;  that  Brutus,  having  extirpated  the 
race  of  giants,  founded  London,  settled  the  affairs  of  the  island, 
and  called  it,  after  himself,  by  the  name  of  Britain.  A  long  line 
of  kings  is  then  led  from  oblivion  into  day,  most  of  whom  are 
famous  for  their  abilities,  and  some  for  the  prodigies  which  occur 
in  their  time.  Thus  during  the  reign  of  Rivallo  'it  rained  blood 
three  days  together,  and  there  fell  vast  swarms  of  flies.'  When 
Morvidus,  'a  most  cruel  tyrant,'  was  on  the  throne, — 

'There  came  from  the  coast?  of  the  Irish  sea,  a  most  cruel  monster,  that  was  contin- 
ually devourins;  the  people  upon  the  sea-coasts.  As  soon  as  he  heard  of  it,  he  ventured 
to  LTo  and  encounter  it  alone:  when  he  liad  in  vain  spent  all  his  darts  upon  it,  the  monster 
rushed  upon  him,  and  with  open  jaws  swallowed  hini  up  like  a  small  flsh.' 


120  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

The  dauntless  Arthur  kills  a  giant  from  the  shores  of  Spain, 
against  whom  armies  were  able  to  do  nothing, — 

'  For  whether  they  attacked  him  by  sea  or  land,  he  either  overturned  their  ships  with 
vast  rocks,  or  killed  them  with  several  sorts  of  darts,  besides  many  of  them  that  he  took 
and  devoured  half  alive.' 

Pausing,  in  the  historical  account,  to  relate  the  prophecy  of  Mer- 
lin, he  tells  us  how,  by  the  prophet's  advice,  a  pond  was  drained, 
at  whose  bottom  were  two  hollow  stones,  and  in  them  two  drag- 
ons asleep,  which  hindered  the  building  of  Vortigern's  tower; 
then, — 

'As  Vortigem,  king  of  the  Britons,  was  sitting  upon  the  bank  of  the  drained  pond, 
the  two  dragons,  one  of  which  was  white,  the  other  red,  came  fortli,  and,  approaching 
one  another,  began  a  terrible  tight,  and  cast  forth  fire  with  their  breath.  But  the  white 
dragon  had  the  advantage,  and  made  the  other  fly  to  the  end  of  the  lake.  And  he, 
for  grief  at  his  flight,  renewed  the  assault  npon  his  pursuer,  and  forced  him  to  retire. 
After  this  hattlf;  of  the  dragons,  the  king  commanded  Ambrose  Merlin  to  tell  him  w^hat 
it  portclided.  Upon  which  he,  bursting  into  tears,  delivered  what  his  prophetical  spirit 
suggested  to  him,  as  follows: 

'•  Woe  to  the  red  dragon,  for  his  banishment  hasteneth  on.  His  lurking  holes  shall 
be  seized  by  the  white tlragon,  which  signifies  the  Saxons  whom  you  invited  over;  but 
the  red  denotes  the  British  nation,  which  shall  be  oppressed  by  the  white.  Therefore 
shall  its  mountains  be  levelled  as  the  valleys,  and  the  rivers  of  the  valleys  shall  run 
with  blood  The  exercise  of  religion  shall  be  destroyed,  and  churches  be  laid  open  to 
ruin."'  ■ 

The  history  is  brought  down  to  the  close  of  the  seventh  century, 
when  the  Britons,  sunk  in  barbarism  and  no  longer  worthy  of 
their  name,  were  known  only  as  'Welshmen': 

'But  as  for  the  kings  that  have  succeeded  among  them  in  Wales,  since  that  time,  I 
leave  the  history  of  them  to  Caradoc  of  Lancarvan,  my  contemporary;  as  I  do  also  the 
kings  of  the  Saxons  to  William  of  Malmesbury,  and  Henry  of  Huntington.  But  I  advise 
them  to  be  silent  concerning  the  kings  of  the  Britons,  since  they  have  not  that  book 
written  in  the  British  tongue,  which  Walter,  archdeacon  of  Oxford,  brought  out  of 
Brittany,  and  which  being  a  true  history,  published  in  lionour  of  those  princes,  1  have 
thus  taken  care  to  translate." 

It  is  here  that  we  first  read  of  Gorboduc,  whose  story  will  be 
the  theme  of  tlie  earliest  English  tragedy ;  of  Lear  and  his 
daughters;  and,  above  all,  of  King  Arthur  as  the  recognized 
hero  of  national  story. 

A  liundred  years  after  its  first  publication,  this  book  was 
generally  adopted  by  writers  on  English  history;  and,  for  its 
repudiation  in  the  si.xteenth  century,  Vergil  was  considered  as 
a  man  almost  deprived  of  reason.  A  book  thu.s  stamped  with 
every  mark  of  approbation  is  surely  no  bad  measure  of  the  ages 
in  which  it  was  accredited  and  admired. 

Mere  annalists  abounded,  wlio  set  down  minutely,  in  clirono- 


ANNALISTS  —  THE  SAXON  CHRONICLE.  121 

logical  order,  what  their  eyes  have  seen  and  their  ears  have 
heard,  till  the  reader  is  overpowered  with  weariness;  only  the 
dross  of  history;  facts,  in  particles,  in  mass,  without  the  abstract 
truth  which  interpenetrates  them,  and  lies  latent  among  them, 
like  gold  in  the  ore;  dreams,  portents,  warnings,  and  the  whole 
progeny  of  superstition.  Here  is  the  style  of  the  chronicler  in 
the  tenth  century: 

'538.  When  he  had  reigned  four  j-ears,  the  sun  was  eclipsed  from  the  first  hour  of 
the  day  to  the  third. 

540.  Again,  two  j-ears  after,  the  sun  was  eclipsed  for  half  an  hour  after  the  third 
hour,  so  that  the  stars  were  everywhere  visible  in  the  slcy. 

661.  After  three  years.  Ken  walk  again  fought  a  battle  near  the  town  of  Pontes- 
bury,  and  took  prisoner  Wulfhere,  son  of  Penda,  at  Ashdown,  when  he  had  defeated 
his  army. 

671.  After  one  year  more,  there  was  a  great  pestilence  among  the  birds,  so  that 
there  was  an  intolerable  stench  by  sea  and  land,  arising  from  the  carcasses  of  birds, 
both  small  and  great. 

674.  After  one  year,  Wulfhere,  son  of  Penda,  and  Kenwalk  fought  a  battle  among 
themselves  in  a  place  called  Bedwin. 

677.    After  three  years  a  comet  was  seen. 

729.    At  the  end  of  one  year  a  comet  appeared,  and  the  holy  bishop  Egbert  died. 

73.3.  Two  years  after  these  things,  king  Ethelbald  received  under  his  dominion 
the  royal  vill  which  is  called  Somcrton.    The  same  year  the  sun  was  eclipsed. 

734.  After  the  lapse  of  one  year,  the  moon  appeared  as  if  stained  with  spots  of 
blood,  and  by  the  same  omen  Tatwine  and  Bede  departed  this  life." 

That  monument  of  English  prose  which  is  at  once  most  vener- 
able and  most  valuable  is  the  Saxon  Chro)ilcle,  compiled  from 
the  monastic  annals  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  in  891, 
and  carried  forward  in  the  monasteries  by  various  hands  until 
the  accession  of  Henry  II,  in  tlie  year  1154.  Of  value  as  a  sta- 
tistic epitome  of  English  history  during  that  long  period,  its 
chief  value,  perhaps,  consists  in  tlie  bird's-eye  view  which  it 
gives  of  lingui.stic  changes  from  year  to  year,  from  century  to 
century,  until,  as  the  last  records  arc  by  contemporary  writers, 
old  English  almost  melts  into  modern.  At  distant  intervals, 
when  inspired  l)y  the  transitory,  tlie  sombre,  and  the  mysterious, 
it  rises  to  a  pathos  like  this  on  "William  tlie  Conqueror: 

'  Shar])  death,  that  passes  neither  by  rich  men  nor  jioor,  >ei7.('(l  liim  also.  Alas,  how 
false  and  liow  uncertain  is  this  world's  weal !  He,  that  was  before  a  rich  kins  and  loril 
of  many  lands,  had  not  then  of  all  his  land  more  than  a  space  of  seven  feet;  and  he, 
that  was  whilom  enshrouded  in  irold  and  gems,  lay  there  covered  with  mould." 

But,  in  general,  it  is  vapid,  empty,  and  uncritical,  noting  in  the 
same  lifeless  tone  the  important  and  the  trivial,  without  the 
slightest  tinge  of  dramatic  color  or  of  discrimination.  Blood 
gushes    out    of    the    earth    in    Berkshire    near    the    birtli])laee    of 


122  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

Alfred.  In  Peterborough,  under  a  Norman  abbot,  horns  are 
heard  at  dead  of  night,  and  spectral  huntsmen  are  seen  to  ride 
through  the  woods.     The  following  extracts  are  fair  specimens: 

'449.  In  this  year  Martian  and  Valentinian  giiccfeded  to  tiie  empire  and  reigned 
seven  winters.  And  in  their  days  Ileiigcst  and  Ilorsa,  invited  by  Wyrtgeorn,  king  of  the 
Britons,  sought  Britain,  on  the  shore  which  is  named  Ypwines  fleet;  first  in  support  of 
the  Britons,  but  afterwards  they  fought  against  them. 

•103.  In  this  year  Hengest  and  -Esc  fought  against  the  Welsh  and  took  countless 
booty;  and  the  Welsh  fled  from  tlic  Angles  as  Are. 

509.   In  this  year  St.  Benedict  the  abbot,  father  of  all  monks,  went  to  heaven. 

6C1.   In  this  year  was  the  great  destruction  of  birds. 

7'M.  Here  Offa,  king  of  Mercia,  commanded  that  King  Ethelbert  should  be  beheaded ; 
and  Osred,  who  had  been  king  of  the  Northumbrians,  returning  home  after  his  exile,  was 
apprehended  and  slain  on  the  18th  day  before  the  Calends  of  October.  His  body  is  depos- 
ited at  Tinemouth.  Ethelred  this  year,  on  the  3d  day  before  the  Calends  of  October,  took 
unto  himself  a  new  wife  whose  name  was  Elfreda. 

793.  In  this  year  dire  forwarnings  came  over  the  land  of  the  Northumbrians,  and 
miserably  terrified  the  people:  there  were  excessive  whirlwinds  and  lightnings,  and  fiery 
dragons  were  seen  flying  in  the  air.  A  great  famine  soon  followed  these  tokens;  and  a 
little  after  that,  in  the  same  year,  on  tlie  6th  of  the  Ides  of  January,  the  havoc  of  heathen 
men  miserably  destroyed  God's  church  at  Lindisfarne,  through  rapine  and  slaughter. 
And  Sicga  died  on  the  8th  of  the  Cal.  of  March.' 

Centuries  will  pass  before  history,  which  thus  begins  in  ro- 
mance and  babble,  will  end  in  essay;  before  this  enfeebled  intel- 
lect will  be  able  to  rise  from  particular  facts  to  discover  the  laws 
by  which  those  facts  are  governed,  exhibiting  by  judicious  selec- 
tion, rejection,  and  arrangement,  the  orderly  progress  of  society 
and  the  nature  of  man. 

Theology. — It  was  a  favorite  saying  among  the  ancients, 
that  death  is  'a  law  and  not  a  punishment.'  It  Mas  a  root- 
doctrine  of  the  early  Christians  that  disobedience  —  the  fruit  of 
the  forbidden  tree — 'brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our 
woe.' 

Tlie  first  represented  man  as  pure  and  innocent  till  lii.s  will  has 
siinied;  the  second,  as  under  sentence  of  condetnnation  at  the 
mf)ment  f)f  birth.  Plutarch  had  said  that  no  funeral  sacrifices 
were  offered  for  infants,  'because  it  is  irreligious  to  lament  for 
those  ])uri>  souls  who  have  passed  into  a  better  life  and  a  hajipier 
dwelling-])lace.'  'lie  assured,'  writes  a  saint  of  the  sixth  century, 
'that  not  onlv  men  who  have  o})tained  the  use  f)f  their  rea.son, 
but  children  who  have  begun  to  live  in  their  motiier's  womb  and 
have  there  died,  or  who,  just  born,  have  passed  away  without  the 
sacrament  of  holy  V)aptisni  administered  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  must  be  punished  by  eternal  tor- 


THEOLOGY  —  HERESY.  123 

ture.'  The  opinion  so  graphically  expressed  by  a  theologian  who 
said  '  he  doubted  not  that  there  were  infants  less  than  a  span 
long  crawling  about  the  floor  of  hell,'  was  held  with  great  confi- 
dence in  the  early  Church.  Some,  indeed,  imagined  that  a  spe- 
cial place  was  assigned  to  them,  where  there  was  neither  suffering 
nor  enjoyment.  This  was  emphatically  denied  by  St.  Augustine, 
who  declared  that  they  descended  into  '  everlasting  fire.'  Accord- 
ing to  a  popular  legend,  the  redbreast  was  commissioned  by  the 
Deity  to  carry  a  drop  of  water  to  them  to  relieve  their  con- 
suming thirst,  and  its  breast  was  singed  in  piercing  the  flames. 

Belief  in  a  personal  devil,  as  we  have  seen,  was  profound  and 
universal.  Sometimes  he  is  encountered  as  a  grotesque  and 
hideous  animal,  sometimes  as  a  black  man,  sometimes  as  a  fair 
woman,  sometimes  as  a  priest  haranguing  in  the  pulpit,  some- 
times as  an  angel  of  light.  He  hovers  forever  about  the  Chris- 
tian; but  the  sign  of  the  cross,  a  few  drops  of  holy  water,  or  the 
name  of  Mary,  can  put  him  to  immediate  and  ignominious  flight. 

Doubt  was  branded  as  a  sin.  To  cherish  prejudice  was  better 
than  to  analyze  it.  Those  who  diverged  from  the  orthodox  belief 
were  doomed.  Avenues  of  inquiry  were  painted  with  images  of 
appalling  suffering  and  malicious  demons.  An  age  which  be- 
lieves that  a  man  is  intensely  guilty  who  holds  certain  opinions, 
and  will  cause  the  damnation  of  his  fellows  if  he  propagates 
them,  has  no  moral  difficulty  in  concluding  that  the  heretic  should 
be  damned.  A  law  of  the  Saxons  condemned  to  death  any  one 
who  ate  meat  in  Lent,  unless  the  priest  was  satisfied  that  it  was  a 
matter  of  absolute  necessity.  Gregory  of  Tours,  recording  'the 
virtues  of  saints  and  the  disasters  of  nations,'  draws  the  moral  of 
the  history  thus: 

'Ariiis,'  the  impious  founder  of  the  impious  sect,  his  entrails  having  fallen  out, 
passed  into  the  flames  of  hell:  but  Hilary,  tlie  blessed  defender  of  the  undivided 
Trinity,  though  exiled  on  tliat  account,  found  his  country  in  Paradise.  King  Clovis, 
who  confessed  tlie  Trinity,  and  by  its  assistance  crushed  the  heretics,  extended  liis 
dominions  through  all  Gaul.  Alaric,  who  denied  the  Trinity,  was  deprived  of  his  king- 
dom and  hiij  subjects,  and,  what  was  far  worse,  was  punished  in  the  future  world.' 

At  tlie  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  among  the  measures  devised 
to  su]){)rpss  heresy,  the  principal  was  the  Inquisition.  Tlie  func- 
tion of  the  civil  goveriimeiit  was  to  execute  its  sentence.  Placfd 
in  the  hands  of  Dominicans  and  Franciscans,  it  was  centralized 

'  'I  am  i)ersecuted,'  Arius  plaintively  said,  'because  I  have  taught  tlial  tlie  Son  liad 
a  beginning  and  the  Father  had  not." 


124  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

bv  the  appointment  of  an  Inquisitor-General  at  Rome,  with 
whom  all  branches  of  the  tribunal  —  wherever  the  new  corpora- 
tion was  admitted  —  were  to  be  in  constant  communication.  Its 
bloody  success  might  seem  to  fulfil  the  portent  of  Dominic's 
nativity.  Legend  relates  that  his  mother,  in  the  season  of  child- 
birth, dreamed  that  a  dog  was  about  to  issue  from  her  womb, 
bearing  a  lighted  torch  that  would  kindle  the  whole  world. 
We  shall  see  its  officers  branding  the  disbeliever  with  hot  irons, 
wrenching  fingers  asunder,  shattering  bones, —  doing  it  all  in  the 
name  of  the  Teacher  who  had  said,  '  By  this  shall  all  men  know 
that  ye  are  my  disciples,  that  ye  love  one  another,' — yet  doing 
it  perhaps  in  devotion  to  the  truth  as,  in  their  human  frailty, 
they  conceive  it. 

The  pagan  philosopher  fixed  his  eye  upon  virtue;  the  Chris- 
tian, upon  sin.  The  former  sought  to  awaken  the  sentiment  of 
admiration;  tlie  latter,  that  of  remorse.  The  one,  powerless  to 
restrain  vice,  was  fitted  to  dignify  man  ;  the  other,  to  regen- 
erate him.  Those  who  are  insensible  to  the  nobleness  of  virtue, 
may  be  so  convulsed  by  the  fear  of  judgment  as  to  renew  the 
tenor  of  their  lives. 

The  pagans  asserted  the  immateriality  of  tlie  soul,  because 
they  believed  that  the  body  must  perish  forever.  The  Fathers, 
with  the  exception  of  Augustine,  maintained  that  the  soul  was 
simply  a  second  body.  The  material  view  derived  strength  from 
the  firm  belief  in  punishment  by  fire.  This  was  tlie  central  fact 
of  religion.  Its  ghastly  imagery  left  nature  stricken  and  forlorn. 
The  agitations  of  craters  were  ascribed  to  the  great  press  of  lost 
souls.  In  the  hush  of  evening,  when  the  peasant  b(w  asked  wliv 
the  sinking  sun,  as  it  dipped  beneath  the  horizon,  kindled  witli 
such  a  glorious  red.  he  was  answered,  in  the  words  of  an  old 
Saxon  catechism,  'l)ecause  it  is  then  looking  into  hell.'  The  pen 
of  the  poet,  tlie  pencil  of  the  artist,  the  visions  of  the  monk, 
sustained  the  maddening  terror  with  apj>alling  vividness  and 
minuteness.  Through  the  vast  of  hell  rolled  a  seething  stream 
of  sulj)hur,  to  feed  and  intensify  the  waves  of  fire.  In  the  centre 
was  Satan,  bound  by  red-hot  chains,  on  a  burning  gridiron.  Hut 
his  hands  are  free,  and  1h>  seizes  the  damned,  crushes  them  like 
grapes  against  his  teeth,  then  sucks  them  down  the  fiery  cavern 
of  his  throat.      Hideous  beings,  of  dreadful  aspect  and  fantastic 


KATIONALISM.  125 

form,  with  hooks  of  red-hot  iron,  plunge  tlie  lost  alternately  into 
tire  and  ice.  Some  of  the  souls  are  hung  up  by  their  tongues, 
others  are  sawn  asunder  between  flaming  iron  posts,  others 
gnawed  by  serpents,  others  with  hammer  and  anvil  are  welded 
into  a  mass,  others  boiled  and  then  strained  through  a  cloth.  A 
narrow  bridge  spans  the  abyss,  and  from  this  the  shrieking  souls 
are  plunged  into  the  mounting  flames  below. 

But  in  every  age  there  are  some  who  stand  upon  the  heights, 
above  the  ideal  of  their  generation,  and  forecast  the  realized 
conceptions  of  the  distant  future.  One  of  the  most  rationalistic 
minds  of  the  fourth  century  was  PelagiuS,  a  British  prelate. 
His  persecutors  were  wont  to  say,  'Speak  not  to  Pelagius,  or  he 
will  convert  you.'     His  principal  tenets  may  be  thus  epitomized: 

1.  Adam  was  created  mortal,  and  would  have  died  whether 
he  had  sinned  or  not. 

2.  Adam's  transgression  affected  only  himself,  not  his  pos- 
terity. 

3.  Mankind  neither  perish  through  Adam,  nor  are  raised  from 
the  dead  through  Christ. 

4.  The  law,  as  well  as  the  Gospel,  leads  men  to  heaven. 

5.  Divine  grace  is  conditioned  on  human  worthiness. 

G.  Infants  are  in  the  same  state  as  Adam  before  his  fall. 
He  would  not,  however,  venture  to  deny  the  necessity  of  infant 
baptism.  Severely  pressed  on  this  point  by  his  opponents,  he 
replied  that  baptism  was  necessary  to  wash  away  the  guilt  of 
the  child's  pettishness  I '  One  striking  example  of  a  bold  free 
spirit  in  the  tenth  century  was  the  famed  Erigena.  Alone 
in  the  middle  ages,  he  maintained  the  figurative  interpretation 
of  hell-fire. 

In  I'^TT,  propositions  like  the  following  were  professed  by 
philosophers  at  Paris:  God  is  not  triune  and  one,  for  trinity  is 
ineoni])atiblo  with  simplicity;  the  world  and  humanity  are  eter- 
nal; the  resurrection  of  the  body  must  not  be  admitted  by 
philosophers;  the  soul,  when  sejiarated  I'rotii  the  body,  cannot 
suffer  by  fire;  theological  <liscourses  arc  based  on  t'al)l(>s;  ;i  man 
who  has  in  himself  moral  and  intellectual  virtues,  has  all  that  is 
necessary  to  happini-ss. 

'  It  is  frratifyinf;  to  know  that  St.  Ausustinc,  in  imswcrinL'  this  arirMniciit.  dctlaifd 
distinctly  tliut  the  crying  of  a  l)al)y  is  not  sinful,  and  therefore  does  not  deserve  eternal 
damnation. 


126  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

It  may  be  needless  to  add  explicitly  —  what  the  theology  of 
the  past  so  plainly  suggests  in  the  changed  atmosphere  of  the 
present  —  that  every  age  creates  its  image  of  God;  and  the  image, 
conforming  to  the  conceptions  of  its  creator,  is  the  measure  of  its 
civilization.  This  child  shall  one  day  grow  up  to  manhood,  and 
sing  lofty  psalms  with  noble  human  voice. 

Etllics. — A  nation  or  an  age  may  be  without  moral  science, 
but  never  without  moral  distinctions.  The  languages  and  litera- 
ture of  the  world  indicate,  that  at  all  times,  among  all  peoples,  the 
idea  of  right  and  wrong  has  been  recognized  and  applied.  We 
shall  find  ethical  notions,  ethical  life,  powerfully  operative,  in 
mediaeval  England,  but  no  ethical  system.  When  society  is  semi- 
barbarous,  the  inculcation  of  morality  devolves  avowedly  and  ex- 
clusively upon  the  priests.  Motives  of  action  require  to  be  mate- 
rialized. Theology  is  the  groundwork  of  morality.  The  moral 
faculty,  too  weak  of  itself  to  be  a  guide  of  conduct,  must  be 
reenforced  by  the  rewards  and  punishments  of  religion, —  the  hope 
of  Heaven  and  the  fear  of  Hell.  The  propensity  to  evil,  in  conse- 
quence of  original  sin,  is  itself  sin.  The  foundation  of  the  moral 
law  is  the  Divine  will.  Thus  ScotuS  asserted  that  the  good  is 
good,  not  by  its  own  inherent  nature,  but  because  God  commands 
it.  But  there  aj)pear  from  time  to  time  men  who,  rising  above 
surrounding  circumstances,  anticipate  the  moral  standard  of  a 
later  age,  and  inculcate  principles  before  their  appropriate  civil- 
ization has  dawned.  Thus  Abelard,  empliasizing  the  subjective 
aspect  of  conscience,  represents  that  moral  good  and  evil  reside 
not  in  the  act  but  in  the  intention.  It  is  only  the  consenting  to 
evil  which  is  sin.  The  pure  hate  sin  from  love  of  virtue,  not  from  a 
slavish  fear  of  })ain  inflicted.  The  good  is  good,  not  because  God 
oonnnands  it;  but  7/;  ro/n)iia>ids  it  because  it  is  (jooil.  God  is  the 
absolutely  highest  good,  and  that,  through  virtue,  should  be  the 
aim  of  human  endeavor.  The  civilizations  of  the  future  may  esti- 
mate their  relative  excellence  by  their  nearness  to  this  eminence 
of  thought  I 

Science. — Before  the  Conquest,  in  the  popular  series  of  Solo- 
iiioii  (Hid  SntKru,  it  was  asked,  as  a  question  that  engaged  Eng- 
lish curiosity,  'What  is  the  substance  of  which  Adam,  the  first 
man.  was  made?'  and  the  answer  was: 


EMBRYONIC    SCIENCE — ASTROLOGY.  127 

'  I  tell  thee  of  eight  pounds  by  weight.'  '  Tell  me  what  they  are  called.'—'  I  tell  thee 
the  first  was  a  pound  of  earth,  of  which  his  flesh  was  made ;  the  second  was  a  pound  of 
fire,  whence  his  blood  came,  red  and  hot;  the  third  was  a  pound  of  wind,  and  thence  his 
breathing  was  given  to  him :  the  fourth  was  a  pound  of  welkin,  thence  was  his  unsteadi- 
ness of  mood  given  him ;  the  fifth  was  a  pound  of  grace,  whence  was  given  him  his 
growth;  the  sixth  was  a  pound  of  blossoms,  whence  was  given  him  the  variety  of  his 
eyes;  and  seventh  was  a  pound  of  dew,  whence  he  got  his  sweat;  the  eighth  was  a 
pound  of  salt,  and  thence  were  his  tears  salt.' 

From  this  we  may  infer  and  estimate  the  rest.  The  same  ques- 
tion and  answer  will  be  found  in  The  Maisters  of  OxforcVs 
Catechism,  written  in  fifteenth-century  English  !  What  are  the 
condition  and  hope  of  science,  when  inquisitive  children,  who 
delight  in  riddles  and  enigmas,  reduce  it  to  a  religious  cate- 
chism ?  The  overwhelming  importance  attached  to  theology 
diverted  to  it  all  those  intellects  which  in  another  condition  of 
society  would  have  been  employed  in  the  investigations  of  sci- 
ence. Everything  was  done  to  cultivate  habits  the  opposite  of 
scientific, —  fear  and  faith.  Innovation  of  every  kind  was  re- 
garded as  a  crime.  Superior  knowledge,  shown  in  speculation, 
was  called  heresy;  shown  in  the  study  of  mathematics  or  of 
nature,  it  was  called  magic, —  a  proof  that  such  pursuits  were 
rare.  In  the  thirteenth  century,  few  students  of  geometry  pro- 
ceeded farther  than  the  fifth  proposition  of  the  first  book  of 
Euclid, —  tlie  famous  asses'  bridge.  What  must  be  the  state  of 
the  natural  sciences,  when  the  science  of  demonstration,  which 
is  their  foundation,  is  neglected?  Indeed,  the  name  of  the 
mathematics  was  given  cliiefly  to  astrology.  Mathematicians 
were  defined  to  be  'those  who,  from  the  position  of  the  stars, 
the  aspect  of  the  firmament,  and  the  motions  of  the  planets, 
discover  things  that  are  to  come.'  It  was  universally  believed 
that  the  whole  destiny  of  man  is  determined  by  the  star  that 
presides  over  liis  nativity.  Many  could  not,  as  they  imagined, 
safely  appear  in  pul^lic,  or  eat,  or  bathe,  unless  they  had  first 
carefully  consulted  the  almanac,  to  ascertain  the  place  and 
appearance  of  their  particular  planet.  Comets  and  meteors 
foresliadowed  the  fate  of  empires;  and  the  signs  of  the  zodiac 
served  only  to  predict  the  career  of  individuals  and  the  develop- 
ment of  communities.  But  as  these  constant  observations,  and 
the  construction  of  instruments  required  for  making  them,  led 
to  astronomv;  so  alchemy,  which  aimed  to  transmute  all  metals 
into  gold,  or  find  the  elixir  of  life,  led  to  chemistry.      An  alchem- 


128  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

ist  records  that  in  a  secret  chamber  of  the  Tower  of  London,  he 
performed  in  the  royal  presence  the  experiment  of  transmuting- 
some  crystal  into  diamond,  of  which  Edward  1,  he  says,  caused 
some  little  pillars  to  be  made  for  the  tabernacle  of  God.  The 
healing  art,  from  being  practised  only  by  women,  who  employed 
charms  and  spells  with  their  herbs  and  decoctions,  gradually 
became  the  province  of  priests,  who  trusted  to  relics,  holy  water, 
and  other  superstitions.  Medicine  had  in  the  thirteenth  century 
been  taken  in  a  great  measure  out  of  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
though  it  was  still  in  the  main  a  mixture  of  superstition  and 
quackery.  The  distinction  between  the  physician  and  the  apothe- 
cary was  understood,  and  surgery  also  began  to  be  followed  as 
a  separate  branch. 

With  Edward  the  Confessor,  about  the  middle  of  the  eleventh 
centur}',  began  the  extraordinary  usage  of  touching,  to  cure  the 
disease  called  the  'King's  Evil,' — a  usage  that  continued  for 
nearly  seven  hundred  years.  When  Malcolm  and  Macduff  have 
fled  to  England,  it  is  in  the  palace  of  Edward  the  Confessor  that 
Malcolm  inquires  of  an  English  doctor, — 

'Comes  the  kin<;  forth,  I  pray  you?' 

and  the  answer  is, — 

'Ay,  sir:   there  are  a  crew  of  wretched  souls 
That  stay  his  cure:   their  malady  convinces 
The  great  assay  of  art;  but  at  his  touch, 
Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand. 
They  presently  amend.' 

When  Macduff  asks, — 

'WhatV  the  disease  he  means?' 

Malcolm  answers, — 

'"Tis  called  the  evil: 
A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king: 
Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 
I  have  seen  him  do.      llow  he  solicits  heaven. 
Himself  best  knows:   but  strangely-visited  people. 
All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  jjitiful  to  the  eye. 
The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures; 
Hantring  a  irolden  stam|)  about  their  necks. 
Put  on  with  holy  prayers:    and  "tis  spoken 
To  the  sn<cecdinir  royalty  he  leaves 
The  henlini:  benediction."  .  .  . 

All  which  proves,  if  anything,  that  in  the  treatment  of  disease 
faith  is  more  potent  than  pliysic. 

Tlie  supposed  iiifku-nec  of  the  stars,  with  a  crowd  of  super- 
.stitioiis,    naturally    followed    from    the   gcocontric   theory   of   the 


SCIENTIFIC   CONCEPTIONS.  129 

universe.  When  it  is  believed,  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  that  the 
earth  is  the  great  central  object  of  the  whole  created  world, 
around  which  the  sun  and  moon  alike  revolve,  and  the  stars  are 
but  inconsiderable  lights  destined  to  garnish  its  firmament, — 
man  becomes  the  centre  of  all  things,  and  every  startling  phe- 
nomenon has  some  bearing  upon  his  acts;  the  eclipse,  the  comet, 
the  meteor,  the  tempest,  are  all  intended  for  him. 

The  existence  of  the  antipodes,  or  persons  inhabiting  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  globe,  and  consequently  having  the  soles  of 
their  feet  directly  opposed  to  ours,  was  disproved  by  quoting  St. 
Paul, —  that  all  men  are  made  to  live  upon  the  '■face  of  the 
earth,'  from  which  it  clearly  follows  that  they  do  not  live  upon 
more  faces  than  one,  or  upon  the  back.  If  we  examine  a  little 
farther,  we  are  told  that  the  earth  is  fixed  firmly  upon  its  founda- 
tions, from  which  we  may  at  least  infer  that  it  is  not  suspended 
in  the  air.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  for  asserting  that  the  earth 
moves,  Copernicus  will  be  censured,  and  Galileo  will  be  impris- 
oned. 

It  was  taught  as  a  firmly  established  principle  that  water  has 
no  gravity  in  or  on  water,  since  it  is  in  propria  loco,  in  its  own 
place;  —  that  air  has  no  gravity  on  water,  since  it  is  above  water, 
which  is  its  proper  place;  —  that  earth  in  water  tends  downward, 
since  its  place  is  below  water;  —  that  water  rises  in  a  pump  or 
syphon,  because  nature  abhors  a  vacuvim. 

Peter  Lombard  quotes  our  Anglo-Saxon  Bede  that  the  waters 
above  the  firmament  are  the  solid  crystalline  heavens  in  which 
the  stars  are  fixed,  'for  crystal,  which  is  so  hard  and  transparent, 
is  made  of  water';  and  mentions  also  the  opinion  of  St.  Augus- 
tine, that  the  waters  above  the  heavens  are  in  a  state  of  vapor,  in 
minute  drops: 

'If,  then,  water  can,  as  we  see  in  clouds,  be  so  minutely  divided  that  it  may  be  thus 
PUi)ported  as  vajKir  on  air,  which  is  naturally  lighter  than  water:  why  may  we  not  believe 
that  it  floats  above  that  lighter  celestial  element  in  still  minuter  drops  and  still  lighter 
vapors?  Hilt  in  whatever  manner  the  waters  are  there,  we  do  not  doubt  that  they  are 
there." 

Philosophy. — The  long  and  barren  period  whicii  ititervened 
between  Prochis  of  the  fifth  century,  in  whom  the  speculative 
activity  of  ancient  Greece  disa]i])eared.  and  Bacon  of  tlu'  six- 
teenth, in  whom  it  was  reformed  and  fertilized,  was  cliaracter- 
ized,  as  a  whole,  by  indistinctness  of  ideas,  bias  to  authority,  and 
9 


130  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

impatience  of  dissent.  Poverty  of  tiiought  disposed  men  to  lean 
upon  an  intellectual  superior, —  Plato,  Aristotle,  or  the  Fathers; 
to  read  nature  through  books;  to  talk  of  what  great  geniuses  had 
said;  to  study  the  opinions  of  others  as  the  only  mode  of  form- 
ing their  own;  to  criticise,  to  interpret,  to  imitate,  to  dispute. 
The  subtlety  which  found  in  certain  accredited  writings  all  the 
truth  it  desired,  forbade  others  to  find,  there  or  elsewhere,  any 
other  truths.     The  slave  became  a  tyrant. 

The  Christian  Fathers  made  philosophy  the  handmaid  of  reli- 
gion. The  whole  philosophic  effort  was  to  mediate  between 
the  dogmas  of  faith  and  the  demands  of  reason,  with  church 
doctrine  as  the  criterion  or  standard.  The  method  was  three-fold: 
1.  That  of  the  Fathers,  built  on  Scripture,  modified  by  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Grecian  schools.  2.  Conjointly  with  Scripture,  the 
use  of  the  Fathers  themselves.  3.  The  application  of  the  Aris- 
totelian dialectics.'  Philosophy  thus  subservient  to  the  Christian 
articles  of  belief  was  called  ScllolasticisiXl,  a  name  derived 
from  the  cloister  schools  opened  by  Charlemagne  for  the  pursuit 
of  speculative  studies,  which  in  those  days  were  prosecuted  only 
by  the  clergy,  they  alone  having  leisure  or  inclination  for  such 
work.  The  teachers  of  the  seven  liberal  arts,  as  afterwards  all 
who  occupied  themselves  Avith  the  sciences,  and  especially  with 
philosophy,  following  the  ti'adition  and  example  of  the  schools, 
were  called  Scholastics.  Scholasticism,  therefore,  may  be  de- 
fined as  tlie  n production  of  ancient  phUosojyhy  under  the  con- 
trol of  ecdesiastical  doctrine,  ^rith  an  aecornmodation,  in  cases 
of  diserepancij  between  them,  of  the  former  to  tlie  hitter.  Its 
leading  reprostMitatives  till  the  fourteenth  century  are  Krigena, 
with  wlioin  it  l)egins,  l)f)rn  and  educated  in  Ireland;  Koscelin  and 
Abehird,  ol'  France;  Peter  Lomlnird  and  Thomas  Aqviinas,  of 
Italy;  Anscliii,  of  Normandy;  Alexander  Hales,  'the  Irrefraga- 
ble,' and   Duns  Scot  us,  'the   Subtle  Doctor,'  of   England. 

The  views  of  Erigena,  (800-877)  are  decidedly  Platonic.  God, 
the  creating  and  uncreated  being,  alone  has  essential  sul)sistence. 
He  is  llie  essenc(>  of  all  things,  the  Ix'ginning  and  the  end  of  all. 
Among  created  natures  are  soTiie  which  themselves  cn^ate, — . 
Ideas,  or  the  archetv])es  of  things,  the  first  causes  of  individual 
existences.      'i"li(>se  are  contained  in  the  Divine  Wisdom,  or  ^^'ord 

'  Thai  hraiiili  >>f  luiric  which  li'iu  lu>  the  rules  and  inodi-s  of  rcasoniiii'. 


SCHOLASTICISM  —  REALISM  —  NOMINALISM.  131 

—  the  Son;  and  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  or  Divine  Love, 
causes  them  to  develop  into  the  forms  of  the  eternal  world.  More 
than  a  thousand  years  before,  Plato  had  said: 

'Now,  Idea  is,  as  regards  God,  a  mental  operation  by  him  (tlie  notions  of  God,  eter- 
nal and  perfect  in  themselvcf-) ;  as  regards  us,  the  first  things  perceptible  by  mind;  as 
regards  Matter,  a  standard;  but  as  regards  the  world,  perceptible  by  sense,  a  pattern; 
but  as  considered  with  reference  to  itself,  an  existence.' 

The  creation  from  nothing  is  out  of  God's  own  essence  —  an  un- 
folding. Our  life  is  His  life  in  us.  As  the  substance  of  all  things 
in  shape  and  time,  He  descends  to  us,  not  alone  in  the  act  of  incar- 
nation, but  in  all  created  existence.  As  out  of  Him  all  things  are 
evolved,  so  into  Him  all  things  will  ultimately  return, —  a  concep- 
tion not  in  harmony  with  the  doctrinal  system  of  the  Church. 
True  philosophy  and  true  religion  are  one.  But  true  religion  is 
not  identical  with  dogmatism.  On  the  contrary,  in  case  of  a 
collision  between  authority  and  reason,  let  reason  be  given  the 
preference. 

Plato  taught  Realism,  the  doctrine  that  universals  —  species, 
genera,  or  types  —  have  a  real  existence  apart  from  individual 
objects.  Aristotle,  on  the  contrary,  taught  Norninalis)n,  the 
doctrine  that  only  individuals  exist  in  reality,  —  that  abstract 
ideas  are  nothing  but  abstractions,  g'eneral  names,  not  general 
tilings.  Of  the  Scholastic  Nominalists,  Roscelin,  a  little  before 
1100,  was  the  first  distinguished  advocate.  It  was  soon  evident 
that  he  was  in  antagonism  with  tlie  dogma  of  the  Trinity.  If, 
said  his  opponents,  only  individuals  really  exist,  then  the  three 
persons  of  the  Trinity  are  three  individuals,  or  three  Gods, —  that, 
or  else  they  have  no  existence.  He  admits  the  fatal  iioresy,  is 
sunnnoned  before  a  Council,  and  there  forced  publicly  to  recant; 
escapes  to  England,  and  perishes  in  exile;  but  tlie  seed  sown 
fructifies,  and  Nominalism  afterwards  l)ecomes  the  reigning- 
doctrine. 

Roscelin  was  opposed  by  Anselm  (  K'So-llOO).  His  motto 
was,  Credo,  ut  iiitelli(/am.  Knowledge  must  rest  on  faith,  and 
submission  to  the  Church  must  be  unconditional.  Goodness, 
truth,  virtue,  etc.,  possess  real  existence,  independcMit  of  individ- 
ual beings,  not  merely  immanent  in  them.  On  this  r(>alisti<;  basis 
he  founds  a  proof  of  the  divine  existence,  with  wliicli  his  fame  is 
chiefly  connected.  The  argument  is  an  attempt  to  prove  the  ex- 
istence  of  God   from  tlie  very  idea  which  we  have  of   Him  —  tiie 


132  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

summum  honiim,  or  greatest  object  that  can  be  conceived.  This 
conception  exists  in  the  intellect  of  all  who  have  the  idea  of  God, 
—  in  the  intellect  of  the  atheist  as  well.  But  the  greatest  cannot 
be  in  the  mind  only,  for  tlien  something  still  greater  would  be 
conceivable  which  should  exist  not  only  ni  the  mind  but  in  exter- 
nal reality.  Hence  the  greatest  must  exist  at  the  same  time,  both 
subjectively  and  objectively.  God,  tlierefore,  is  not  merely  con- 
ceived by  us, — He  also  really  exists. 

One  of  Roscelin's  pupils  was  the  youthful  Abelard  (1079- 
114'2),  whose  unfortunate  love-rolatioiis,  more  than  his  eloquence 
or  subtlety,  rendered  his  name  immortal.  Posterity  feels  interested 
in  him  because  Eloise  loved  him;  and  when  the  gates  of  the  con- 
vent close  forever  on  her,  the  warm  interest  in  him  disappears.  His 
position  in  dialectics,  while  intermediate  between  untenable  ex- 
tremes, is  not  far  removed  from  strict  Nominalism.  His  chief 
distinction  is  regular  and  systematic  application  of  dialectics  to 
theology.  Without  being  the  first  to  rationalize  dogmatics,  he 
went  farther  in  a  way  wliicli  had  already  been  opened  up,  and 
may  thus  be  said  to  have  given  to  Scholasticism  its  peculiar  and 
permanent  form.  Asserting  the  .supremacy  of  reason,  he  repre- 
sents the  insurgent  s})irit  of  those  times.  Writes  St.  Bernard  to 
the  pope:  Transgredltnr fineii  quos poauerunt patres  nostri — 'he 
goes  beyond  the  limits  set  by  our  ancestors!' — an  offense  in  all 
ages,  in  all  nations.  The  revolutionist  further  'transgresses'  by 
the  composition  of  Sir  tt  y^on,  in  which  he  sets  forth  the  contra- 
dictory statements  oi"  the  Fathers,  designed,  as  he  distinctly  in- 
forms us,  to  train  the  mind  to  vigorous  and  healthy  doubt,  in  ful- 
filment of  the  injunction,  'Seek,  and  ye  shall  find;  knock,  and  it 
shall  be  opened  unto  you.'  Doubt  begins.  Disputation  waxes 
stronger.  In  every  city  of  Europe,  logic  plays  around  every  sul)- 
ject,  the  most  jjrot'ouiid  and  sacred,  like  lambent  flame.  The 
struggle  thus  begun  has  not  vet  ended. 

Abelard's  pupil  —  Peter  LiOmbard,  who  died  in  1104  —  pre- 
])ared  a  uiainial  of  theology  c-alled  Tlir  Hook  <>f  Sente7ic<'s,  which 
became,  and  for  centuries  continued,  the  basis  of  theological  in- 
struction and  a  guide  for  the  dialectical  treatment  of  theological 
j)rohleins. 

Thomas  Aquinas  (  r-i'i"»-12H)  brought  Scholasticism  to  its 
highest   stage  ui  development,  liv  the  utmost   accommodation  of 


SCHOLASTICS  —  THE   SYLLOGISM.  133 

the  Aristotelian  doctrines  to  tlioso  of  ecclesiastical  orthodoxy. 
With  him,  as  with  Aristotle,  knowledge  —  and  preeminently 
knowledge  of  God  —  is  the  supreme  end  of  life.  The  Divine 
existence  is  demonstrable  only  a  posteriori,  namely,  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  world  as  the  work  of  God.  The  order  of  the 
world  presupposes  an  Orderer.  There  must  be  a  First  Mover  or 
a  First  Cause,  since  the  chain  of  ell'ects  and  causes  cannot  be 
infinite.  God  exists  as  a  pure,  immaterial  form.  Before  His 
creative  fiat,  time  was  not.  The  soul  of  man  is  immortal,  because 
it  is  immaterial.  It  is  immaterial  because  it  thinks  the  universal; 
whereas,  if  it  were  a  form  inseparable  from  matter,  like  the  soul 
of  a  brute,  it  could  think  only  the  individual.  Pure  form  can 
neither  destroy  itself,  nor,  through  the  desti'uction  of  a  material 
substratum,  be  destroyed.  Yet  the  human  soul  does  not  exist 
before  the  Ijody.  Nor  is  its  knowledge  the  mere  recollection  of 
ideas  beheld  in  a  prcexistent  state,  as  Plato  assumed. 

While  the  earlier  scholastics  had  known  only  the  Lo(jii'  of 
Aristotle,  Alexander  Hales  (died  1245)  first  used  his  entire 
philosophy,  including  the  metaphysics,  as  the  auxiliary  of  Chris- 
tian theology. 

A  distinguished  opponent  of  Thomas  Aquinas  and  liis  system 
was  Duns  ScotUS,  who  in  1308  died  at  Cologne,  Avhither  he 
had  been  sent  to  take  part  in  a  debate.  His  strength,  like  that  of 
Kant,  lay  in  the  acute  and  negative  criticism  of  others  rather 
than  in  the  establishment  of  his  own  position.  Tniine(l  in 
mathematical  studies,  he  knew  what  was  meant  bv  ])roving,  and 
could  tlierefore  recognize  in  most  of  the  ])retended  jiroofs  their 
invalidity.  Without  dtMiying  the  ti'uth  of  tiie  tlieorcMiis  them- 
selves, he  rejects  much  of  the  reasoning  einploved  to  ])rove  tiie 
IxMiig  of  God  and  the  innnoi'talitv  of  the  soul,  and  bases  the 
evidenet'  on  our  moral  nature.  lievelation  alone  renders  them 
certain.  Arguments  should  be  viewed  with  distinist.  Tiie  do- 
main of  reason  he  would  further  contract:  that  of  faith,  still 
more  extend.  Th(>  world  is  but  a  mean,  l>v  tlu^  right  use  of 
whieii  the  only  end  of  its  existence  —  the  salvation  of  man- 
kind—  is  attaiiKnl.  This  is  ])raetical, —  at  least  in  desire,  as  of 
one  whose  eves  are  fixed  on  sin,  black  death,  and  the  .ludguKMit, 
not  daring  to  embark  on  the  gr(>at    journey  with  unsafe  guides. 

Tlie   lieavv   instrument   supplii'd    to   thes(>   disputants   by  Aris- 


134 


FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 


totle  was  the  Syllogism,  which,  as  every  student  of  logic  under- 
stands, contains: 

1.  Three  tertns,  the  extremes  and  tlie  middle;  or  the  major 
term  (/^)  —  predicate  of  the  conclusion,  the  minor  term  (aS')  — 
subject  of  the  conclusion,  and  the  middle  term  {^I)  —  medium 
of  comparison. 

2.  Three  propositions,  the  premises  and  the  conclusion;  or 
the  major  premise  in  which  M  and  P  are  compared,  the  minor 
premise  in  which  *S  and  J\I  are  compared,  and  the  conclusion  in 
which  the  relation  of  S  and  P  is  inferred, —  the  proposition  to 
be  proved.      Thus,  symbolized: 


All  M  is  P, 
All  S  IS  M, 
.-.All  Sis  P. 


No  P  is  M, 


{  All  S  is  M,      > 
(  .-.  No  S  is  P.  ) 


All  M  is  P,  ^ 

Some  M  is  S,       r 
.:  Some  S  is  P.  ) 


Or,  concretely: 

Everv  resp()iisibl(>  ao-ciit  is  a  free  agent, 
Man  is  a  resjK)iisil)l('  agent, 
.'.  Man  is  a  free  agent. 

Plato,  Aristotle,  the  Apostles,  and  the  Fathers,  gave  the  prem- 
ises; inireiiuitv  piled  up  eatliedrals  of  coiielusioii.  What  more 
agre<'al)le  exercise  to  speculative  minds  than  tracing  the  conse- 
(piences  of  assumed  ])rinciplesy  It  is  de<hi<t ive,  like  geometry, 
self-satisfving  and  inexhaustible.  As  there  could  l)e  no  genuine 
progress,  so  there  was  no  tentUMicy  to  eouie  to  an  <'nd.  A  cease- 
less grinding  of  the  air  in  meta})hysic  mills: 


LEARNED    PUERILITIES.  135 

'They  stand 

Locked  up  together  hand  in  hand; 

Every  one  leads  as  he  is  led, 

The  same  bare  path  they  tread, 
And  dance  like  fairies  a  fantastic  round. 
But  neither  change  their  motion  nor  their  ground.' 

What  does  the  reader  think  of  the.  preo-nant  annouTicenieiit  that 
'an  individual  man  is  Peter,  because  his  humanity  is  combined 
with  Petrelty-'i — of  the  division  of  matter  into  firstly  iirst, 
secondly  first,  and  thirdly  first?  —  of  the  chimerical  questions, 
whether  identity,  similitude,  and  equality  are  real  relations  in 
God?  whether,  tJte  ijlace  and  body  being  retained,  God  can 
cause  the  body  to  have  no  position  ?  whether  the  divine  essence 
engendered  the  Son,  or  was  engendered  by  the  Father?  why  the 
three  persons  together  are  not  greater  than  one  alone?  if  God 
can  know  more  things  than  He  is  aware  of  ?  whether  Christ  at 
the  first  instant  of  conception  had  the  use  of  free  judgment  ? 
whether  He  was  slain  by  Himself  or  by  another?  whether  the 
dove  in  which  the  Holy  Spirit  appeared  was  a  real  animal  ? 
whether  two  glorified  bodies  can  occupy  one  and  the  same  place 
at  the  same  time?  whether  in  the  state  of  iiniocence  all  children 
were  masculine?  —  of  the  puerile  puzzles  whether  a  person  in  the 
purchase  of  a  whole  cloak  also  buys  the  cowl  ?  whether,  when 
a  hog  is  carried  to  market  with  a  rope  tied  about  its  neck  and 
held  at  the  otlier  end  by  a  man,  the  hog  is  n-ally  carried  to 
market  by  the  man  or  by  the  rope  ? 

What  truth  could  issue  thence?  What  wonder  that  Scholas- 
ticism is  a  vast  cemetery  of  departed  reputation?  Vet  under- 
neath this  word-quibbling  are  the  deepest  problems  of  Ontology; 
and  the  human  hearts  which  throb  to  them  arc,  as  we  shall  see, 
prophetic  of  the  English  soul: 

'A  u'reat  delight  is  granted 
When  in  the  spirit  of  the  ages  planted. 
We  mark  how,  ere  our  time,  a  sage  ha-;  thought, 
And  tlien,  how  far  his  work,  and  grandly,  we  have  broiiiilit.' 

Resume. —  (ri-adually  the  past  is  explaining  the  present. 
Through  anarchy,  conflict,  and  constraint,  tlie  Witaii  and  (ircat 
Council  ar(>  transformed  into  the  English  Parlitiment,  which  roii- 
tinues  to  this  day  the  same  in  all  essential  points.  The  House  of 
Commons,  archetype  of  representative  assemblies,  holds  its  tirst 
sittino-s.      French    comiections   are   sundered;    ^\  ali'S    is   annexed 


186  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

forever  to  the  English  crown;  Ireland  is  conquered,  though  not 
subdued;  and  the  famous  heroes,  Wallace  and  Bruce,  wrest  from 
Edward  I  the  liberties  of  Scotland. 

The  mass  of  the  agricultural  population  is  rising  from  the 
position  of  mere  slaves  to  that  of  tenant-farmers;  and  the  ad- 
vance of  society,  as  well  as  th-^  natural  increase  of  population,  is 
freeing  the  laborer  from  local  bondage.  The  government  of  the 
English  towns  passes  from  the  hands  of  an  oligarchy  to  those  of 
the  rising  middle  classes. 

The  space  of  about  a  thousand  years,  extending  from  the  fall 
of  the  Western  Empire,  in  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century,  to 
that  of  the  Eastern,  in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth,  comprises  two 
nearly  ecjual  periods, —  the  gradual  decline  and  the  gradual  re- 
vival of  letters.  Convents,  meanwhile,  are  the  asylum  of  knowl- 
edge, and  secure  the  thread  which  connects  us  with  the  literature 
of  classic  Greece  and  Rome.  With  few  exceptions,  the  writers 
are  priestly  or  monastic. 

The  Conquest,  breaking  the  mental  stagnation,  introduces 
England  into  a  free  communion  with  the  intellectual  and  artistic 
life  of  the  Continent,  and  subjects  it  to  the  two  ruling  mediaeval 
impulses, —  Feudalism  and  the  Church,  the  one  producing  the 
adventurous  hero,  the  other  the  mystical  monk;  both  working 
together  for  the  amelioration  of  mankiTid,  both  running  to  excess, 
and  degenerating  by  the  violence  of  their  own  strength.  Under 
the  first,  slavery  is  modified  into  serfdom;  under  the  second, 
learning  is  preserved,  and  a  sense  of  the  unity  of  Christendom 
maintain(Hl;  under  both,  springs  u]i  the  idea  of  chivalry,  mould- 
ing genercMis  instincts  into  gallant  institutions. 

From  tli(>  fifth  to  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Church  elabo- 
rates the  most  s])lendid  organization  which  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  During  tlie  last  three  centuries  of  the  ])eriod,  her  destiny 
achieved,  faith  and  reason  l)egin  to  be  sundered,  and  viol(>nce  is 
used  for  the  re])ression  of  iiujuiry.  The  spiritual  power,  grown 
corrupt  bv  growing  aml:)itious,  is  resisted  l)y  th(^  tein]>oral. 
Kings  war  with  ])opes,  and  ])opes  struggle  to  ])ut  their  feet  upon 
the  necks  of  kings.  Ueligion,  from  a  ccM-emonial,  is  lieing  coii- 
vert<'d  iiito  a  realitv.  Hermit  and  friar  carry  sjnritual  life  honui 
to  the  iieart  of  the  nation. 

First  Enii'lish   poems  are  of  war  and   religion, —  nev(^r  of  love. 


RESUME.  137 

The  greatest  are  Beowulf,  an  epic  imported  from  the  Continent, 
and  re-written  in  parts  by  a  Christian  Englishman;  and  Cied- 
mon's  Paraphrase  of  the  Bible,  written  about  070,  and  for  us 
the  beginning  of  English  poetry.  Of  scattered  pieces  after 
CiBdmon,  all  Christian  in  tone,  the  finest  are  Judith,  IVie  liuin, 
and  The  Grave.  The  war  poetry,  sung  from  feast  to  feast  and 
in  the  halls  of  kings,  dies  out  after  the  English  are  trodden  down 
by  the  Normans.  English  literature  —  in  a  state  of  languishing 
depression  at  the  Conquest  —  is  thereafter  displaced  by  the  ro- 
mance, in  which,  as  favorite  heroes,  Arthur,  x\lexander,  and 
Charlemagne,  dressed  as  feudal  knights,  slay  dragons  and  giants, 
storm  enchanted  castles,  set  free  beautiful  ladies,  and  perform 
other  wondrous  deeds.  Not,  however,  till  nearly  a  century  has 
passed  away — when  Norman  noble  and  English  yeoman,  Norman 
abbot  and  English  priest,  are  welded  into  one  —  is  the  rhyming 
romantic  poetry  of  France  naturalized.  In  its  rise  under  Edward 
I,  native  genius,  in  the  vernacular,  is  poetical.  The  poetry  is 
religious,  story-telling,  and  lyric,  typified  in  the  Orynubon,  the 
Brut,  the  Owl  and  Nightingah;.  As  a  whole  the  literature  is 
characterized  by  realit}-,  directness,  and  truth  to  nature.  Ele- 
vated in  tone,  eminently  practical  in  aim, —  owing  in  a  consider- 
able degree  to  its  insular  position,  it  contrasts  strongly  with 
much  of  the  contemporaneous  expression  of  Continental  genius, 
which  is  less  the  reflection  of  earnest,  active  life,  than  a  magic 
mirror  showing  fortli  tlie  unsulistantial  dreams  of  an  idle,  luxu- 
rious, and  fantastic  people. 

Latin  is  the  key  to  erudition, —  the  prevailing  language  of  the 
learned  j)rofessions,  of  law  and  physic,  as  well  as  of  divinity,  in 
all  their  grades.  French,  the  language  of  romance,  lives  upon 
the  li])S  of  royalty,  rank,  and  beauty.  In  the  storm  of  national 
calamity  English  ceases  to  be  generally  either  written  or  read; 
and  when  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  <'eiituries  it  bc^giiis  to 
raise  its  diminished  head,  it  has  been  converttMl,  substantially, 
from  an  inflectional  to  a  non-inlleetioiial  tongnt>,  a  natural  nuita- 
tion  accelerated  bv  the  Norman  invasion.  Tlie  <  '/irnnii'li ,  the 
Brut,  and  the  Omndum  prov(>  its  <-outinuity  and  victoiy. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  Crusadt^s  is  succiu'ded  l)y  an  enthusi- 
asm of  studv,  imj)risoned  and  limited  by  tlH>  scholastic  logic  an<I 
metaphvsics,  under  whose  ascendancy  elegant  literature  pales. 


138  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

Scholasticism  reveals  already  the  dominant  tejidencies  of  Eng- 
lish thought, —  subordijiation  of  theory  to  practice,  in  John  of 
Salisbury;  scepticism  as  to  ultimate  philosophical  questions,  in 
Scotus;  devotion  to  physical  science  as  a  thing  of  demonstrative 
and  practical  utility,  in  Bacon, 

The  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  are  the  seed-time  of  all 
modern  language  and  literature.  The  former  is  the  great  turning 
point  of  the  European  intellect.  Then  it  is  that  a  general  revival 
of  Latin  literature  takes  place;  then  —  the  first  time  for  many 
centuries  —  the  long  slumber  of  untroubled  orthodoxy  is  broken 
by  hydra-headed  heresies;  then  the  standard  of  an  impartial 
philosophy  is  first  planted  by  Abelard;  then  the  passion  for 
astrology  and  its  fatalism  revives  with  the  revival  of  pagan  learn- 
ing, and  penetrates  into  the  halls  of  nobles  and  the  palaces  of 
kings:  men  are  learning  to  doubt,  without  learning  that  doubt  is 
innocent,  compelled,  by  tlie  new  mental  activity,  to  a  variety  of 
opinions,  while  the  old  credulity  persuades  them  that  all  opinions 
but  one  are  suggestions  of  the  devil.  The  latter  is  a  decisive 
epoch,  not  more  for  the  constitutional  history  of  England  than 
for  its  intellectual  progress.  Its  general  activity  and  ardor  are 
shown  by  the  great  concourse  of  students  to  the  universities,  by 
the  number  and  eminence  of  the  schoolmen,  by  religious  and 
political  satires,  by  that  fianie  of  zeal  which  sweeps  the  masses 
from  their  native  soil  to  hurl  them  upon  Holy  Land.  Then  the 
French  romantic  jioetry  with  its  craving  for  excitement,  begins 
to  be  transfused  into  a  mediuiu  intelligible  throughout  England; 
then,  above  all,  a  definite  language  is  formed,  and  there  is  room 
for  a  great  wi'iter. 

Slowlv,  step  bv  step,  the  England  of  tlie  Doomsday  T5ook,  the 
Enghind  of  the  C'urfinv,  the  England  of  crusaders,  monks,  astrolo- 
gers, serfs,  and  outhiws,  is  becoming  the  Enghind  of  liberty, 
knowledge,  and  trade, —  the  England  that  s|)rcads  licr  dominion 
f)vcr  cvcrv  (juarter  of  the  globe,  and  scatters  tin-  seeds  of  empires 
and  rej)uljlics  in  the   jungles  (A'  Jndia  and  the  forests  of  America. 


THE   SAXOX    MILTON.  139 


C  .^  D  M  O  N . 

The  Milton  of  our  Forefathers.— Z>"/«rae/j. 

Biography. — His  life  lies  buried  in  obscurity  and  fable.  We 
obtain  our  first  glimpses  of  him  as  a  peasant,  on  some  of  the 
abbey  lands  of  Whitby,  who,  though  his  sun  was  already  declin- 
ing, had  never  dreamed  that  he  was  a  sublime  poet.  A  marvel- 
lous incident —  according  to  the  taste  and  manner  of  the  age  — 
explains  his  literary  history: 

Once,  sitting  with  his  companions  over  the  ale-cup,  while  they 
sang  in  turn  the  praises  of  war  or  beauty,  when  the  circling 
'Wood  of  Joy'  passed  to  him,  he  rose  and  went  out  with  a  sad 
heart,  for  he  alone  —  all  unskilled  —  was  unable  to  weave  his 
thoughts  into  verse.  Wearied  and  desponding,  he  lay  down  to  rest 
in  a  stall  of  oxen,  of  which  he  was  the  appointed  night-guard. 
As  he  slept,  an  angel  appeared  to  him  and  said:  '  Ca'dmon,  sing 
some  song  to  me  ! '  The  herdsman  uroed  that  he  was  mute  and 
unmusical.  'Nevertheless,  thou  shalt  sing!'  retorted  the  l)enig- 
nant  stranger.  'What  shall  I  sing-?' rejoined  the  minstrel  who 
had  never  sung.  'Sing  tlie  origin  of  things!'  His  iinprisonetl 
intellect  was  unlocked,  and  he  listened  to  the  wonder  of  liis  own 
voice  through  eighteen  lines  of  '  J>et  us  ])raise  God,  maker  of 
heaven  and  earth.'  In  the  morning  he  remembered  the  lin(>s, 
flew  to  the  town-reeve'  to  announce  his  dream,  told  how,  in  one 
memorable  night  —  incapable  even  of  reading  his  own  Saxon,  after 
a  whole  life  s])ent  without  ever  surmising  liiniself  to  be  poetical  — 
he  had  become  a  poet,  and  desii-ed  to  use  his  gift  for  the  iiistnu-- 
tion  of  the  people  in  the  Heavenly  Word.  Good  Abbess  Hilda 
in  turn  received  him,  heard  him  recite,  was  favorably  im])ressi'd 
with  his  rare  talents,  gave  him  an  exercise  to  test  his  new-found 
skill,  then  welcomed  him,  with  all  his  goods,  into  the  monastery; 
the  brethren  read  to  him,  from  Geiu'sis  to  IJtnelations,  wrote 
down  his  oracular  savings,  and  committed  tlioni  to  iiieniory:  so 
winsome,  so  divine,  were  his  song  and  his  verse.  Day  by  day, 
piece  by  piece,  the  poem  grew,  till  he  had  turned  various  parts 
of   Sacred  Writ    into    iMiglish    jioetrv.      Severed  from  t  lie  cares  ol 

'  Refve,  from  Sa.Kon  (jfi'ifa,  dciiotcs  a  nlaL:i^tl•atl■  or  otlicfi  :   olisoli-tc  ixcijit  ii;  com- 
pounds, as  shirf-reeve  (now  writtiii  Kktnff). 


140  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

the  active  world,  in  the  deep  cahn  of  monastic  seclusion,  he  lived 
and  wrought,  living  for  the  Unseen  alone,  and  undisturbed  by 
either  anxiety  or  doubt.  One  of  the  aspects,  is  this,  in  which  the 
monastic  period  of  literature  appears  eminently  beautiful, —  free- 
dom from  the  turmoil  and  im})atience,  the  vanity  and  pride,  of 
modern  literary  life.  Slowly  wasted  by  disease,  he  died  in  G80, 
near  the  hour  of  midnight,  peacefully, — 

'Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams.' 

Here,  to  the  inquisitive  who  would  go  on  knocking,  the  door 

is  closed.      Over   the  outer   history  of   the  man,  the   accidental 

circumstances  of  his  life,  oblivion  'blindly  scattereth  her  poppy.' 

Of   more  worth   is   the   inner  history  of  genius.     The   Dreamer 

lives  in  his  dream. 

"Writings. — The  Paraphrase,  containing,  besides  other  por- 
tioiis  of  the  ]5ible,  the  story  of  the  Creation,  the  Revolt,  the 
Fall,  the  Flood,  and  the  Exodus.  The  sole  manuscript  is  of  the 
tenth  century;  disappearing  from  visible  existence,  it  was  acci- 
dentally discovered  in  the  seventeenth,  and  first  published  in 
1055,  a  thousand  years  after  its  composition. 

Filled  with  the  grandeur  of  his  subject,  in  words  of  such 
majesty  as  were  never  uttered  of  human  heroes  or  Scandina- 
vian gods,  he  sounds  the  key-note  of  a  new  poetic  strain: 

'Most  riirhl  is  it  that  we,  heaven's  Guard, 
Glory,  King  of  liostsl   with  words  should  praise. 
With  hearts  sliould  h)v.     lie  is  of  i)owers  the  efficacy; 
Head  of  all  liigh  creations; 
Lord  Ahnisrhty!     In  Iliui  l)e2inning  never 
Or  orisrin  luith  l)een :   but  He  is  aye  supreme 
Over  lieaventlirones,  with  liigh  majesty 
RIgliteous  and  niigtityl' 

A  concrete  of  exclamations  from  a  strong,  barbarous  heart;  a 
song  of  a  servant  of  Odin,  tonsured  now,  and  clad  in  the  habili- 
ments of  a  monk.  Then  follow  the  rebellion  of  Satan,  the  expvd- 
sion  of  the  angels,  and  their  confinement  in  the  fiery  gulf.  The 
HcIm-cw  Tempter,  transformed  by  the  German  sense  of  might  of 
individual  manhood,  beco'iics  a  rt^jnibjican,  disdainful  of  vassal- 
age to  (Jod : 

'"  Wherefore, •■  lie  said,  "shall  I  toil? 
"No  need  liavr  I  of  master.      I  can  work 
Witli   le.y  own  haiid<  great  marvels,  and  have  power 
To  hnilil  a  throne  more  worthy  of  a  God, 
Higher  in  heaven!      Why  sli.all  I,   for  His  sinilc. 


THE   SAXON   MILTO^•.  141 

Serve  Him,  bend  to  Him  thus  in  vassalage? 

1  may  be  God  as  He. 

Stand  by  me,  strong  supporters,  lirm  in  t-trife. 

Hard-mooded  lieroes,  famous  warriors. 

Have  chosen  me  for  chief;  one  may  lake  thought 

With  such  for  counsel,  and  with  such  secure 

Large  following.     My  friends  in  earnest  they. 

Faithful  in  all  the  shaping  of  their  minds; 

I  am  the  master,  and  may  rule  this  realm." "' 

The  two  religions,  Christian  and  pagan,  so  like,  mingle  their 
incongruities,  images,  and  legends.  The  patriarchs  are  earls; 
Abraham  is  'a  guardian  of  bracelets'  (wealth);  the  sons  of 
Reuben  are  vikings  (sea-pirates);  the  Ethiopians  are  'a  people 
brown  with  the  hot  coals  of  heaven';  God  is  the  'Blithe-hearted 
King,'  the  Overlord,  ruler  of  his  thanes  with  an  iron  hand: 

'  stern  of  mood  He  was;  He  gript  them  in  His  wrath;  with  hostile  hands  He  gript 
them,  and  crushed  them  in  His  grasp.' 

For  tliree  nights  and  days^  the  Fiend,  with  his  comrades,  fell 
headlong  from  the  skies  down  to  'the  swart  hell, —  a  land  void 
of  light  and  full  of  flame.' ' 

'There  they  have  at  even,  immeasurably  long,  each  of  all  the  fiends,  a  renewal  of 
fire  with  sulphur  charged;  but  cometh  ere  dawn  the  eastern  wind-frost,  bitter  cold, 
ever  fire  or  dart."  * 

In  the  'torture-house'  lies  the  Apostate  in  chains,  proud,  fear- 
less, self-conscious,  and  indomitable,  like  the  Northern  warriors; 
'the  haughty  king,  who  of  angels  erst  was  brightest,  fairest  in 
heaven,  beloved  of  his  Master;  so  beauteous  was  his  form,  he 
was  like  to  the  light  stars.' ^     Overcome,  shall  he  be  subdued? 

'Within  him  boiled  his  thoughts  about  his  heart; 
Without,  the  wrathful  fire  pressed  hot  upon  him. 
He  said:  "This  narrow  place  is  most  uiiliki' 
That  other  we  oiue  knew  in  heaven  liigli. 
And  which  my  Lord  gave  me;    though  own  it  now 

3  See  Paradise  Loxt,  I  and  V,  for  remarkable  reseniblanci--. 

"^  Nine  timex  the  space  //la/  in^amires  day  and  nUjht 
To  mortal  men. — Paradise  Lost. 

'•'  Yet  from  these  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible.— / I/id. 

<  The  bitter  change 
Of  fierce  extremes,  I'xtrenies  by  eliantre  more  fierce, 
From  l)eds  of  raging  fire  to  starve  in  in  .^Ihid. 
And,— 

Eternal  darkness  for  tlie  dwellers  in  fierce  heat  and  \c(.  — Inferno. 

'"  His  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  oriijiiial  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  xw'wwA.—l'aradise  Lo-^i . 
And,— 

His  coMntenanc<'  as  the  morniiii;  star  that  '.'uides 
The  starry  flock,  allured  iXwm.—lliid. 


142  FORMATIVE    PEUIOD  —  THE    LITERATI  KE. 

We  must  not,  but  to  Ilim  must  cede  our  realm. 

Yet  right  He  hath  not  done  to  strike  us  down 

To  hell's  abyss, —  of  heaven's  realm  bereft, — 

Which  with  mankind  to  people  He  hath  planned. 

Pain  sorest  this,  that  Adam,  wrought  of  earth, 

On  my  strong  throne  shall  sit,  enjoying  bliss. 

While  we  endure  these  pangs, —  hell-torments  dire. 

Oh!  woe  is  me  1   could  1  but  use  my  hands 

And  might  I  be  from  here  a  little  time,— 

One  winter's  space,— then  with  tliis  host  would  I, — 

But  press  me  hard  these  iron  bands, —  this  coil 

Of  chain,— and  powerless  I  am,  so  fast 

I'm  bound.     Above  is  Are;    below  is  fire; 

A  loathier  landscape  never  have  I  seen; 

Nor  smolders  aye  the  fire,  but  hot  throughout. 

In  chains;   my  pathway  barred;  my  feet  tied  down; 

These  hell-doors  bolted  all;  I  may  not  move 

From  out  these  limb-bands;   binds  me  iron  hard,— 

Ilot-forged  great  grindles '.     God  has  griped  me  tight 

About  the  neck."' ' ' 

But  to  him  who  has  lost  everything,  vengeance  is  left.  Indisso- 
lubly  bound,  he  dispatches  an  associate  to  wreak  his  ire  on  the 
innocent  pair  in  Eden.  The  emissary  was  'prompt  in  arms;  he 
had  a  crafty  soul;  this  chief  set  his  helmet  on  his  head;  he  many 
speeches  knew  of  guileful  words;  wheeled  up  from  thence,  he 
departed  through  the  doors  of  hell,'^  flinging  aside  the  flames 
with  the  braverv  of  his  sovereign.  Adam  is  invincible,  but  Eve 
is  ensnared;  'for  to  her,'  we  are  assured,  'a  weaker  mind  had  the 
Creator  assigned;'  'yet' — let  us  treat  her  tenderly — 'did  she  it 
through  faithful  mind;  she  knew  not  that  hence  so  many  ills, 
sinful  woes,  tnust  follow  to  mankind.'  A  theme  fitter  for  the 
historian  or  translator;  too  domestic  for  the  barbarian  poet's  vigor 
and  sublimity.  Tumult,  nnirder,  combat  and  death  are  needed  to 
swell  into  llame  the  native  instinct.  When,  later  on,  he  describes 
the  flight  of  the  Tsiaelitos,  the  strong  breast  heaves,  and  he  shouts, 
iiicapal)l<'  of  restraining  his  ]iassion: 

'They  preferred  their  aims:  tlie  war  advanced:  bucklers  glittered,  trumpets  blared, 
standards  rattled:  .  .  .  aroiuid  Iliciii  screamed  the  fowls  of  war:  the  ravens  sang,  greedy 
of  battle,  dcwy-fcatlicrcd:  over  tlie  Ixxlies  of  tlie  host  — dark  choosers  of  the  slaii\  — 
tlie  wolves  sang  Ilicir  liorrid  even-sons;.' 

M'itli  full  zest,  wliilc  tlic  l)l()0(l  iiif)unts  in  l)]iii(liiig  currents  to  his 
eyes,  ho  reef)uiits  the  destruction  of  Pharaoli  and  his  host: 

'  See  Pnriiili.tp  Jjii)t.  1  and  IV,  for  siiiLnilar  correspondences. 
'■'  IiCMiiiMliiiLr  u-^  of  — 

Tlie  infernal  doors  that  on  their  hinges  grate 

ll.ir<h  tluinder. — Pnradi.<if  Lout. 


THE    SAXON    MILTON.  I4fi 

'The  folk  was  affrighted,  the  flood-dread  seized  on  tlieir  sad  souls;  ocean  waited 
with  death,  the  mountain  heights  were  with  blood  besteanied,  the  sea  foamed  with  gore, 
crying  was  in  the  waves,  the  water  full  of  weapons,  a  death-mist  rose;  the  Egyptians 
were  turned  back:  trembling  they  fled,  they  felt  fear;  would  that  host  gladly  find  their 
homes;  their  vaunt  grew  sadder;  against  them,  as  a  cloud,  rose  the  fell  rolling  of  the 
waves;  there  came  not  any  of  that  host  to  home,  but  from  behind  enclosed  them  fate 
with  the  wave.  Where  wave  e'er  lay,  the  sea  raged.  Their  might  was  merged,  the 
streams  stood,  the  storm  rose  high  to  heaven;  the  loudest  arm-cry  the  hostile  uttered; 
the  air  above  was  thickened  with  dying  voices.  .  .  .  Ocean  raged,  drew  itself  up  on  high, 
the  storms  rose,  the  corpses  rolled.' 

Verily,  the  heathen  fire  has  not  burned  out,  nor  the  heathen 
imagery  dropped  out  of  memory  and  j^ower.  The  old  faith  and 
the  new  coexist  and  combine.  When  the  monks  read  to  him  the 
opening  of  Genesis — 'And  the  earth  was  void  and  empty,  and 
darkness  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep,  and  the  spirit  of  God 
moved  over  the  waters' — he  is  reminded  of  his  ancestral  cosmog- 
ony as  preserved  in  the  Edda,  and  the  coloring  of  those  ancient 
dreams  clings  to  his  description: 

'  There  had  not  as  yet,  save  cavern-shade,  ought  been ;  but  this  wide  abyss  stood  deep 
and  dim,  strange  to  its  Lord,  idle  and  useless;  on  which  looked  with  his  eyes  the  king 
firm  of  mind,  and  beheld  those  places  void  of  joys;  saw  the  dark  cloud  lower  iu  eternal 
night,  swart  under  heaven,  dark  and  waste,  until  this  worldly  creation,  through  the 
word,  existed  of  the  Glory-King.  .  .  The  earth  as  yet  was  not  green  with  grass:  ocean 
cover'd,  swart  in  eternal  night,  far  and  wide  the  dusky  ways.' 

The  Cjedmonian  poem,  it  is  probable,  is  one  of  the  many  attempts 
of  the  monkish  recluse  to  familiarize  the  people  with  the  miracu- 
lous and  religious  narratives  of  Scripture  by  a  para'phrase  in  the 
vernacular  idiom.  Of  the  two  book.s' composing  it,  only  the  first 
is  continuous;  the  second  is  fragmentary.  Perhaps  the  discord- 
ances are  no  greater  than  we  sliould  expect  in  a  manuserij)t  text 
passing  from  generation  to  generation;  perhaps  they  indicate 
that  the  paraphrase,  interrupted  at  intervals,  was  resumed  l\y 
some  successor,  as  idling  monks  at  a  subse(juent  ])eriod  wore 
often  the  contiiuiators  of  voluminous  romances.  Its  new  mythol- 
ogy will  frame  the  miracle-play.  Milton,  finding  his  originals  in 
the  Puritans,  as  C;edmon  in  the  Vikings,  will  adopt  it  in  his  epic, 
assisted  in  the  develoj)nient  of  his  thought  by  all  the  resources  of 
Latin  culture  and  civilization. 

Style. — Iterative,  vivid,  harsh,  curt,  emphatic,  (\jaeulative;  as 
iu  all  true  Saxon  poetrv,  whose  gi^nuine  tvpe  is  the  war-song, 
where  the  verses  fall  like  sword-strokes  in  the  tiiiek  of  battle. 

Rank. — Nature  in  her  first  poverty,  displaying  the  primitive 
force   of   the   self-taught.      A   type   of    tin;    grandeur,   deptii,   and 


144  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

tragic  tone  wliicli  the  German  race  was  to  give  to  the  religion  of 
the  East.  Never  before  had  the  English  language  clothed  such 
sublime  thoughts.  Never  had  limitless  desire  so  struggled,  giant- 
like, with  limited  utterance.  'Others  after  him,'  says  Bede, 
'attempted,  in  the  English  nation,  to  compose  religious  poems, 
but  none  could  ever  compare  with  him.'  Above  the  din  of  war 
and  bloodshed,  amid  the  brutality  and  mental  inaction  of  cen- 
turies, he  raised  his  voice  and  sang  the  substance  of  which  all  the 
ancient  myths  were  but  the  shadow;  sang  with  such  fervor  and 
persuasion  that  '  many  were  often  excited  to  despise  the  world, 
and  to  aspire  to  heaven.'  The  prototype  of  Milton,  as  the  picture 
exists  in  the  sketch:  the  one,  the  rough  draft;  the  other,  the 
finished  intellectual  ideal.  To  the  one  Satan  is  a  Saxon  convict, 
—  fastened  by  the  neck,  his  hands  manacled,  and  his  feet  bound; 
to  the  other,  the  ideal  being, — 

'Whose  stature  reached  the  .*ky,  and  on  whose  crest 
Sat  Horror  plumed.' 

The  precursor  of  a  new  order  of  ideas,  standing  at  the  conflu- 
ence of  two  civilizations;  a  monumental  figure  placed  between 
two  epochs  and  participating  in  their  two  characters,  as  a  stream 
which,  flowing  between  two  different  soils,  is  tinged  by  both 
their  hues. 

Character. — Cheerful  and  kind,  able  to  obey  or  command; 
attentive  and  punctual  in  the  performance  of  duty;  serious,  emi- 
nently religious,  fond  of  prayer.  'lie  never,'  writes  Bede,  'could 
compose  frivolous  and  useless  poems,  bvit  those  alone  pertaining 
to  religion  became  his  religious  tongue.'  A  rou2:h,  nol)le  ex- 
pression  of  the  vague,  vast  mystery  of  the  world  and  of  man. 
A  moiiiont,  as  old  age  closes  upon  him,  he  lifts  the  veil,  and  we 
see,  as  we  read,  the  charity,  pathos,  resignation,  Northern  melan- 
choly, lA'  the  man: 

'  Soiil-lonL'iiiLrs  many  in  my  day  I"\<'  had. 
My  life's  li(i|K'  now  is  tliat  tlic  Tree  of  Tiiiiini)h 
.Must  sccli  I       Tlian  all  others  oftciicr 
Did  I  alone  extol   its  glories: 
Thereto  my  will   is  heiit,  and  when   I  need 
A  claim  for  shelter,  to  the  Rood   I'll  <,'(). 

Of  iniL'htiest  friends,  from  me  are  many  now 
I'ncIasiK'd,  and  far  away  from  our  world's  jovs: 
They  soiiirht  the   Lord  of  Hosts,  and  now  in   heaven, 
With  the  Ilitrh-Father,   live  in   L'lee  and  <.'lory ; 
And  for  the  day  most  ]on^rin;:ly  I  wait, 


OUR    FIRST   HISTORIAJT.  145 

When  the  Saviour's  Rood  that  here  I  contemplate 
From  this  frail  life  shall  take  me  into  blis^s,— 
The  bliss  of  Heaven's  wards:   the  Lord's  folk  there 
Is  seated  at  the  feast;   there's  joy  unending; 
And  He  shall  set  me  there  in  glory, 
And  with  the  saints  their  pleasures  I  shall  share.' 

Influence. — He  draped  the  Oriental  imagery  of  the  Bible  in 
the  English  fashion,  and  brought  it  within  the  comprehension  of 
the  humblest.  His  verses  became  part  of  the  people's  thinking, 
created  for  it  a  new  groove,  and  the  recollections  of  Valhalla 
paled  before  the  more  spiritual  and  real  splendors  of  the  New 
Elysium.  He  wrought  no  revolution  in  the  form  of  English 
song,  but  introduced  into  it,  through  the  faith  of  Christ,  new 
realms  of  fancy. 

In  our  rasping  life  of  gain,  we  are  apt  to  imagine  that  art 
is  of  little  account,  but  when  the  years  roll  by,  we  learn  well 
enough  what  the  ages  value.  No  doubt  this  Caxlmon,  in  his 
ill-furnished  room,  seemed  to  the  practical  man  of  trade  a  pitiful 
cipher,  quite  out  of  the  march  of  important  affairs;  but  even 
their  names  are  forgotten,  and  all  their  wealth  would  now  be 
given  for  one  of  the  songs  of  the  Whitby  shepherd. 


BEDE. 

The  Father  of  English  h'nnnug.— Burke. 

Biography. — Born  in  the  county  of  Durham,  073;  at  seven, 
placed  in  the  newly-founded  monastery  of  St.  Peter,  Wearmoiitli; 
at  ten,  transferred  to  the  associated  monastery  of  St.  Paul,  .lar- 
row,  five  miles  distant.  Here,  during  the  remainder  of  his  life, 
in  retirement  and  prayer,  he  applied  himself  to  the  study  of 
Scripture  and  the  advancement  of  knowledge.  In  his  nineteeiitli 
year,  he  received  the  orders  of  deacon;  in  his  thirtieth,  those  of 
the  priesthood.  The  dignity  of  abbot  he  declined;  '  ftn-,'  said  li<', 
*the  office  demands  household  care,  and  household  care  brings  willi 
it  distraction  of  mind,  which  hinders  the  })rosecution  of  Icainini:-.' 

To  the  very  last  he  worked  hard,  teaching  liis  ininieroiis  dis- 
ciples and  compiling  in  Latin  from  the  venerable  Fathrrs.  Hcaih 
comes  and  Hnds  him  still  at  work.  L  iider  an  attack  of  asthma, 
10 


146  FORMATIVE    PERIOD — THE    LITERATURE. 

which  has  long  been  sapping  his  strength,  he  is  urging  forward 
an  English  version  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  It  is  morning  on 
the  ^Tth  of  May.  'Most  dear  master,'  says  one  of  his  pupils, 
'there  is  still  one  chapter  wanting;  do  you  think  it  troublesome 
to  be  asked  any  more  questions?' — 'It  is  no  trouble,'  he  answers; 
'take  thy  pen,  and  write  fast.'  At  noon,  he  takes  a  solemn  fare- 
well of  his  friends,  distributing  among  them  treasured  spices 
and  other  gifts.  At  sunset  the  boy  says,  'Dear  master,  there  is 
yet  one  sentence  unwritten.' — 'Write  it  quickly,'  bids  the  dying 
scholar.  'It  is  finished  now,'  says  the  scribe  at  last. — 'You  have 
spoken  truly,'  is  the  reply,  'all  is  finished.  Receive  my  head 
into  your  hands;  for  it  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  sit  facing 
my  holy  place,  where  I  was  wont  to  pray.'  And  there  on  the 
pavement  of  his  little  cell,  in  the  year  735,  he  falls  into  his  last 
sleep  as  his  voice  reaches  the  close  of  the  solemn  chant,  'Gloiy 
be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost.' 

A  tranquil  death  becomes  the  man  of  science  or  the  scholar. 
The  coward  dies  panic-stricken;  the  superstitious  with  visions  of 
terror  floating  before  their  fancy:  he  who  has  a  good  conscience 
and  a  well-balanced  mind,  meets  death  with  calmness  and  hope. 
Heaven  has  but  'recalled  its  own.' 

Writings. — The  work  which  immortalizes  his  name  is  the 
Eccksiiiiitlcdl  History  of  the  English  Kation  (?31),  written  — 
like  nearly  all  his  works  —  in  Latin.  A  digest  of  ancient  records, 
of  tradition,  and  of  observation.  Thouo-h  tino-ed  with  the  cre- 
dulity  of  his  time,  it  is  based  upon  inquiries  made  in  the  true 
spirit  of  a  historian, —  business-like,  yet  child-like,  practical,  and 
spiritual.  It  is  virtually  a  history  of  England  brought  down  to 
the  date  of  its  completion. 

At  the  end  of  this  book,  he  gives  a  list  of  his  compositions, — 
hviiins,  commentaries,  and  homilies;  text-books  for  his  ])upils, 
throwing  together  all  that  the  world  had  then  accunuilated  in 
astronomy,  jihysics,  philosophy,  grannnar,  rhetoric,  medicine,  and 
music.  Almost  tlie  last  words  that  liroke  from  his  lips  were 
some  English  rliymt's  ujkjii  the  uncertainties  of  the  grave: 

'Before  tlic  necessary  journey  before  liis  departure, 

no  one  is  what  for  hi.-?  spirit 

wiser  of  tlioM.rlit  of  good  or  evil 

than  lie  hath  need,  after  the  death-day 

to  consider  i^hall  be  doomed.' 


OUR   FIRST    HISTORIAN.  147 

Style. — Artless,  succinct,  moral,  and  reflective;  clear,  and 
often  warm  with  life. 

Rank. — Accomplished  in  the  classics  —  a  rare  accomplish- 
ment in  the  West,  skilled  in  the  ecclesiastical  chant,  and  master 
of  the  whole  range  of  the  science  of  his  day.  First  in  the  order 
of  time,  among  English  scholars,  and  first  among  English  histo- 
rians. The  glory  of  the  old  English  period.  The  living  encyclo- 
paedia of  his  age;  superior  perhaps  (so  dark  was  the  intellectual 
night  in  the  East,  as  in  the  West)  to  any  man  whom  the  world 
then  possessed.  Yet,  withal,  a  great  man  of  talent,  not  a  great 
man  of  genius;  a  prodigious  worker  rather  than  a  discoverer; 
a  translator,  a  commentator,  who,  amid  growing  anarchy  and 
gross  ignorance,  digests  and  compacts,  out  of  dull,  voluminous,  or 
almost  inaccessible  books,  what  seems  good  and  useful, —  doing 
for  the  rest  what  they  are  unable  to  do  for  themselves. 

Cliaracter. — Gentle,  pure,  simple-minded,  earnest,  and  de- 
vout. Learning  but  deepened  the  lustre  of  his  piety.  His  soul 
was  a  sanctuary  lighted  up  with  the  lamps  of  angels,  and  dedi- 
cated to  the  high  service  of  man  and  his  Maker.  By  nature  a 
student,  his  paradise  was  introspective.  '  My  constant  pleasure,' 
he  says,  '  lay  in  learning,  or  teaching,  or  writing.'  In  accjuiring 
and  communicating,  his  industry  was  marvellous.  Besides  the 
usual  manual  labors  of  the  monastery,  the  duties  of  the  priest, 
and  the  occupation  of  teacher,  forty-five  treatises  remained  after 
his  death  to  attest  his  habitual  activity.  All  this  was  done  with 
small  aid  from  others.  'lam  my  own  secretary,'  he  writes;  'I 
make  my  own  notes;  I  am  my  own  librarian.' 

Influence. — From  his  Ecclesiastical  Histort/  we  learn  nearly 
all  that  we  kn<nv  of  the  Ano-Jo-Saxons  and  their  Church.  Tie  is 
tlie  first  figure  to  which  our  English  science  looks  back,  and  the 
father  of  English  iiational  education.  Six  hundred  monks,  be- 
sides the  strangers  that  flocked  hither  for  instruction,  fonncd  his 
school  of  Jarrow;  and  Northumbria  Vjccame,  for  a  period,  the 
literary  centre  of  Western  Euro])e.  Dissensions  and  confusion, 
attending  the  disintegration  of  the  original  jioliticai  system,  will 
bruise  this  humble  plant,  and  the  wars  with  the  Danes  will  coni- 
]>lete  the  blight  of  its  promis(\  Yet  will  it  have,  silently,  ins.-ii- 
sibh",  a  numerous  and  illustrious  progeny.      Centuries  hence,  his 


148  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

theological  and  educational  works  will  be  held  in  esteem  as 
authorities  and  text-books.  The  light  that  issues  from  Jarrow 
extends  to  York;  Alcuin,  by  the  invitation  of  Charlemagne,  car- 
ries it  thence  to  the  Continent;  French  statesmanship  and  Saxon 
scholarship  go  hand  in  hand  to  diffuse  mediaeval  civilization;  and 
so,  while  the  fields  are  wasted  by  violence,  famine,  and  plague, 
the  Venerable  Bede  is  as  a  tree  planted  by  the  river's  side;  his 
branches  shall  spread,  and  his  beauty  be  as  the  olive,  and  his 
smell  as  Lebanon;  and  what  though  he  dare  not  speak,  they  that 
dwell  under  his  shadow  shall  return, —  they  shall  revive  as  the 
corn  and  e-row  as  the  vine. 


ALFRED 


The  most  perfect  character  In  history.  He  is  a  singular  instance  of  a  prince  who 
has  become  a  hero  of  romance,  who,  as  such,  has  had  countless  imaginary  exploits 
attributed  to  him,  but  to  whose  character  romance  has  done  no  more  than  justice,  and 
who  api)ears  in  exactly  the  same  light  in  history  and  in  fable. — Freeman. 

Biography. — Bom  at  Wantage,  8-49.  Sent  to  Rome  at  five, 
anointed  by  the  Pope,  and  adopted  as  his  spiritual  son;  again, 
two  years  later,  travelling  in  the  train  of  a  king,  now  at  the 
court  of  the  grandson  of  Charlemagne,  now  at  the  castles  of 
warrior  nobles,  now  with  the  learned  prelates  —  across  the  Alps  — 
through  the  garden  of  the  world  —  renewing  the  memories  of  his 
childhood  amid  the  ruins,  slirines,  and  palaces  of  the  Eternal 
City, —  what  an  episode  in  his  young  life  for  observation  and 
thought!  Returning,  he  learns,  with  the  young  nobles  of  Wes- 
sex,  to  run,  leap,  wrestle,  and  hunt;  illiterate  at  twelve,  and 
during  the  period  of  youth,  tliougli  a  lover  of  wisdom,  without 
the  advantages  of  special  tuition.  Marries  at  twenty,  while 
England  is  growing  dark  under  the  shadow  of  a  tremendous 
stonn;  within  six  weeks,  is  iti  arms;  at  twenty-three,  ascends  the 
tottering  throne  of  his  fathers,  when  nine  pitched  battles  have 
been  fought;  reduces  the  pag'an  leaders  to  sue  humbly  for  ]:)eace, 
and  three  months  later,  in  January,  is  ol)liged  to  flee,  with  a 
scantv  band  of  followers,  into  the  forest  of  Selwood.  Here,  in 
disguise,  in  a  herdiiiaii's  hut,  by  the  burning  logs  on  the  hearth. 


THE   TYPICAL   KING.  149 

he  mends  his  bow  and  arrows.  The  good  house-wife  confides  to 
his  care  her  baking  loaves:  but  his  thought  is  elsewhere,  and 
they  are  burning  rapidly  to  cinders.  The  irate  woman,  running 
up  to  remove  them,  exclaims: 

'Ca'sn  thee  mind  the  ke-aks,  man,  an"  doossen  zee  'em  burn? 
I"m  bound  thee's  eat  'em  vast  enough  az  zoon  az  "tis  the  turn!' 

Near  Easter  a  gleam  of  good  news  from  the  west  gladdens  the 
hearts  of  the  wanderers;  and  in  the  lengthening  days  of  spring, 
strong  men  and  true  are  rallied,  for  word  is  abroad  that  the  hero- 
king  is  alive;  the  spirit  of  the  red-handed  Dane  is  broken,  and  in 
the  resulting  fusion  of  elements  are  laid  the  foundations  of  a 
better  England.  The  messengers  of  death  are  also  the  messen- 
gers of  resurrection.  There  is  leisure  now  for  reform,  and  for 
upwards  of  four  precious  years  King  Alfred  pushes  forward  the 
work  of  internal  repair  and  improvement  —  material  and  educa- 
tional. But  in  the  middle  of  reforms,  while  the  country  is  thrill- 
ing with  awakening  life,  the  war-cloud  gathers  again,  and  he  pre- 
pares to  meet  another  great  wave  of  invasion.  The  final  issue  is 
tried  between  Christian  and  Pagan.  In  three  years  the  Saxon 
prevails — 'Thanks  be  to  God,'  says  the  Chronicle.  Thenceforth 
his  reign  is  devoted  to  raising  the  slothful  and  stolid  nation  out 
of  the  exhaustion  in  which  the  life-and-death  struggle  have  left 
it.  Worn  out  by  the  constant  stress  of  government  and  a  grievous 
but  unknown  complaint,  which  the  physicians  ascribed  to  the 
spite  of  the  Devil,  he  died  on  tlie  2C)th  of  October,  901,  in  the 
fifty-second  year  of  his  age,  closing  his  eyes  on  peace  at  home 
and  abroad.  The  good  die  early;  the  world's  hardest  workers 
and  noblest  benefactors  rarely  burn  to  the  socket. 

"Writings. —  Chiefly  translations  into  English  of  the  popular 
manuals  of  tlie  time,  omitting  here  and  expanding  there,  as  might 
be  needful  for  English  use: 

Bedels  Ecclesiastical  History  of  Entjland.  Perhaps  rever- 
ence for  the  venerable  author  caused  him  to  present  it  without 
change  or  addition.  It  seems  likely  that  his  rendering  of  this 
work  gave  the  first  impulse  toward  the  compilation  of  the  Saxon 
Clironicle. 

Orosius'  Universal  History,  whose  scope  is  tluis  charac^toristi- 
cally  summed  up  by  its  author  —  a  Spaniard  of  the  fifth  c(Miturv: 

'I  have  now  set  out  by  the  hclj)  of  t'hri>I.  and  in  obedience  to  your  (ie~ire.  <)  nio^t 
blessed  father  Au.i^ustiue,  the  hists  and  punisluuunts  of  siufuJ  men,  the  couilicts  of  xXvi 


150  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

ages,  and  the  judgments  of  God,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  the  present  time; 
that  is  to  say,  for  5617  years.' 

The  text  —  dull  enough,  though  probably  the  best  account  of 
human  affairs  available  to  Alfred  —  is  enriched  with  the  new 
geographical  discoveries  in  the  North,  including  reports  of  the 
Northern  voyages  made  by  two  of  his  sea-captains.  With  gossip 
worthy  of  Herodotus,  we  are  told: 

'Eastland  is  very  large,  and  there  are  in  it  many  towns,  and  in  every  town  a  king; 
"and  there  is  also  great  abundance  of  honey  and  fish;  and  the  king  and  the  richest  men 
drink  mare's  milk,  and  the  poor  and  the  slaves  drink  mead.  They  have  many  contests 
among  themselves;  and  there  is  no  ale  brewed  among  the  Estbonians,  for  there  is  mead 
enough." 

Funerals   are   postponed   by   the    relatives    as    long    as    possible, 

according  to  the  riches  of  the  deceased;    kings  and  the  great 

lying  in  state  for  half  a  year:  for  — 

'There  is  a  tribe  which  can  produce  cold,  and  so  the  dead  in  whom  they  produce 
that  cold  lie  very  long  there  and  do  not  putrefy;  and  if  any  one  sets  two  vessels  full  of 
ale  or  water,  they  contrive  that  one  shall  be  frozen,  be  it  summer  or  be  it  winter.' 

The  living  drink  and  sport,  till  the  day  of  burial  or  burning: 

'On  that  day  they  divide  the  dead  man's  property  into  Ave  or  six  portions,  according 
to  value,  and  i)lace  it  out,  the  largest  portion  about  a  mile  from  the  dwelling  where  the 
dead  man  lies,  then  another,  then  a  third,  and  so  on  till  it  is  all  laid  within  the  mile. 
Then  all  the  neigiibors  within  five  or  six  miles  who  have  swift  horses,  meet  and  ride 
towards  the  property;  and  he  who  has  the  swiftest  horse  comes  to  tlie  first  and  largest 
portion,  and  so  each  after  otiier  till  the  whole  is  taken;  and  he  takes  the  least  ))ortion 
who  takes  that  which  is  nearest  the  dwelling:  and  then  every  one  rides  away  with  the 
proiK'rty,  and  they  may  have  it  all;  and  on  this  account  swift  horses  are  there  exces- 
sively dear.' 

HoethiHs'  Consolations  of  P/nlosophi/,  the  hand-book  of  the 
Middle  Ages  for  the  serious.  'A  golden  book,'  says  Gibbon, 
'not  unworthy  the  leisure  of  Plato  or  Tully.'  Few  books  are 
more  striking  from  tlie  circumstances  of  their  production.  It 
was  written  in  prison,  in  the  dying-swan-like  tones  of  Aurelius. 
The  reflections  that  consoled  the  writer  in  bonds  were  soon 
required  to  support  him  in  the  hour  of  his  execution.  To  him 
whose  soul  is  his  country,  a  dungeon  is  the  vestibule  of  Heaven. 
The  mind,  shut  out  from  this  scene  of  sensible  things,  retires 
into  its  own  infinite  domain.  In  INIilton  and  Bunyan  Ave  sliall 
see  liow  wide,  wlien  the  outer  world  loses  its  charms,  the  inner 
opens  its  gates. 

The  burden  of  the  work  is,  that  a  wise  God  rules  the  world; 
that  man  in  his  wor.st  extremity  possesses  much,  and  ought  to 
fix  his  thoughts  on  the  imperishable;  that  God  is  the  chief  good, 


THE  TYPICAL   KING.  151 

and  works  no  evil;  that,  as  seen  in  Eternity,  only  the  good  are 
happy;  that  God's  foreknowledge  is  reconcilable  with  the  free- 
will of  man.  It  is  a  work  congenial  to  Alfred's  thinking;  for 
he,  like  Boethius,  has  known  adversity.  Moreover,  he  would 
give  to  his  people  a  system  of  moral  precepts.  To  do  this,  he 
must  stoop  as  to  a  child;  for  his  audience  has  never  thought  or 
known  anything.  In  this  style  —  asking  his  readers  to  pray  for 
him  and  not  to  blame  him  for  his  imperfect  attainments  —  he 
renders  the  refined  sentiments  and  classical  allusions  of  the  grand 
Roman  Senator: 

'It  happened  formerly  that  there  was  a  harper  in  the  country  called  Thrace,  which 
was  in  Greece.  The  harper  was  inconceivably  good.  His  name  was  Orpheus.  He  had 
a  very  excellent  wife,  called  Enrydice.  Then  began  men  to  say  concerning  the  harper, 
that  he  could  harp  so  that  the  wood  moved,  and  the  stones  stirred  themselves  at  the 
sound,  and  wild  beasts  would  run  thereto,  and  stand  as  if  they  were  tame;  so  still,  that 
though  men  or  hounds  pursued  them,  they  shunned  them  not.  Then  said  they  that 
the  harper's  wife  should  die,  and  her  soul  should  be  led  to  hell.  Then  should  the  harper 
become  so  sorrowful  that  he  could  not  remain  among  the  men,  but  frequented  the  wood, 
and  sat  on  the  mountains,  both  day  and  night,  weeping  and  harping,  so  that  the  woods 
shook,  and  the  rivers  stood  still,  and  no  hart  shunned  any  lion,  nor  hare  any  hound; 
nor  did  cattle  know  any  hatred,  or  any  fear  of  others,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  sound. 
Then  it  seemed  to  the  harper  that  nothing  in  this  world  pleased  him.  Then  thought 
he  that  he  would  seek  the  gods  of  hell,  and  endeavour  to  allure  tliem  with  his  harp, 
and  pray  that  they  would  give  him  back  his  wife.  Wheii  he  came  thither,  then  should 
there  come  to\vards  him  the  dog  of  hell,  whose  name  was  Cerberus, —  he  should  have 
three  heads, —  and  began  to  wag  his  tail,  and  play  with  him  for  his  harping.  Then  was 
there  also  a  very  horrible  gatekeeper,  whose  name  should  he  Charon.  He  had  also 
three  heads,  and  he  was  very  old.  Then  began  the  harper  to  beseech  him  that  he  would 
protect  him  while  he  was  there,  and  bring  him  thence  again  safe.  Then  did  he  i)roniise 
that  to  him,  because  he  was  desirous  of  the  unaccustomed  sound.  Tlien  went  he  further 
until  he  met  the  fierce  goddesses,  whom  the  common  people  call  Parca',  of  whom  they 
say  that  they  know  no  respect  for  any  man,  but  punish  every  man  according  to  Ids 
deeds;  and  of  whom  they  say  that  they  control  every  man"s  fortune.  Then  began  he 
to  imijlore  their  mercy.  Tlien  began  they  to  weep  with  him.  Tlien  went  he  farther, 
and  all  the  iuliabitants  of  hell  ran  towards  him,  and  led  him  to  their  king;  and  all  Ixgan 
to  speak  with  him,  aiul  to  pray  that  whicii  he  prayed.  And  the  restless  wheel  which 
I.xion,  the  king  of  the  Lapithie,  was  bound  to  for  his  guilt,  that  stood  still  for  his  harp- 
ing. And  Tantalus  the  king,  who  in  this  world  was  immoderately  greedy,  and  wliom 
that  same  vice  of  greediness  followed  there,  he  became  quiet.  And  the  vulture  sliould 
cease,  so  that  he  tore  not  the  liver  of  Tityus  the  king,  which  before  iherewitli  tor- 
mented him.  And  all  the  punishments  of  the  inhabitants  of  hell  were  suspended 
whilst  he  harped  before  the  king.  When  he  long  and  long  had  harped,  then  spoke  the 
king  of  the  inhabitants  of  hell,  and  said,  "Let  us  give  the  man  his  wife,  for  he  lias 
earned  her  by  his  harping."  He  then  commanded  him  that  he  should  well  observe  th:it 
he  never  looked  backwards  after  he  departed  thence;  and  said  if  lie  looked  liackwards, 
that  he  should  lose  the  woman.  But  men  can  with  great  difficulty,  if  at  all.  re-train 
love!  Wellaway!  What:  Orpheus  then  led  his  wife  with  him  till  lie  eaiiic  to  the 
boundary  of  light  and  darkness.  Then  went  hi^  wife  after  him.  When  he  cam.-  foitli 
into  the  light,  then  looked  he  behind  his  back  towards  the  woman.  Then  wa-  ^h(•  im- 
mediately lost  to  him.  This  fable  teaches  every  man  who  de-in-^  to  lly  the  darkne-* 
of  hell,  and  to  come  to  the  liarht  of  tnw  good,  that  he  look  not  a!)onl  him  lo  lil-  old 
vices,  so  that  he  practise  them  again  as  fully  as  he  did  before.     For  whu-oeve r  with  full 


152  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

will  turns  his.  mind  to  the  vices  which  he  had  before  forsaken,  and  practises  them,  and 
they  then  fully  please  him,  and  he  never  thinks  of  forsaking  them;  then  loses  he  all 
his  former  good  unless  he  again  amend  it.' 

Gregory,  on  the  Care  of  the  Soul,  which  seemed  to  Alfred  a 
most  suitable  manual  for  the  clergy  in  their  lethargic  state.  It 
is  in  the  preface  to  this  work  that  he  tells  us  of  the  sad  decay  of 
learning  in  his  kingdom,  and  of  his  desire  for  its  true  restoration: 

'I  wish  you  to  know  that  it  often  occurs  to  my  mind  to  consider  what  manner  of 
wise  men  there  were  formerly  in  the  English  nation,  both  spiritual  and  temporal,  and 
how  happy  the  times  then  were  among  the  English,  and  how  well  the  kings  behaved  in 
their  domestic  government,  and  how  they  prospered  in  knowledge  and  wisdom.  I  con- 
sidered also  how  earnest  God's  ministers  then  were,  as  well  about  preaching  as  about 
learning,  and  men  came  from  foreign  countries  to  seek  wisdom  and  doctrine  in  this 
land,  and  how  we,  who  live  in  these  times,  are  obliged  to  go  abroad  to  gel  them.  To  so 
low  a  depth  has  learning  fallen  among  the  English  nation,  that  there  have  been  very 
few  on  this  side  of  the  Humber,  who  were  able  to  understand  the  English  of  their  ser- 
Tice,  or  to  turn  an  epistle  out  of  Latin  into  English;  and  1  know  there  were  not  many 
beyond  the  Humber  who  could  do  it.  There  were  so  few,  that  1  cannot  think  of  one  on 
the  south  side  of  the  Thames  when  I  first  began  to  reign.  God  Almighty  be  thanked 
that  we  have  always  a  teacher  in  the  pulpit  now.  .  .  .  When  I  thought  of  all  this,  I  fan- 
cied also  that  I  saw  (before  everything  was  ravaged  and  burned)  how  all  the  churches 
throughout  the  English  nation  stood  full  of  books,  though  at  that  time  they  gathered 
very  little  fruit  from  their  hooks,  not  being  able  to  understand  them,  because  they  were 
not  written  in  their  own  language.  For  which  reason  I  think  it  best,  if  you  too  think  so, 
that  we  should  turn  into  the  language,  which  we  all  of  us  know,  some  such  books  as  are 
deemed  most  useful  for  all  men  to  understand.  .  .  .  When  I  reflected  how  this  learning 
of  the  Latin  tongue  had  fallen  throughout  the  English  nation,  though  many  knew  how  to 
read  English  writing,  I  then  began  in  the  midst  of  divers  and  manifold  affairs  of  this 
kingdom,  to  turn  into  Anglo-Saxon  thi.s  book,  which  in  Latin  is  named  Pas/oralis,  and 
in  Anglo-Saxon  the  Herdsman' n  Book;  and  I  will  send  one  of  them  to  every  bishop's  see 
in  my  kingdom.' 

Proverbs,  compiled  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II,  and  hence  in  the 
broken  dialect  of  the  transition  period.  They  mirror  a  wise  and 
benevolent  spirit.  The  scholar  and  the  man  outshine  the  king. 
We  know  him  better  and  lionor  him  more  when  we  read  from  his 
own  lips: 

'The  riglit  iiobility  is  in  the  mind,  not  in  the  flesh." 

'Power  is  never  a  good  unless  he  be  good  tliat  has  it;  and  that  is  the  good  of  the 
man,  not  of  the  i)ower.' 

'Learn  therefore  wisdom;  and  when  you  have  learned  it,  do  not  neglect  it.  I  tell 
you  then,  without  any  doubt,  that  Ijy  it  you  may  come  to  power,  though  you  should  not 
desire  the  i)ower.' 

In  almost  the  last  of  tlie  series,  he  addresses  his  son: 

'  My  dear  son,  set  thee  now  beside  me,  and  I  will  deliver  thee  true  instructions.  My 
son,  I  fc'.'l  that  my  hour  is  coming.  My  countenance  is  wan.  My  days  are  almost  done. 
We  must  now  part.  I  shall  iro  to  another  world,  and  thou  shall  be  left  alone  in  all  my 
wcaltli.  I  piay  thee  (for  thou  art  my  dear  child),  strive  to  be  a  father  and  a  lord  to  thy 
people;  be  thou  the  children's  father  and  the  widow's  friend;  comfort  thou  the  poor 
and  shelter  the  weak:  and  with  all  thy  might,  right  that  which  is  wrong.  And,  son, 
govern  thyself  by  law;  then  shall  the  Lord  love  thee,  and  God  above  all  things  shall  be 


THE   TYPICAL    KING.    ,  153 

thj-  reward.  Call  thou  ui)on  Him  to  advise  thee  in  all  thy  need,  and  so  He  shall  help  thee 
the  better  to  compass  that  which  thou  wishest.' 

Some  truths  and  precepts  are  like  diamonds,  which  may  be  set 
a  hundred  times  in  as  many  generations  without  loss  of  beauty 
or  of  lustre. 

Style.  —  Artless,  earnest,  but  sober;  abrupt,  yet  long  drawn 
out;  practical  and  moral,  like  the  man;  idiomatic  in  vocabulary 
and  arrangement,  showing  a  strong  repugnance  to  the  importa- 
tion of  foreign  w^ords,  a  quality  certainly  due  in  part  to  his  object 
—  the  instruction  of  a  barbarous  audience. 

Chiaracter. — Tradition  tells  of  his  genial  good-nature,  his  love 
of  song,  his  eager  desire  for  knowledge  and  the  improvement  of 
society.  His  words,  and  the  books  selected  as  the  oljjects  of  his 
chief  efforts,  indicate  strongly  the  union  of  zeal  with  moderation, 
of  practical  judgment  with  serious  and  elevated  sentiment,  of 
untiring  industry  with  eminent  piety.  How  or  when  he  learned 
to  read  or  write,  we  know  not.     Asser,  his  contemporary,  says: 

'  His  noble  nature  implanted  in  him  from  his  cradle  a  love  of  wisdom  above  all  things; 
but,  with  shame  be  it  spoken,  by  the  unworthy  neglect  of  his  parents  and  nurses,  he 
remained  illiterate  even  till  he  was  twelve  years  old  or  more;  but  he  listened  with 
serious  attention  to  the  Saxon  poems  which  he  often  heard  recited,  and  easily  retained 
them  in  his  docile  memory.' 

And  again: 

'This  he  confessed,  with  many  lamentations  and  sighs,  to  have  been  one  of  his 
greatest  difficulties  and  impediments  in  this  life,  namely,  that  when  he  was  young  and 
had  the  capacity  for  learning,  he  could  not  find  teachers." 

Careful  of  detail  and  methodical,  he  carries  in  his  bosom  a  note- 
book in  which  he  jots  down  things  as  they  strike  him;  now  a 
prayer,  now  a  story,  now  an  event,  now  an  image.  Asser,  in- 
structed to  write  in  it  a  passage  which  he  has  just  read  to  the 
king,  says: 

'But  I  could  not  find  any  empty  space  in  that  book  wherein  to  write  the  quotation, 
for  it  was  already  full  of  various  matters." 

Four  priests  read  to  him  whenever  he  has  leisure,  Asser  among 
the  number: 

'I  read  to  him  whatever  books  he  liked,  and  such  as  he  had  at  hand;  for  this  is  his 
usual  custom,  both  night  and  day,  amid  his  many  other  oecnpalion-;  of  mind  and  body, 
either  himself  to  read  books,  or  to  listen  wliilst  others  read  them  ' 

But  there  is  a  God  in  this  universe,  and  a  (rod's  sanction,  with 
which  a  nation  may  not  dispense  witliout  peril,  nor  a  man  wit  hunt 


154  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

decay  of  the  heart  and  dimming  of  the  eye.  Without  a  realized 
sense  of  the  divine,  the  intellect  can  have  no  clear  vision  on  moral 
mountains,  nor  the  national  character  become  great,  firm  and 
glorious.  A  lost  faith  or  an  indifferent  faith  is  fatal  to  all  high 
ideal.  Alfred  has  neither.  The  strong  moral  bent  of  his  mind  is 
seen  in  some  of  the  novelties  of  his  legislation.  He  believes  there 
is  an  order  from  everlasting,  and  declares  it  as  he  understands  it, 
without  balancing  expediencies  or  plausibilities.  His  'Dooms,' 
accordingly,  are  an  almost  literal  transcript  of  the  Decalogue, 
with  selections  from  the  Mosaic  code;  as, — 

'These  arc  the  dooms  that  thou  >-halt  set  them:— If  any  one  buy  a  Christian  bonds- 
man, be  he  bondsman  to  him  six  years,  the  seventh  be  he  free  unbought.  With  such 
clothes  as  lie  went  in,  with  such  go  he  out.  If  he  himself  have  a  wife,  go  she  out  with 
him.  If,  however,  the  lord  gave  him  a  wife,  go  she  and  her  bairn  the  lord's.  If  then  the 
bondsman  sa\,  I  will  not  go  from  my  lord,  nor  from  my  wife,  nor  from  my  bairn,  nor 
from  my  goods,  let  then  his  lord  bring  him  to  the  church  door,  and  drill  through  his  ear 
with  a)i  awl,  to  witness  that  he  be  ever  thencefortli  a  bondsman.'  > 

Amid  the  cares  of  state,  racked  by  almost  ceaseless  pain,  he  finds 
time  for  daily  religious  services: 

'Because  he  feared  the  anger  of  God,  if  he  should  do  anything  contrary  to  his  will, 
he  used  often  to  rise  In  the  morning  at  the  cocli-crow,  and  go  to  pray  in  the  churches 
and  at  the  relics  of  the  saints." 

He  consecrates  to  God  tlie  half  of  his  possible  services,  bodily 
and  mental.  To  prove  his  sincerity,  he  contrives  a  time-piece  for 
the  more  exact  measurement  of  the  hours,  since  at  niglit  on 
account  of  the  darkness,  and  frequently  at  day  on  account  of  the 
clouds,  he  cannot  always  accurately  estimate  them.  He  has  six 
candles  made,  of  equal  length,  each  with  twelve  divisions  or  rings. 
Lighted  in  succession,  they  burn  a  night  and  a  day: 

'But  sometimes  when  they  would  not  continue  burning  a  whole  day  and  night,  till 
the  same  hour  that  they  were  lighted  the  preceding  evening,  from  the  violence  of  the 
wind,  which  blew  day  and  night  without  intermission  through  the  d(H)rs  and  window^  of 
tlie  chiirche-,  the  fissures  of  the  divisions,  the  iilankings,  or  the  wall,  or  the  thin  canvas 
of  till-  tents,  they  then  unavoidably  burned  out  and  finished  their  course  before  th(r 
ajipointed  time:  the  king  therefore  considered  by  what  means  he  might  shut  out  the 
wind,  and  so  by  a  useful  and  cunning  invention,  he  ordered  a  lantern  to  be  beautifully 
eoiistrnctiil  of  wofxl  and  white  ox-horn,  which  when  skilfully  jilaned  till  it  is  thin,  is  no 
less  traii-iiurent  tliiiu  a  vessel  of  gla-s." 

Thouirh  simple  and  kindly  in  teiuper,  he  is  a  stern  inquisitor  in 
executiiii:-  justice.  He  has  twenty-four  officers  hung  for  corrup- 
tion in  the  judgmont-seat. 

Affable  and  liberal,  patient,  brave,  just,  and  temperate,  with  a 
'  Sec  Exodus  xxi,  1-0. 


THE   TYPICAL    KING.  155 

clear  conscience  he  may  testif}-:  'This  I  can  now  truly  say,  that 
so  long  as  I  have  lived  I  have  striven  to  live  worthily,  and  after 
my  death  to  leave  my  memory  to  my  descendants  in  good  works.' 

Rank. — Without  the  genius  to  invent  and  originate,  he  had 
the  talent  to  adapt  means  to  ends,  to  develop  and  improve  the 
old,  to  think  what  the  many  think  and  cannot  yet  say.  A  great 
gift,  no  doubt.  It  is  men  of  great  talent  who  occupy  the  head- 
lands of  society.  In  politics,  in  war,  in  letters,  Alfred  simply 
takes  what  is  nearest  and  makes  the  best  of  it.  As  an  author,  he 
is  like  Bede,  a  teacher  of  semi-barbarians,  who  tries  not  to  create 
but  to  compile,  to  pick  out  and  explain  from  Greek  and  Latin 
stories  something  which  may  suit  the  people  of  his  age;  as  a 
father  who  draws  his  little  boy  between  liis  knees,  and  with  much 
pains  relates  a  fairy  tale  or  makes  an  idea  clear  by  visible  and 
tangible  thing's. 

There  is  no  evidence  of  the  imaginative  qualities  which  mark 
the  higher  statesman.  His  sphere  of  action,  indeed,  was  too 
narrow  to  justify  his  comparison,  politically  or  intellectually,  with 
the  inuuortal  few.  What  really  lifts  him  to  their  level  is  the 
moral  grandeur  of  his  life.  Nay,  his  altitude  is  the  greater  in 
proportion  as  wisdom  is  above  knowledge,  and  goodness  above 
genius,  or  spiritual  growth  above  mental  culture.  Among 
recorded  rulers  he  is  unique.  What  other  has  possessed  so 
many  virtues  with  so  little  alloy?  A  soldier,  a  statesman,  a  law- 
giver, a  lover  of  learning,  and  an  author  of  repute;  a  prince  with- 
out personal  ambition,  all  whose  wars  were  fought  in  his  coun- 
try's defense,  who  bore  adversity  with  noble  fortitude  and  wore 
his  laurels  in  noble  simplicity,  steering  the  ship  of  state,  with  a 
turbulent  crew,  through  a  stormy  sea, —  there  is  none  like  him. 
Of  no  other  will  it  ever  be  said  that  he  is  '  Englantl's  darling.' 

Influence. —  Solicitous  of  his  own  enlighteiunent,  he  never 
forgot  ttiat  his  first  duty  was  to  liis  people.  He  I'ducated  himself 
(nearly  forty  before  he  acquired  an  imperfect  acquaintance  with 
Latin)  that  he  might  educate  theTU.  He  rebuilt  monasteries, 
and  made  them  educational  centres;  superintended  a  seliool  in 
his  own  palace,  sent  abroad  for  instructors,  and  desired  that 
every  free-born  vouth  who  jiossessed  the  means  should  'abide  at 
his  book    till    he  well   understand    Kii<>:lish   writing';   had    skilled 


156  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE   LITERATURE. 

mechanics  brought  from  the  Continent,  who  built  houses,  says 
Asser,  *  majestic  and  good  beyond  all  the  precedents  of  his  ances- 
tors.' His  legislation  left  imperishable  traces  upon  England.  In 
his  court,  at  his  imj)ulse,  perchance  in  his  very  words,  English 
history  begins."  "^I'rue  the  light  will  wane  and  flicker.  The  flood 
of  national  calamity,  rising  ominously  during  his  life,  shall  seem 
to  sweep  utterly  away  the  ripening  harvest  of  Saxon  civilization; 
but  force  is  indestructible;  and  that  spirit  of  moral  strength,  felt 
afar  off,  lives  still  beneath  the  sun,  as  seed  springs  from  seed. 
The  oak  dies,  but  the  acorn  lives.  Each  moral  world  is  related 
to  many  others.  The  novels  of  Scott  produce  the  historical 
works  of  Guizot  and  Thiers;  the  voice  of  Demosthenes,  though 
it  has  long  since  died  away  over  his  native  shores,  heaves  many  a 
living  Vjreast;  and  the  heart  of  Paul,  whose  head  was  claimed  by 
Nero  long  ago,  beats  sacred  nmsic  in  a  thousand  pulpits. 


ROGER    BACON. 

Xatp€Tt    KrjpvK^t;   Aib?   a-yyeAot   7)6e  icat   ai'^pun'. 

Hail,  Horiilds,  mestii'iigcrs  of  God  and  men! — Homer. 

Biography. —  Born  in  the  county  of  Somerset,  1214,  of  a 
wealthy  family,  which  had  been  driven  into  exile  and  reduced 
to  j>overty  by  the  civil  wars.  Studied  at  Oxford,  then  at  Paris, 
as  was  at  that  time  the  custom  of  learned  Englishmen,  and  there 
received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity.  His  whole  heritage 
was  spent  in  costly  studies  and  experinu^nts.  Soon  after  his 
return  homo,  withdrawing,  from  the  civil  strife  fermenting  be- 
tween the  baronage  and  the  Crown,  he  became  a  mendicant 
friar  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis,  and  settled  at  Oxford,  devoting 
himself  to  study  with  extraordinary  fervor,  notwithstanding  the 
(lisci])line  of  the  Franciscans,  who  looked  upon  books  and  study 
as  hinderances  to  tlieir  appointed  mission  of  preaching  among 
the  masses  of  tlie  })oor.  Phvsics  seems  to  have  been  the  chief 
oljjeet  of  liis  lal)ors,  and  liberal  friends  of  science  supplied  him 
with    means    for   })ursuing    his    researches.      His  spreading   fame 

'  That  is.  Eiiirli^ti  lil-lory  cxiirfssed  in  the  rernarular. 


HERALD    OF   THE    COMING    DAY.  157 

was  mingled  with  suspicions  of  his  dealings  in  magic;  and  the 
prejudice  of  the  ignorant  was  encouraged  by  the  jealousy  of  his 
superiors  and  brethren.  An  accusation  was  brought  against  him 
at  the  Papal  court,  and  he  was  interdicted  from  teaching  in  the 
university.  For  ten  years  he  was  under  constant  supervision, 
forbidden  to  publish  anything  under  pain  of  forfeiture  of  the 
book  and  penance  of  bread  and  water.  The  pope,  who  had 
heard  of  his  rare  acquirements,  requested  him  to  write.  Friends 
raised  the  necessary  money  by  pawning  their  goods,  upon  the 
understanding  that  their  loan  should  be  made  known  to  the 
Holy  See.  Within  fifteen  months,  despite  all  obstacles,  three 
large  treatises'  were  dispatched  to  Rome,  'on  account  of  the 
danger  of  roads  and  the  possible  loss  of  the  work,'  by  a  youth 
who  had  been  trained  and  educated  with  great  care  by  Bacon 
himself.  In  1278,  a  vehement  reformer  ere  the  current  of  opinion 
had  turned  against  former  establishments,  he  was  thrown  into 
prison,  where  he  remained  fourteen  years.  In  1294,  when  his 
life  had  almost  covered  the  thirteenth  century,  the  old  man 
died,  having  endured  the  obloquy  of  all  revolutionists  who  are 
not  themselves  creatures  of  the  revolution. 

"Writing^, — His  monumental  work  is  the  Opus MaJ us  (12(i7). 
It  is  divided  into  six  parts: 

Part  I  treats  of  the  sources  of  error  and  causes  of  igno- 
rance,—  authority,  custom,  popular  opinion,  and  ostentatious 
pride.  Like  a  careful  and  ambitious  builder,  filled  with  a  new 
grand  idea  of  nature  and  life,  lie  lays  a  sure  foundation  for  the 
vast  superstructure  which  his  plan  embraces.  Without  certain 
practical  conditions,  a  speculative  knowl(>dg'e  of  the  most  perfect 
method  of  procedure  remains  barren  and  unaj^plied.  Bacon  tlie 
Friar  proves  his  kinship  with  the  great  lights  of  the  world  by  his 
precepts,  similar  to  theirs,  on  the  disposition  ])roper  to  philosophy. 
Before  him,  Socrates  had  said:  'To  attain  to  a  knowledge  of 
ourselves  we  must  banish  prejudice,  passion  and  slotli/  Bacon 
the  Chancellor  was  vet  to  say:  'If  the  human  intcllrct  hath 
once  taken  a  liking  to  any  doctrine,  either  IxM-ause  rccnnvcMl  and 
credited,   or   because    otherwise    pleasing, —  it    draws    everytliiiig 

'  Opus  Mdjun,  Opus  .Wnti.').  and  Opu.i  'IVrtlittn;  or.  The  (iraihr  Wark,  Tin  l.<-<.<  M')/-/-, 
and  The  ThinI  Work.  The  Minus  is  little  more  tliaii  a  suimuary  of  the  .)/.(/".-■,  ami  tlir 
Tertlinn  an  appendix  to  it;  both  still  exist  unpublished  in  the  t'otlouian  and  other 
libraries. 


158  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

else  into  harmony  with  that  doctrine  and  to  its  support.'  And 
Sir  W.  Raleigh:  'It  is  opinion,  not  truth,  that  travelleth  the 
world  without  passport.'  'Opinion,'  says  the  great  Pascal,  'dis- 
poses of  all  things.  It  constitutes  beauty,  justice,  happiness.' 
And  tiie  pious  Charon:  'Almost  every  opinion  we  have,  we 
have  but  by  authority;  we  believe,  judge,  act,  live,  and  die  on 
trust;  a  common  custom  teaches  us.'  Vanity,  self-love,  tradition- 
arv  habit,  the  prestige  of  a  great  name,  are  powerful  impedi- 
ments to  a  progress  in  knowledge.  Unless  we  can  cast  off  the 
prejudices  of  the  man  and  become  as  little  children,  docile  and 
unperverted,  we  need  never  hope  to  enter  the  temple  of  science. 
Let  us  not  follow  the  philosophers  of  antiquity  with  a  too  pro- 
found deference.  They,  and  especially  Aristotle,  are  not  infalli- 
ble. 'We  find  their  books,'  says  Bacon,  'full  of  doubts,  obscuri- 
ties, and  perplexities.  They  scarce  agree  with  each  other  in  one 
empty  question  or  one  worthless  sophism,  or  one  operation  of 
science,  as  one  man  agrees  with  another  in  the  practical  opera- 
tions of  medicine,  surgery,  and  the  like  arts  of  secular  men.' 
'  Indeed,'  he  adds,  '  not  only  the  philosophers,  but  the  saints  have 
fallen  into  errors  which  they  have  afterwards  retracted.' 

Port  II  treats  of  the  relation  between  philosophy  and  theol- 
og}-.  All  true  wisdom  is  contained  in  the  Scriptures;  and  the 
true  end  of  philosophy  is  to  rise  from  an  imperfect  knowledge  of 
created  things  to  a  knowledge  of  the  Creator.  The  brilliant 
results  achieved  by  the  ancients,  who  had  not  the  Word,  must 
have  been  inspired  by  a  direct  illumination  from  God. 

Part  III  treats  of  the  utility  of  Grammar.  The  necessity  of 
a  true  linguistic  science  was  strongly  impressed  upon  him  by  the 
current  translations  of  philosophical  writings,  which  were  very 
bad.    This  it  was  which  moved  him  to  say,  somewhat  impatiently: 

'If  I  had  power  over  the  works  of  Aristotle,  I  would  have  them  all  hiirnt;  for  it  is 
only  a  loss  of  time  to  study  in  them,  and  a  course  of  error,  and  a  multiplication  of  ignor- 
ance heyond  expression." 

And  again, — 

'The  common  herd  of  students,  with  their  heads,  have  no  principle  by  which  they 
can  be  excited  to  any  worthy  employment;  and  hence  they  niop(!  and  make  asses  of 
themselves  over  their  bad  translations,  and  lose  their  time,  and  trouble,  and  inoney.' 

A  gf)(jd  translator,  ho  wisely  insists,  should  know  thoroughly 
(1)  the  language   from  which  ho  is  translating,  (2)  the  language 


HERALD   OF  THE   COMING    DAY.  159 

into  which  he  is  translating,  and   (3)   the  subject  of  which  the 
book  treats. 

Part  7" T" treats  of  the  utility  of  mathematics.  All  science,  of 
things  human  and  divine,  rests  ultimately  on  them.  Here  only 
can  we  entirely  avoid  doubt  and  error,  and  obtain  certaintv  and 
truth: 

'Moreover,  there  have  been  found  famous  men,  as  Robert,  bii-hop  of  Lincoln,  and 
Brother  Adam  Marshuian,  and  many  others  who  by  the  power  of  mathematics  have  been 
able  to  explain  the  causes  of  things;  as  may  be  seen  in  the  writings  of  these  men,  for 
instance,  concerning  the  Rainbow  and  Cornels,  and  the  generation  of  heat  and  climates, 
and  the  celestial  bodies.' 

Mathematics  is  the  'alphabet  of  philosophy,'  the  door  and  key  to 
all  sciences: 

'The  neglect  of  it  for  nearly  thirty  or  forty  years  hath  nearly  destroyed  the  entire 
studies  of  Latin  Christendom.  For  he  who  knows  not  mathematics  cannot  know  any 
other  sciences;  and,  what  is  more,  he  cannot  discover  his  own  ignorance  or  find  its 
proper  remedies.' 

Part  V  treats  of  perspective.  This  is  the  part  on  which  the 
author  most  prided  himself.  He  opens  with  an  able  sketch  of 
psychology,  next  describes  the  anatomy  of  the  eye,  touches  upon 
otlier  points  of  physiological  optics, —  in  general  erroneously,  then 
discusses  very  fully  the  laws  of  reflection  and  refraction,  and  the 
construction  of  mirrors  and  lenses. 

Part  VI,  the  most  remarkable  portion  of  the  Opus  Majus, 
treats  of  experimental  science.  Real  knowledge  consists  in  the 
union  of  exact  conceptions  with  certain  facts.  The  foundation  is 
experience;  but  experience  is  of  two  sorts, —  external  and  inter- 
nal. The  first  is  usually  called  experiment,  but  it  can  give  no 
complete  knowledge  even  of  matter,  much  less  of  sjiirit.  The 
second  is  intuitive  and  divine.  Of  the  supernatural  enlighten- 
ment there  are  seven  grades.  Experimental  science  has  three 
great  Prerof/atives  over  all  the  other  sciences:  1.  It  verities  their 
conclusions;  as  in  the  Rainbow,  whose  colors  ar(>  produced  in  the 
drops  dashed  from  oars  in  the  sunshin(%  in  the  spray  thrown  by  a 
mill-wheel,  in  the  dew  of  a  summer  morning,  and  in  many  other 
ways.  2.  It  discovers  truths  whicli  they  ccnild  iievtM-  rt>acli. 
Thus  (1)  the  construction  of  an  artificial  sphere  which  shall  move 
Avith  the  heavens  by  natural  influences.  Or  (2)  tlie  art  of  pro- 
longing life,  which  experiment  may  teach,  thougii  iiit'diciiie  can 
do  little  except   by  regimen.      Of  a   preparation   here   mentioned, 


160  FORMATIVE    PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

one  of  the  ingredients  is  the  flesh  of  a  dragon,  used  as  food  by 
the  Ethiopians,  we  are  told,  and  prepared  as  follows: 

'Where  there  are  good  flying  dragons,  by  the  art  which  they  possess,  they  draw  them 
out  'f  their  dens,  and  have  bridles  and  saddles  in  readiness,  and  they  ride  upon  them, 
and  make  them  bound  about  in  the  air  iu  a  violent  manner,  that  the  hardness  and 
toughness  of  the  flesh  may  be  reduced,  as  boars  are  hunted  and  bulls  are  baited  before 
they  are  killed  for  eating.' 

Or  (3)  the  art  of  making  gold  finer  than  fine  gold,  which  tran- 
scends the  power  of  alchemy,  3.  It  investigates  the  secrets  of 
nature.  Here  we  find  the  suggestion  that  the  fire-works  made  by 
children,  of  saltpetre,  might  lead  to  the  invention  of  a  formidable 
weapon  of  war;  that  character  may  be  changed  by  changing  the 
air.  When  Alexander  applied  to  Aristotle  to  know  whether  he 
should  exterminate  certain  tribes  which  he  had  discovered,  as 
being  irreclaimably  barbarous,  the  philosopher  replied:  'If  you 
can  alter  their  air,  permit  them  to  live;  if  not,  put  them  to  death.' 
Hence,  it  appears,  the  leading  purpose  of  the  Opus  Jfajus  is 
the  progress  of  knowledge,  and,  to  this  end,  the  reform  of  scien- 
tific method.  A  wonderful  work,  if  we  but  consider  the  circum- 
stances of  its  origin,  alike  wonderful  in  plan  and  in  detail, —  the 
encyclopaedia  of  the  classic  century  of  scholasticism. 

Style. — Plain,  methodical,  clear,  animated,  energetic,  as  of  a 
large,  earnest  soul  profoundly  penetrated  with  the  vastness  of  its 
mission  and  the  brevity  of  its  opportunity. 

Rank. — A  giant  among  his  contemporaries,  standing  out  in 
picturesque  and  impressive  contrast.  To  them  he  was  a  wonder, 
and  they  styled  him,  'Doctor  Jfirabilis.''  As  a  student  at  Paris, 
he  mastered  Latin,  (Jreek,  and  Hebrew, —  an  accomplishment 
which  not  more  than  five  men  in  England  tlien  possessed.  The 
story  was  current  that  he  had  discovered  a  receipt  for  teaching 
any  one  'in  a  very  few  days  Hebrew,  Greek,  Latin,  and  Aral)ic.' 
His  works,  full  of  sound  and  exact  knowledge,  cover  the  whole 
range  of  science  and  philosophy, —  Mathematics,  Mechanics, 
Oj)tics,  Astronomv,  Geography,  Chronology,  Clieniistry,  Magic, 
Music,  Medicine,  Grammar,  Logic,  Metaphysics,  Ethics,  and  'I'he- 
ologv.  He  stood  ui)on  a  lofty  eminence,  and  looked  forward 
tiirce  centuries  when  his  dreams  were  to  take  substantial  form. 
He  gave  a  receipt  for  making  gunpowder,  learned  perliaps  from 
the  Arabs, —  salt]jetre,  cliarcoal,  and  sulpliui'.      Afterwards  it  was 


HERALD    OF   THE    COMING    DAY.  161 

told  how  the  fiend,  to  whom  the  heretical  wizard  sold  himself, 
carried  away  his  victim  in  a  whirlwind  of  fire.  He  knew  that 
there  were  different  kinds  of  gas,  or  air  as  he  calls  it,  and  tells 
us  that  one  of  these  puts  out  a  flame.  He  invented  the  school- 
boy's favorite  experiment  of  burning  a  candle  under  a  bell-glass 
to  prove  that  when  the  air  is  exhausted  the  candle  goes  out.  He 
predicts  that  one  day  ships  will  go  on  the  water  without  sails, 
and  carriages  run  on  the  roads  without  horses,  and  that  travellers 
will  use  flying  machines.  He  constructed  lenses,  burning  glasses, 
and  knew  the  theory  of  the  telescope  if  he  did  not  make  one. 
He  says: 

'We  can  place  transparent  bodies  (that  is,  glasses)  in  such  a  form  and  position 
between  our  ej-es  and  other  objects  that  the  rays  shall  be  refracted  and  bent  towards 
any  place  we  please,  so  that  we  shall  see  the  object  near  at  hand,  or  at  a  distance,  under 
any  angle  wc  please;  and  thus  from  an  incredible  distance  we  may  read  the  smallest 
letter,  and  may  number  the  smallest  particles  of  sand,  by  reason  of  the  greatness  of  the 
angle  under  which  they  appear.' 

To-day,  however  high  the  philosoplier  may  rise  above  the  mul- 
titude, his  elevation  is  seen  to  be  the  reward  of  energy  and  labor. 
But  in  Bacon's  time,  men's  thoughts  were  less  clear,  they  could 
catch  no  glimpse  of  the  intervening  path;  and  when  they  saw 
him  above  them,  but  knew  not  how  he  was  raised  and  supported, 
he  became  to  them  an  object  of  suspicion  and  terror  —  a  magi- 
cian,—  and  feelings  of  envy  probably  induced  the  few  tacitly  to 
sanction  the  opinion  of  the  many.  Thus,  the  l^arnoKS  History 
of  Fryer  Bacon,  compiled  in  the  sixteenth  century,  represents 
him  before  the  king  and  queen  in  the  act  of  displaying  his  skill 
in  the  black  art.  He  waves  his  wand,  and  entrancing  music  is 
heard;  waves  it  once  more,  and  five  dancers  enter,  who  dance, 
and  vanish  in  the  order  of  their  coming;  waves  it  again,  and  a 
table  laden  with  choicest  viands  is  spread  before  them;  yet  again, 
and  again,  while  the  room  fills  with  richest  perfumes  and  the 
liveries  of  sundry  nations  pass  and  fade.  He  makes  a  Brazen 
Head,  by  which,  'if  he  could  nuike  this  head  to  speake  (and  licare 
it  when  it  speakes),  then  might  hee  be  able  to  wall  all  England 
about  with  brasse.'  From  a  high  hill,  with  his  'mathematical 
glasses'  he  fires  the  public  buildings  of  a  besi('gr<l  town,  an<l 
amid  the  uproar  gives  the  signal  lor  the  king's  assault: 

'Thus  through  the  art  of  this  learned  man  tlie  Wws  '_'i)t  Iliis  ^IrmiL'  Kiwiic,  wliicl.  luf 
could  not  doc  with  all  his  iiieu  witlioiU  Fryer  liacou's  liclpe.' 

11 


162  FORMATIVE   PERIOD  —  THE    LITERATURE. 

A  keen  and  systematic  thinker  who,  without  being  completely 
dissevered  from  his  national  antecedents  and  surrounding,  seeks 
to  divert  into  other  and  profitable  channels  that  subtlety  of  the 
schoolmen  which  was  ffrowins:  forests  of  erudition  without  fruit. 
In  this  he  is  an  accurate  representative  of  the  English  mind  on 
one  of  its  most  striking  sides,  and  the  forerunner  of  his  greater 
namesake,  who  will  exhibit  the  same  fondness  for  experiment, 
the  same  preference  of  inductive  to  abstract  reasoning.  The 
Opus  Majics  is  the  prototype,  in  spirit,  of  Lord  Bacon's  JVovum 
Or(/anum. 

Cliaracter. — His  keen  thirst  for  knowledge,  his  patience,  his 
energy,  appear  forcibly  in  words  like  these: 

'From  my  youth  up,  I  have  labored  at  the  sciences  and  tongues.  I  have  sought  the 
friendshij)  of  all  men  among  the  Latins  who  had  any  reputation  for  knowledge.  I  have 
caused  youths  to  be  instructed  in  languages,  geometry,  arithmetic,  the  construction  of 
tables  and  instruments,  and  many  needful  things  besides.' 

Again: 

'  During  the  twenty  years  that  I  have  especially  labored  in  the  attainment  of  wisdom, 
abandoning  the  path  of  common  men,  I  have  spent  on  these  pursuits  more  than  two 
thousand  pounds,  not  to  mention  the  cost  of  books,  experiments,  instruments,  tables, 
the  acquisition  of  languages,  and  the  like.  Add  to  all  this  the  sacrifices  I  have  made  to 
procure  the  friendship  of  the  wise,  and  to  obtain  well  instructed  assistants." 

Of  the  difficulties  in  the  Avay  of  such  studies  as  he  had  resolved 
to  pursue: 

'Without  mathematical  instruments  no  science  can  be  mastered,  and  these  instru- 
ments are  not  to  be  found  among  the  Latins,  and  could  not  be  made  for  two  or  three 
hundred  pounds.  Besides,  better  tables  are  indispensably  necessary,  tables  on  which 
the  motions  of  the  heavens  are  certified  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  world 
without  daily  labor;  but  these  tables  are  worth  a  king's  ransom,  and  could  not  be  made 
without  a  vast  expense.  I  have  often  attempted  the  composition  of  such  tables,  but 
could  not  finish  them  through  failure  of  means  and  the  folly  of  those  whom  1  iiad  to 
employ." 

As  a  teacher,  he  was  devoted  to  those  whom  he  taught.  Of 
the  boy  sent  to  Rome,  he  writes  to  the  pope: 

'When  he  came  to  me  as  a  poor  boy,  I  caused  him  to  be  nurtured  and  instructed  for 
the  love  of  <;od,  esi)ecially  since  for  aptitude  and  innocence  I  have  never  found  so 
towardly  a  youtli.  Five  or  si.x  years  ago  I  caused  him  to  be  taught  in  languages,  mathe- 
matics, and  optics,  and  I  have  gratuitously  instructed  him  >vith  my  own  lips  since  the 
time  that  1  received  your  mandate.  There  is  no  one  at  Paris  who  knows  so  much  of  the 
root  of  i)hilosoi)hy,  though  he  has  not  i)roduced  tlie  branches,  flowers,  and  fruit  because 
of  his  youth,  and  because  he  has  had  no  experience  in  leaching.  But  he  has  the  means 
of  surpas>ing  all  the  Latins  if  he  live  to  grow  old  and  goes  on  as  he  has  begun.' 

Xeitlier  liis  confidence  in  the  power  of  the  human  intellect  nor 
his  devotion  to  jiliysical  studies  materialized  his  faith  or  abated 
his  humility.      Wisely  he  says: 


HERALD    OF   THE    COMING    DAY.  163 

'Man  is  incapable  of  perfect  wisdom  in  this  life;  it  is  hard  for  him  to  ascend 
towards  perfection,  easy  to  glide  downwards  to  falsehoods  and  vanities:  let  him  then 
not  boast  of  his  wisdom-or  extol  his  knowledge.  What  he  knows  is  little  and  worthless, 
in  respect  of  that  which  he  believes  without  knowing:  and  still  less,  in  respect  of  that 
which  he  is  ignorant  of.  He  is  mad  who  thinks  highly  of  his  wisdom ;  he  most  mad,  who 
exhibits  it  as  something  to  be  wondered  at." 

Popular  legend,  which  transforms  him  into  a  powerful  conjurer, 
always  represents  him  to  have  been  a  beneficent  one,  courageous 
and  modest. 

Influence. — Upon  his  own  age  not  great.  The  seed  he  let 
drop,  fell  for  the  most  part  on  a  barren  soil.  The  master-concep- 
tion was  itself  drying  up.  Science  was  extinguished  in  idle 
raving  and  inanity.     Bacon  himself  says: 

'Xever  was  there  so  great  an  appearance  of  wisdom  nor  so  much  exercise  of  study 
in  so  many  Faculties,  in  so  many  regions,  as  for  tliis  last  forty  years.  Doctors  are  dis- 
persed everywhere,  in  every  castle,  in  every  burgh,  and  especially  by  the  students  of  two 
Orders,  which  has  not  happened  except  for  about  forty  years.  And  yet  there  was  never  so 
much  ignorance,  so  much  error.' 

He  sought,  in  opposition  to  the  spirit  of  his  times,  to  divert  the 
interest  of  his  contemporaries  from  scholastic  subtleties  to  the 
study  of  nature,  and  gained  from  his  own  Order  a  prison.  To  us 
he  has  left  a  treasure  of  the  most  solid  knowledge  of  his  century, 
of  worthy  and  wise  speculations.  He  is,  moreover,  an  interesting 
and  instructive  example  of  real  greatness  born  before  its  time, 
uttering  its  thoughts  in  Golgotha,  standing  alone  on  heights  un- 
known, and  by  its  very  isolation  forming  no  school  and  leaving 
no  disciples. 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


FEATURES. 


If  there  be  any  such  thing  as  a  philosophy  of  history,  real  or  possible,  it  is  In  virtue 
of  there  being  certain  progressive  organizing  laws  in  which  the  fretful  lives  of  each 
of  us  are  gathered  into  and  subordinated  in  some  larger  unity,  through  which  age  is 
linked  to  age,  as  we  move  forward,  with  an  horizon  expanding  and  advancing. — Froude. 

Politics. — The  chief  object  of  the  English  was  to  establish, 
by  force  of  arms,  a  continental  empire.  The  greatest  victories 
of  the  Middle  Ages  were  gained  at  this  time  against  great  odds 
h)}'  the  Englisli  armies.  A  French  king  was  brought  captive  to 
London,  an  English  one  was  crowned  at  Paris.  But  after  a  long 
and  bloody  struggle,  with  many  bitter  regrets  the  contest  was 
abandoned,  and  from  that  hour  no  British  government  has  seri- 
ously and  steadily  pursued  the  dream  of  great  concjuests  on  the 
Continent. 

Confined  within  the  limits  of  the  island,  the  warlike  people 
employed  in  civil  strife  those  arms  which  had  carried  terror 
beyond  the  Pyrenees  and  the  Alps.  The  barons,  ceasing  to 
plunder  the  French,  were  by  the  force  of  habit,  eager  to  plunder 
one  another.  Ireland  and  Scotland,  subjugated  by  the  Plan- 
tagenets,  were  imjiationt  under  the  yoke.  The  former  had  never, 
since  the  days  of  Henry  11,  been  able  to  expel  the  foreign 
invaders.  The  latter,  as  we  have  seen,  vindicated  her  inde- 
pendence under  tlic  wise  and  valiant  Bruce.  Both  were  far 
Ix'hind  England  in  wealth  and  civilization. 

Kings  ovcistc]iped  the  constitutional  line.  They  possessed 
many  lucrative  and  formidable  rights  which  enabled  them  to 
punish  any  who  thwarted  tluMu,  and  to  reward  any  who  enjoyed 
tlieir  favor.  Persons  ()l)iioxious  to  tlie  governnu'nt  were  fre- 
quentlv  imjirisoned  merely  by  the  mandate  f)f  the  sovereign. 
Taxes  were    imposed  withfjut    the   assent    of    the    estates  of   the 


SOCIAL   CONDITION.  165 

realm.  Penalties  fixed  by  statute  were  remitted.  But  these 
incursions  were  strenuously  withstood.  Three  ancient  and  potent 
principles  bounded  persistently  the  royal  prerogative  and  pro- 
tected the  liberties  of  the  nation:  1.  The  king  could  not  legis- 
late without  the  consent  of  parliament.  2.  Nor  without  this 
consent  could  he  impose  a  tax.  3.  He  was  bound  to  conduct 
the  administration  according  to  law,  and  if  the  law  was  infringed 
his  advisers  were  answerable.  These  fundamental  rules,  l)v  their 
natural  development,  will  produce  the  order  of  things  under 
which  we  now  live. 

Though  the  struggles  with  regard  to  the  authority  of  the 
Great  Charter  were  over,  and  the  king  Avas  acknowledged  to 
lie  under  some  obligations;  yet  the  government,  on  the  whole, 
was  only  a  barbarous  monarchy,  neither  regulated  by  fixed 
maxims  nor  bounded  by  undisputed  rights.  It  was  a  composite 
of  opposite  systems,  each  prevailing  in  its  turn  according  to  the 
favor  of  incidents, —  royalty,  aristocracy,  priesthood,  and  com- 
monalty. 

The  weakness  of  the  second  Edward  gave  reins  to  that  licen- 
tiousness of  the  grandees  which  the  vigor  of  liis  father  had  re- 
pressed; and  the  hopes  that  rose  with  his  accession  were  blasted 
amid  the  traitorous  conspiracies  and  public  disorders  that  accom- 
plished and  attended  his  deposition.  The  reign  of  Edward  III, 
as  it  was  one  of  the  longest  in  the  annals  of  the  nation,  was  also 
one  of  the  most  glorious, —  if  by  glory  are  meant  foreign  victo- 
ries, and  comparative  domestic  peace  in  an  age  of  violence  and 
outrage.  Parliament  rose  into  greater  consideration.  The  House 
of  Commons,  naturally  depressed  during  factious  periods  by  the 
greater  power  of  the  crown  and  barons,  began  to  appear  of  some 
weight  in  the  constitution.  The  reign  of  Richard  II  began  in 
tranquillitv  and  wont  out  in  furious  convulsions,- — h'ss  from  neg- 
lect of  national  })riviloges  than  from  want  of  power  to  dverawe 
his  barons. 

Society. — Tlie  amalgamaticMi  of  contjuercMl  and  conquf^rors 
was  complete.  Tlie  original  ground  of  quarrel  was  lost  to  view. 
The  constitution  of  the  House  of  Connnons  promoted  a  salutary 
intermixture  of  classes.  Between  the  aristocracy  and  working 
people  was  springing  up  a  middle  class,  agricultural  and  coni- 
mercial.      The  knight  was  the  connectiiiii;  link  l)etween  the  liarou 


166  INITIATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

and  the  shopkeeper.  No  longer  rich  enough  to  assist  at  the 
royal  assemblies,  community  of  interests,  similarity  of  manners, 
nearness  of  condition,  lead  him  to  coalesce  with  the  yeomen,  who 
take  him  for  their  representative,  elect  him.  The  laborious,  cour- 
ageous body  that  supplies  the  energy  of  the  nation,  they  value 
themselves,  equally  with  the  grandee,  as  of  a  race  born  to  victory 
and  dominion. 

The  ordinary  dwelling  consisted  of  two  rooms, —  the  Jiall  for 
living  and  miscellaneous  use,  and  the  boicer,  or  chamber,  for 
sleeping  and  privacy.  The  use  of  chimneys  is  distinctly  men- 
tioned, though  rarely.  The  fire  was  usually  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor;  and  the  smoke,  if  it  pleased,  took  its  course  through  a  hole 
in  the  roof.     Hence  Chaucer  of  the  'poure  wydow'; 

'Fill  sooty  was  hir  bour,  and  eek  hire  halle, 
In  which  she  eet  ful  many  a  sclender  pieel.' 

The  house,  as  among  the  low  Irish  and  Italians  yet,  was  shared 
with  the  cattle  and  poultry.    Thus  of  the  rooster: 

'As>  Chaunteclecr  among  his  wyves  alle 
Sat  on  his  perche,  that  was  in  the  halle.' 

The  walls,  as  well  as  the  floor,  were  commonly  bare,  without  even 
plaster.  Plates  there  were  none.  Trenchers  —  large  flat  cakes  of 
bread  —  were  used  instead.  When  the  meat  was  eaten  off  them, 
they  were  given  to  the  poor;  for,  being  saturated  with  the  gravy, 
they  were  too  valuable  to  be  thrown  away.  No  morsel  was  held 
in  dainty  contemplation  at  a  fork's  erid.  They  helped  them- 
selves from  the  common  disli,  and  ate  with  their  fingers.  One 
cup  for  drinking  passed  from  guest  to  guest,  and  courtesy  re- 
quired to  wipe  the  mouth  on  the  sleeve  before  drinking,  and  not 
spit  on  the  table.  Pretty  and  agreeable  were  the  accomplish- 
ments of  the  prioress: 

'At  mete  was  she  wel  ytunghtc  withalle; 
She  Icttc  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 
Xc  wcttc  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 
Wei  coiide  she  curie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 
Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest." 

The  tournament,  or  mock-fighting,  was  the  favorite  sport,  the 
highest  enjoyment  and  tlie  noblest  accomplislimcnt  of  all  ranks. 
In  horse-racing  and  bull-V)aiting,  high  and  low  took  equal  inter- 
est. The  great  j)astiine  of  the  lower  orders  was  archery,  which 
they  were  bound  V)y  royal  proclamation  to  practice  on  Sundays 


SOCIAL  CONDITION.  167 

and  holidays  after  Divine  service.  Upon  these  occasions,  other 
amusements,  such  as  quoits,  cock-fighting,  foot-ball,  hand-ball, 
were  forbidden. 

High  life  was  a  pageant,  a  brilliant  and  tumultuous  kind  of 
fete.  Immediately  after  the  Crusades  we  find  nearly  all  Europe 
rushing  with  long-sustained  violence  into  habits  of  luxury.  In 
England,  the  gallantry  of  France,  the  gorgeousness  of  the  East, 
contributed  to  the  movement.  One  of  its  first  signs  was  an 
extraordinary  richness  of  dress.  A  parliament  of  Edward  III 
passed  no  less  than  eight  laws  against  French  fashions.  The  king 
and  the  court  set  the  example,  and  their  splendor  was  as  barbar- 
ous as  their  manners.  Richard's  dress  was  stiff  with  gold  and 
gems.  Cloaks  of  damask  or  satin  trailed  in  the  filth  of  the 
streets,  and  excited  the  rage  of  the  satirists.  Beards  were  long 
and  curled,  the  hair  was  tied  in  a  tail  behind.  Shoes  were  cov- 
ered with  designs  borrowed  from  the  stained  glass  windows  of 
Westminster,  and  the  long  pointed  toe,  reaching  to  the  knee,  was 
there  bound  by  a  gold  or  silver  clasp.  Gay  gowns  of  green  were 
common,  and  an  unknown  author  complains  that  the  women 
could  not  be  distinguished  from  the  men.  The  most  striking 
part  of  female  attire  was  a  towering  head-dress  like  a  mitre,  some 
two  feet  high,  from  which  floated  a  rainbow  of  ribbons.  The 
extravagance  was  infectious,  and  the  servant  aped  the  manners 
of  the  aristocrat.  The  chief  clauses  of  a  statute  of  loGo  are 
intended  to  restrain  'the  outrageous  and  excessive  apparel  of 
divers  people  against  their  estate  and  degree.' 

But  luxurious  indulgence  was  not  confined  to  api)arel.  It  is 
displayed  in  the  architecture  of  the  period  —  the  decorated  Goth- 
ic,—  of  which  pointed  arches  and  profuse  ornament  are  the  dis- 
tinctive features.  'Its  whole  aim  was  continually  to  climb  higher, 
to  clothe  the  sacred  edifice  with  a  gaudy  bedizenment,  as  if  it  were 
a  bride  on  the  wedding  morning.'  At  the  marriage  of  Richard 
Plantagenet,  thirty  thousand  dishes  were  provided.  In  loOll,  the 
royal  household  comprised  ten  tliousand  persons,  tlu-oe  hundred 
of  whom  were  in  the  kitchen.  Excess  in  eating  and  drinking 
is  hereditary.  It  is  in  harmony  with  tlie  genius  of  Ciernianic 
peoples  to  drink  in  doing  everything. 

They  asked  for  adventure,  adornment,  pleasure.  Edward  III, 
in  an  expedition  against  the  king  of  France,  took  witli  liiiii  thirty 


168  INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

falconers,  and  alternately  hunted  and  fought.  Knights  carried  a 
plaster  over  one  eye,  pledged  not  to  remove  it  till  they  had  per- 
formed an  exploit  worthy  of  their  mistresses;  for  the  sense  of 
love  —  without  depth  and  reality  of  nobleness  —  was  not  idle. 
Tournaments,  introduced  by  Edward  I,  were  plentiful,  and  the 
precepts  of  the  love  courts  were  punctiliously  performed.  In  one 
of  the  London  tournaments  of  Edward  III,  sixty  ladies,  seated 
on  palfreys,  led  each  her  knight  by  a  golden  chain.  Minstrelsy 
and  tales  of  glee,  the  chase  with  hawks  and  hounds,  brilliant 
charges,  'the  love  of  ladies,'  bestowal  of  the  silken  scarf  by  fair 
maiden  upon  brave  victor,  a  racket  of  contests,  a  confusion  of 
magnificence, —  form  the  romance  of  this  regal  and  noble  life, 
the  flower  of  the  Romanesque  civilization. 

But  under  this  bloom  of  chivalry  are  fierce  and  unbridled  in- 
stincts: bleeding  steeds  and  gasping  knights,  plunderings  and 
death-wounds, —  all  the  horrors  expressed  in  'burned' — 'robbed' 
— '  wasted  '-^'  pillaged '— '  slain  '— '  beheaded.'  The  Earl  of  Win- 
chester, at  ninety,  without  trial  or  accusation,  is  condemned  to 
death  by  rebellious  barons,  gibbeted,  his  body  cut  in  pieces  and 
thrown  to  the  dogs,  and  his  head  exposed  on  a  pole  to  the  insults 
of  the  populace.  Edward  II  causes  twenty-eight  nobles  to  be 
disembowelled,  and  is  himself  dispatched  by  the  insertion  of  a  red- 
hot  iron  into  his  bowels.  Men  openly  associate  themselves,  for 
mutual  defense,  under  the  patronage  of  nobles,  wear  public 
badges  to  distinguish  their  confederacy,  meet  in  troops  like 
armies,  and  support  each  other  in  every  iniquity.  On  the  coat  of 
arms  of  one  of  these  marauders  was  the  inscription:  'I  am  Cap- 
tain Warner,  commander  of  a  troop  of  robbers,  an  enemy  to  God, 
witliout  pity  and  without  mercy.'  Two  cardinals  themselves,  the 
pope's  legates,  are  thus  despoiled  of  their  goods  and  equipage; 
the  poet  Chaucer  is  twice  robbed;  and  the  king  of  Cyprus  on  a 
visit  to  England  is  stripped,  with  his  whole  retinue.  Highway 
robl)erv  is  a  national  crime;  and  capital  punishment,  though 
frequent,  caiuiot  restrain  a  bold  and  licentious  crew,  made  tolera- 
l>ly  secure  l>v  the  general  want  of  communication  and  the  advan- 
tage of  extensive  forests.  The  outlaws  of  Sherwood  —  allowed  to 
redeem  a  just  ignominy  by  a  few  acts  of  generosity  —  an?  the 
heroes  of  vulgar  applause.  What  shall  be  said  of  the  female 
character  or  of  the  tyranny  of  husbands,  when  we  find  it  to  be  no 


SOCIAL   CONDITION.  169 

uncommon  circumstance  that  women  are  strangled  by  masked 
assassins,  or,  walking  by  the  river-side,  are  plunged  into  it? 
Ran  a  popular  proverb:  'It  is  nothing, —  only  a  woman  being 
drowned.' 

A  social  chasm  severed  the  rich  from  the  poor.  At  first,  as 
we  have  seen,  the  tiller  of  the  soil  was  his  lord's  property.  Cus- 
tom gradually  secured  to  each  serf  his  little  hut  and  garden-plot, 
and  limited  the  amount  of  service  he  had  to  render.  This  done  — 
personally  or  by  deputy, —  his  remaining  hours  were  free.  If  by 
additional  labor  he  acquired  cattle,  he  was  permitted  to  pasture 
them  upon  the  waste  lands  of  his  lord's  estate.  If  unable  to  find 
employment  in  tillage,  he  was  allowed  to  pay  a  money-rent. 
Manumissions  were  sold  to  refill  the  royal  and  baronial  purse 
drained  by  incessant  campaigns.  Labor  —  no  longer  bound  to 
one  spot  or  one  master  —  was  free  to  hire  itself  where  and  to 
whom  it  would.     A  statute  of  the  period  complains  that  — 

'Villains  and  tenants  of  lands  in  villainage  withdrew  their  customs  and  s-orvices  from 
their  lords,  having  attached  themselves  to  other  persons  wlio  maintained  and  abetted 
them;  and  who,  under  color  of  exemplifications  from  Domesdaj-  of  the  manors  and  villas 
where  they  dwelt,  claimed  to  be  quit  of  all  manner  of  services,  either  of  their  body  or  of 
their  lands,  and  would  suffer  no  distress  or  other  course  of  justice  to  be  taken  against 
them;  the  villains  aiding  their  maintainers  by  threatening  the  officers  of  their  lords  with 
peril  of  life  and  limb,  as  well  by  open  assemblies  as  by  confederacies  to  support  each 
other.' 

Now  for  the  first  time  is  revealed  the  strife  between  capital  and 
labor;  and  the  struggle  is  now  hushed,  then  intensified  by  that 
destroying  blast  which  rising  in  the  East,  and  sweeping  across 
the  shore  of  the  Mediterranean  and  Baltic,  swoopcnl  at  the  close 
of  1348  upon  Britain. 

Harvests  rotted,  lands  were  left  untilled,  cattle  strayed  through 
the  fields  and  corn,  or  poisoned  the  air  with  their  decaying  car- 
casses, grass  grew  in  towns,  villages  were  \oh  without  a  single 
inhabitant,  half  the  population  perished.  Individuals  thought 
only  of  their  own  saf(>ty,  the  rich  were  rendered  more  oppressive, 
the  licentious  more  abandoned;  the  laborer  and  artisan  —  masters 
at  last  of  the  labor  market  —  demanded  exorbitant  wages,  and 
turned  easily  into  the  'sturdy  beggar'  or  the  bandit  of  the  woods. 
Ran  a  royal  ordinance: 

'  p:very  man  or  woman  of  whatsoever  eonditiou.  free  or  l)ond,  al)le  in  b()<ly.  and 
within  the  aije  of  three-score  years,  .  .  .  and  not  having  of  his  own  wl\iTri>f  lif  in.iy 
live,  nor  land  of  his  own  about  the  tillage  of  wliicU   he  may  occupy  liini-elf.  and  not 


170  INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

serving  any  other,  shall  be  bound  to  serve  the  employer  who  shall  require  him  to  do  so, 
and  shall  take  only  the  wages  which  were  accustomed  to  be  taken  in  the  neighborhood 
where  he  is  bound  to  serve/ 

Not  only  was  the  price  of  labor  fixed  by  act  of  parliament,  but 
the  labor  class  was  once  more  tied  to  the  soil.  The  laborer 
was  forbidden  to  quit  his  own  parish,  and  a  refusal  to  obey  was 
punished  by  imprisonment.  The  process  of  emancipation  was 
checked.  The  ingenuity  of  lawyers  was  shariielessly  exercised  in 
cancelling  on  grounds  of  informality  manumissions  and  exemp- 
tions, to  bring  back  into  bondage  the  villains  and  serfs  who  had 
delighted  in  their  freedom.  Discontent  smouldered  and  spread. 
A  'mad  priest'  gave  terrible  utterance  to  the  tyranny  of  prop- 
erty and  the  defiance  of  socialism.     Cried  the  preacher: 

'Good  people,  things  will  never  go  well  in  England  so  long  as  goods  be  not  in  com- 
mon, and  so  long  as  there  be  villains  and  gentlemen.  By  what  right  are  they  whom  we 
call  lords  greater  folk  than  we?  Why  do  they  hold  us  in  serfage?  They  are  clothed  in 
velvet,  and  warm  in  their  furs,  while  we  are  covered  with  rags.  They  have  wine  and 
spices  and  fair  bread,  and  we  oat-cake  and  straw,  and  water  to  drink.  They  have  leisure 
and  fine  houses;  we  have  pain  and  labor,  the  rain  and  the  wind  in  the  fields.  And  yet 
it  is  of  us  and  our  toil  that  these  men  hold  their  state.  When  Adam  delved  and  Eve 
span,  where  was  then  the  gentleman? ' 

The  insolence  of  the  tax-gatherers  fanned  the  scattered  sparks 

of  sedition  into  flame  from  sea  to  sea.     Quaint  rhymes  served  as 

call  to  arms;  as, — 

'John  Ball  groeteth  you  all,  and  doth  for  to  understand  he  hath  rung  your  bell. 
Now  right  aud  might,  will  and  skill,  God  speed  every  dele.' 

And, — 

'Falseness  and  guile  have  reigned  too  long,  and  truth  hath  been  set  under  a  lock, 
and  falseness  and  guile  reigneth  in  every  stock.' 

The  revolt,  indeed,  was  outwardly  suppressed,  and  happily  so; 
but  Tyler  the  smith  and  Ball  the  priest  had  .sounded  the  knoll 
of  feudalism  and  the  declaration  of  the  equal  rights  of  men. 
'We  will  that  you  free  us  forever,'  shouted  the  insurgents  to 
the  youtliful  Ivichard. 

The  struggle  went  on.  The  terror  of  the  land-owners  ex- 
pressed itself  in  legislation,  to  which  the  stubVjornness  of  resist- 
ance shows  the  temj)er  of  the  ])eo])le.      Says  a  statute  of  l.')So: 

'Divers  villains  and  ncifs,  as  well  of  t:reat  lords  as  of  other  people,  spiritual  and 
temiKirMl,  do  flee  utilo  titles,  towns,  and  places  enfranchised,  as  the  city  of  London, 
and  fcitrn  iiiver>  suits  airainst  their  lords,  to  the  intent  to  make  them  free  by  an'^wer 
of  their  lords." 

Serfdom,  l)y   the   operation   of    moral   causes,  is  dying  out.      Th(^ 

word  'villen'  gives  place  to  the  w(;rd  'servant.'      In  1.388,  wages 


THE    RELIGIOUS  TOXE.  171 

are  again  regulated,  because  '  servant  and  laborers  will  not  serve 
and  labor  without  outrageous  and  excessive  hire.'  In  the  same 
year  it  is  harshly  enacted  that  no  servant  or  laborer  can  depart, 
even  at  the  expiration  of  his  service,  from  the  hundred  in  which 
he  lives,  without  permission  under  the  king's  seal;  nor  mav  any 
who  have  been  bred  to  husbandry  till  twelve  years  old  exercise 
any  other  calling.  Later,  the  Commons  petition  that  villains 
may  not  put  their  children  to  school  in  order  to  advance  them  by 
the  Church,  and  complain  that  villains  fly  to  cities  and  boroughs, 
whence  their  masters  cannot  recover  them,  and,  if  they  attempt 
it,  are  hindered  by  the  people. 

Closely  connected  with  the  progress  of  constitutional  govern- 
ment was  the  social  movement  that  was  fast  changing  the  face  of 
the  country.  The  force  of  the  feudal  system  is  dissolved,  and  in 
every  attempt  to  maintain  it  we  see  only  the  shadow  of  a  power 
once  supreme,  retreating  and  diminishing  before  an  expanding 
and  omnipotent  reality, —  the  doctrine  that  men  are  equal  before 
God. 

Relig^OU. — To  the  social  revolution  was  added  the  fresh  im- 
pulse of  a  religious  one.  The  Church  was  in  its  noon  of  splen- 
dor, but  the  blaze  was  only  a  veil  over  the  central  darkness. 
Petrarch  says  the  Papacy  sat  'as  a  blight  over  peoples,  and 
nations,  and  tongues,  toying  and  confident  in  the  abundance  of 
earthly  riches,  and  careless  of  the  eternal.'  Of  Rome  itself  he 
says: 

Once  Rome  I   now,  false  and  guilty  Babylon! 

Hive  of  deceits:     Terrible  prison 

Where  the  good  doth  die,  the  bad  is  fed  and  fattened! 

Hell  of  the  living! 

Sad  world  that  doth  endure  it!     Cast  her  out!" 

Foreign  priests  were  still  intruded  into  English  livings  and  Eng- 
lish sees,  direct  taxes  were  iinj)osed  on  the  rlergy,  first  fruits 
were  claimed  from  all  ecclesiastical  preferments.  At  tiie  begin- 
ning of  the  century,  the  paj)al  rcvi'niie  was  twelve  times  greater 
than  the  civil;  at  the  end  of  the  century,  the  Commons  declared 
that  the  taxes  })aid  to  the  Church  were  five  times  greater  than 
the  taxes  paid  to  the  crown. 

Wliile  the  exactions  of  Home  severed  the  priesthood,  the 
greed  and  scandal  of  both  provoked  the  slee])less  hatred  ol  the 
people.      Half   the  soil  was  in   tiie   hands  of   the  clergy,  and  with 


172  INITIATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

all  their  wealth  they  bore  as  little  as  they  could  of  the  burdens 
of  the  State.  Their  courts  mildly  noticed  the  crimes  and  vices  of 
their  order.  They  worried  the  community  by  their  insufferable 
claim  to  control  wills,  contracts,  and  divorces;  by  their  endless 
dues  and  fees;  b}'  their  countless  legal  citations  of  citizens,  to 
extort  costs  and  fines.  They  were  rent  by  their  own  dissensions. 
Each  order  of  friars  hated  the  other;  the  monks  hated  them  and 
the  parish  priests,  or  secular  clergy,  who  were  far  better;  and  the 
last  looked  upon  both  as  their  natural  enemies.  The  bishops, 
again,  were  estranged  from  the  mass  of  the  clergy  by  the  shame- 
ful inequality  between  their  respective  revenues,  and  by  their 
strife  for  political  emoluments.  There  was  a  universal  clamor 
against  the  mendicant  orders,  who,  though  rich,  pretended  to  be 
poor;  and,  impure  of  life,  pretended  to  be  good. 

There  is  a  general  desire  to  shake  off  the  papal  bondage,  and 
an  irrepressible  cry  for  truth  and  purity  in  life  and  in  the  Church. 
In  the  reign  of  Edward  III,  every  person  is  outlawed  who  carries 
any  cause  by  appeal  to  the  court  of  Rome.  In  the  committee  of 
eighteen  to  whom  Richard's  last  parliament  delegated  their  whole 
power,  there  is  not  the  name  of  an  ecclesiastic  to  be  found.  The 
barons  are  jealous  of  the  prelates.  The  courtly  Chaucer  laughs 
at  the  jingling  bells  of  the  hunting  abbots.  Piers  the  Plowman, 
a  man  of  the  multitude  and  a  victim,  lifts  his  indignant  voice. 
Robin  Hood,  the  ballad  hero,  orders  his  folk  to  'spare  the  yeo- 
men>  laborers,  even  knights,  if  they  are  good  fellows,'  but  never 
to  pardon  abbots  or  bishops.  Wycliffe  protests  against  the  car- 
dinal beliefs  of  Catholicism,  organizes  the  growing  discontent, 
justifies  and  supports  it  with  principles,  tenets  and  reasonings. 
His  disciples — 'the  Simple  Priests,'  or  'Lollards,'  whose  homely 
sermons  and  long  russet  dress  move  the  ridicule  of  the  regulars  — 
diffuse  his  doctrines,  which  rapidly  infect  all  classes,  the  baronage 
of  the  city,  the  peasantry  of  the  country-side,  even  the  monas- 
ticism  of  the  cell.  Women,  as  well  as  men,  become  preachers  of 
the  new  sect,  whose  numbers  increase  till  it  seems  to  the  panic- 
stricken  churchmen  that  every  third  man  in  the  street  is  a  Lol- 
lard—  a  heretic.  A  more  wholesome  conception  of  existence  is 
forming,  from  which  will  be  finally  educed  —  in  the  yet  far-off 
national  outbreak  of  the  Reformation  —  a  better  civilization, 
founded  on  the  respect  for  liberty  and  justice. 


STATE   OF   LEARNING.  173 

Yet  we  will  not  forget  that  in  the  two  great  deliverances  from 
the  tyranny  of  nation  over  nation  and  from  the  property  of  man 
in  man,  the  chief  agent  was  the  Church  of  Rome.  Distinctions 
of  caste  were  to  her  peculiarly  odious,  because  incompatible  with 
other  distinctions  essential  to  her  system.  How  great  a  part  she 
had  in  the  abolition  of  slavery  we  have  elsewhere  seen.  Tenderly 
treating  her  own  bondmen  (whom  she  declined  to  enfranchise), 
we  have  seen  her  regularly  adjuring  the  dying  slaveholder,  as  he 
asked  for  the  last  sacraments,  to  emancipate  his  brethren  for 
whom  Christ  had  died.  Corrupt  as  she  was",  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  had  she  been  overthrown  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
vacancy  would  have  been  occupied  by  a  system  more  corrupt 
still.  Her  leading-strings,  which  will  impede  the  full-grown  man, 
are  necessary  to  preserve  and  uphold  the  infant.  She  will  be 
allowed  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  moi-e  in  which  to  fill  the  meas- 
ure of  her  offences,  that  she  may  fall  only  when  time  has  laid  bare 
the  root  of  her  degeneracy,  when  faith  and  manners,  ideas  and 
morals,  may  change  together  and  subsist  in  harmony. 

Liearilillg^. — In  an  age  when  every  one,  rich  or  poor,  lives  with 

his  hand  on  his  sword,  it  is  not  strange  that  general  education 

should  have  been  neglected.     War  and  woodcraft  were  the  pride 

of  the  great.    Not  one  in  five  hundred  could  liave  stumbled  tln-ough 

a  psalm.     If  they  read,  they  spelled  the  small  words,  and  skipped 

the  large  ones.     Information  passed  from  mouth  to  moutli,  not 

from  eye  to  eye.      Men  were  auditors,  not  readers.      The  populace 

had  poets  for  themselves,  whose  looser  carols  were  the  joy  of  the 

streets   or   the    fields, —  songs   that   perished   on   the   lips   of    the 

singers.     Across  the  gulf  of  mystery,  the  opening  line  of  some 

fugitive  rehearsal  falls  upon  the  ear  like  the  echo  of  a  vaiiislied 

world, — 

'Sitteth  all  stillc,  and  harkcnotli  to  iiif  1 " 

The  clergy  alone  were  learned,  and  tliey  only  relatively.  T\\o 
pulpit  was  the  chief  means  of  instruction.  In  the  litth>  village 
church, —  endeared  to  the  peasant  by  the  most  touching  iiu'id(Mits 
of  his  life,  or  in  vast  and  spired  cathedral,  amid  smoking  censers, 
tlie  blaze  of  lamps,  the  tinkling  of  silver  bells,  the  play  of  jewelled 
vessels,  and  gorgeous  dresses  of  violet,  green,  and  gold, —  listened 
the  silent  and  unquestioning  people. 

Books  —  still  in  manuscripts,  copied  in  t\w  Scrlj'torlimi  by  the 


174  INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

patient  monks  —  were  few  and  costly.  They  had  not  always 
titles  to  denote  their  subjects,  and  are  described  by  their  outsides 
—  often  shining  in  extreme  splendor.  Froissart,  the  French  his- 
torian, on  a  last  visit  to  England  in  1396,  presented  to  Richard  a 
book  beautifully  illuminated,  engrossed  with  his  own  hand,  bound 
in  crimson  velvet,  and  embellished  with  silver  bosses,  clasps,  and 
golden  roses.  As  much  as  forty  pounds  was  paid  for  a  copy  of 
the  Bible.  Shelves  were  not  required.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
centur}',  the  Oxford  library  consisted  of  a  few  tracts  kept  in 
chests.  A  private  collection  —  scant  and  phenomenal  —  consisted 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  romances  of  chivalry,  so  long  the 
favorite  literature  of  the  noble,  the  dame,  and  the  lounger  of  the 
baronial  castle.  Some  monasteries  had  not  more  than  twenty 
volumes.  Latin  versions  of  the  Scriptures, —  Greek  or  Hebrew 
never;  a  commentator,  a  father,  a  schoolman;  the  mediaeval 
Christian  poets  who  composed  in  Latin;  a  romance,  an  accidental 
classic,  chronicles  and  legends, —  such  are  the  usual  contents  of  a 
surviving  catalogue  —  a  sad  contraction  of  human  knowledge. 

The  glimmerings  of  the  revival  of  the  ancient  classics,  incip- 
ient in  the  twelfth  century,, fading  in  the  thirteenth  owing  to  the 
prevalence  of  scholasticism,  are  somewhat  more  distinct  in  the 
fourteenth.  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  were  the  first  to  lead  the  way 
in  disinterring  them  from  the  dungeon-darkness  where  they  safely 
slept,  undisturbed  by  the  monks  who  were  ignorant  of  their  treas- 
ures or  regarded  them  as  the  works  of  idolaters.  The  light  of 
learning,  having  first  made  its  entrance  into  France,  now,  in 
natural  course  of  progress,  found  its  way  into  England, —  dimmed 
by  distance  from  its  Italian  focus.  The  debt  of  England  to  Italy 
in  the  matter  of  our  literature  begins  with  Chaucer,  but  a  hun- 
dred years  will  pass  before  the  imagination  of  the  North  is  in- 
flamed by  the  sacred  fires  kindled  at  Florence  and  at  Rome. 

The  common  herd  of  students  (through  the  medium  of  Latin 
translations)  looked  upon  Aristcjtle  as  their  infallible  oracle  and 
guide,  though  strip{)ing  him  of  all  those  excellences  that  really 
belonged  to  him,  and  incapable  of  entering  into  the  true  s])irit 
of  his  writings.  Oxford  —  and  Cambridge  as  well  —  had  received 
manv  noble  foundations.  She  was  the  school  of  the  island,  the 
fount  of  the  new  heresies,  the  link  of  England  to  the  learned  of 
Europe.     To  her,  during  the  English  wars,  was  transferred  the 


THE    LANGUAGE.  175 

intellectual  supremacy  of  Paris.  But  of  the  vast  multitude  once 
composing  its  learned  mob,  there  remained  in  13GT  less  than  a 
fifth.  The  master  idea,  running  to  excess,  was  languishing  by 
expenditure  of  force. 

Xjanguage. — For  the  scholastic  uses  of  the  learned,  and  for 
ecclesiastical  purposes,  Latin  was  still  a  living  though  a  dying 
tongue.  For  the  last  fifty  years  of  the  century,  French  was 
to  all  classes  of  Englishmen  a  foreign  language,  and,  even  as 
taught,  was  a  mere  dialect  of  the  Parisian.  Chaucer,  in  the 
Testament  of  Love  (attributed)  says  : 

'  Certes  there  ben  some  that  speke  thyr  poysy  mater  in  Frenche,  of  whyche  ppeche 
the  Frenchemen  have  as  good  a  fantasye  as  we  have  in  hearing  of  French  mennes 
Englyshe.- 

And  adds: 

'Let,  then,  clerkes  endyten  in  Latyn,  for  they  liave  the  propertye  in  science  and 
the  knowinge  in  that  facultye,  and  lette  Frenchmen  in  theyr  Frenche  also  endyte  theyr 
queynt  termes,  for  it  is  kyndly  to  tlieyr  mouthes;  and  let  us  shewe  our  fantasyes  in 
suche  wordes  as  we  learneden  of  our  dames  tonge." 

The  Prioress  in  the  Tales,  though  she  speaks  French  neatly, 
speaks  it  only  — 

'After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 

For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe."  [her 

But  the  old  Teutonic,  assuming  a  new  organization,  recovered 
its  ascendancy  by  the  same  circumstances  which  depressed  its 
rival.  Formal  note  of  its  triumph  is  found  in  a  statute  of  13'>'-i, 
which  orders  English  to  be  used  in  courts  of  law,  because  'the 
French  tongue  is  much  unknown.'  Later  it  is  observed  of  the 
grammar  schools  tliat  'children  leaveth  Frensche  and  constrm^th 
and  lerneth  in  Englische.'  Chaucer,  writing  for  the  instruction 
of  his  little  son,  uses  the  vernacular,  because  'curious  eiiditviiig 
and  harde  sentences  are  full  hevy  at  once  for  such  a  cliildc  to 
lerne,'  and,  like  a  true  patriot,  bids  the  l)oy  think  of  it  as  the 
I'LUi;fs  EnglisJi. 

The  first  revolution  whicli  English  underwent,  consisted,  as 
formerly  explained,  in  the  conversion  of  it  from  an  inflectional 
and  synthetic  into  a  non-inflected  and  analytic  speech.  Its  state 
in  this  particular  towards  the  close  of  the  century  nuiy  be  not 
unfairly  represented  by  the  Lord's  Prayer: 

'Our  Fadir  that  art  in  hevenys; 
Halewid  be  tlii  luunc. 
Thi  kyngdom  come  to, 


176  INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Be  thi  wil  done  in  crthe  as  in  hevcne. 

Give  to  us  tliis  day  oure  breed  oure  otliir  substaunce. 

And  forgive  to  us  our  dettis  at;  we  forgiven  to  our  dettouris: 

And  lede  us  not  into  temptacioun : 

But  delyvere  us  from  yvel.    Amen.' 

The  second,  which  it  was  now  undergoing,  and  which  its  adop- 
tion by  the  court  and  nobility  made  possible,  was  its  intermix- 
ture with  foreign  elements.  Translations  and  travel  greatly 
enriched  it  b}^  importations  from  the  South.  The  new  power 
of  thinking,  and  the  new  words  to  embody  its  conceptions,  came 
together,  twin-born.  The  English  language  thus  enlarging  its 
domain  by  conquest  and  assimilation,  yet  retaining  its  essentially 
Germanic  character,  displays  the  same  powers  of  acquisition  as 
have  distinguished  the  race. 

Against  this  alien  admixture  the  critics  protested.  *I  seke,' 
says  one,  '  no  strange  Inglyss,  bot  lightest  (easiest)  and  com- 
munest.'  Thus  early  Avas  our  purity  imperilled !  As  if  new 
modes  of  expression  were  not  the  creatures  of  new  modifications 
of  thought.  A  national  idiom  is  in  perpetual  movement,  resem- 
bling, as  it  struggles  into  perfect  existence,  the  lion  of  the  bard 
of  Paradise, — 

' paaiiKj  to  (jet  free 

His  hinder  parts.' 

What  survives?  Trevisa,  translating  a  Latin  treatise  in  1387, 
tells  us  he  avoids  'the  old  and  ancient  English.'  In  the  next 
century,  his  printer  will  rewrite  this  translation,  'to  change  the 
rude  and  old  English;  that  is,  to  wit,  certain  words  which  in 
these  days  be  neither  used  nor  understood'!  Little  did  Caxton 
imagine  that  he  himself  would  be  to  us  what  Trevisa  was  to 
him, —  an  archaism,  covered  with  tlie  rust  of  time.  The  cry  of 
of  the  purist  is  the  pang  of  parturition.  Styles  are  like  shades 
melting  into  each  other,  passing  with  the  generations  that  cast 
them.  It  is  with  words  as  with  empires.  We  each  in  our  day 
see  only  th(»  beginnings  of  things. 

Poetry. — Two  notions  rule  the  age:  the  one  tending  to  a 
renovation  of  the  heart;  tlie  other,  to  a  prodigal  satisfaction  of 
the  senses;  tlie  one  disposing  to  righteousness,  the  other  to  ex- 
citement; the  one  planting  the  ideal  amidst  forms  of  force  and 
joy;  the  other  amidst  S'-ntiincnts  of  truth,  law,  duty;  the  one 
producing"  finical  verses  and  diverting  stories,  the  other  the  indig- 


POETRY  —  PIERS    PLOWMAN. 


177 


nant  protest  against  hypocrisy  and  the  impassioned  prayer  for 
salvation.  For  the  omnipotent  idea  of  justice  will  overflow,  and 
conscience,  like  other  things,  will  have  its  poem. 

In  the  Vision  of  Piers  the  Ploioman,  by  William  Lianglaud 
(1362),  the  sombre  genius  of  the  Saxon  reappears,  with  its  tragic 
pictures  and  emotions.  The  author — 'Long  Will,'  thev  call 
him, —  is  a  secular  priest,  who  once  earned  a  miserable  livelihood 
by  singing  at  the  funerals  of  the  rich.  Silent,  moody,  and  de- 
fiant, his  world  is  the  world  of  the  poor.  Far  from  sin  and 
suffering  his  fancy  flies  to  a  May  morning  on  the  Malvern  Hills, 
where  he  falls  asleep  and  has  a  wonderful  dream: 


'I  was  weary  for- wandered,     \with  uaiidering 
And  went  me  to  rest 
Under  a  brood  bank, 
By  a  burn's  side; 
And  as  I  lay  and  leaned, 
And  looked  on  the  waters, 
I  slombered  into  a  sleeping. 
It  swayed  so  mury. 
Then  gan  I  meten 
A  marvellous  sweven, 
That  I  was  in  a  wilderness. 
Wist  I  never  where; 
And,  as  I  beheld  into  the  east 
On  high  to  the  sun, 
I  seigh  a  tower  on  a  toft 
Frieliche  ymaked, 
A  deep  dale  beneath, 
A  donjon  therein, 
With  deep  ditches  and  darke, 
And  dreadful  of  siglit. 
A  fair  field  full  of  folk 


[broad 
[s/rea?ii's 


[pleasant 

[meet 

[dream 


[saw,  hill 
[richly 


Found  I  there  between 

Of  all  manner  of  men. 

The  mean  and  the  rich, 

Werking  and  wandering 

As  the  world  asketh. 

Some  putten  hem  to  the  plough     [them 

Playden  full  seld, 

In  setting  and  sowing 

Swonken  full  hard,  [labored 

And  wonnen  that  wasters      [produced 

With  gluttony  destroyeth. 

And  some  putten  hem  to  pride, 

Apparelled  him  thereafter. 

In  countenance  of  clothing 

Comen  deguised,  [came 

In  prayers  and  jienances 

Putten  hem  many, 

All  for  the  love  of  our  Lord 

Liveden  full  strait. 

In  hope  to  liave  after 

Heaven-riclie  bliss." 


The  canvas  of  the  dreamer  is  crowded  and  astir  witli  life,  from 
the  king  to  the  bondman.  Here  are  the  minstrels,  who  'getcn 
gold  with  their  glee';  jesters  and  jugglers,  'Judas'  children'; 
petitioners  and  beggars,  who  flatter  'for  hir  food'  and  fight  'at 
the  ale';  pilgrims,  who  seek  the  — 

' — —  saintes  at  Rome, 
They  weiiten  forth  in  liir  way 
Witli  many  wise  talcs. 

And  haddeu  leave  to  lien  [lii'e 

All  hir  life  after;" 

the  court-haunting  bishop,  pardoii(>rs,  'jiarting  the  silver'  with 
the  parish  priest;   friars, — 

'All  tlic  four  orders, 
PreachiiiLT  the  jicople 
For  prolit  of  hem  selve:' 
12 


178  IXITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

lawyers,  whom  the  people  hate, —  of  whom  the  insurrectionists 
will  shout,  '  Not  till  all  these  are  killed  will  the  land  enjoy  its 
old  freedom  again,' — whom  Burns  will  style  'hell-hounds  prey- 
ing in  the  kennels  of  justice,' — 

'  Yet  hoved  ther  an  hundred  [waited  And  noght  for  love  of  our  Lord 

In  howves  of  selk,  [hoods  L'nlose  hire  lippes  ones. 

Sergeantz  it  bi-semed  Thow  myghtest  bettre  meete  mj'st 

That  t-erveden  at  the  barre,  On  Malverne  hilles, 

Pleteden  for  penyes  Than  gete  a  mom  of  hire  mouth, 

And  poundes  the  lavve;  Til  moneie  be  shewed.' 

A  heavenly  messenger  —  Holy  Church  —  appears  to  the  dreamer, 
and  shows  him  in  this  mortal  assemblage  a  jewelled  lady: 

'Hire  robe  was  ful  riche,  Hire  array  me  ravysshed, 

Of  reed  scarlet  engreyned,  Swich  richesse  saugh  I  nevere; 

With  ribanes  of  reed  gold  I  hadde  wonder  what  she  was, 

And  of  riche  stones.  And  whos  wif  she  were.' 

This  lady  is  Mede  (Lucre),  to  whom  high  and  low,  lay  and  clergy, 
alike  offer  homage.  She  contracts  a  legal  marriage  with  False- 
hood, and  the  king  would  marry  her  to  Conscience,  but  the 
latter  replies: 

'Crist  it  me  forbede! 
Er  I  wedde  swiche  a  wif. 
Wo  me  betide  I 
For  she  is  frele  of  hire  feith, 
Filcel  of  her  spcche. 
And  niaketh  men  mysdo 
Many  score  tymes.' 

Reason  preaches  repentance  to  offenders.  Many  are  converted, 
among  wliom  are  Proud  Heart,  who  vows  to  Avear  hair-cloth; 
Eiivv,  lean,  cowering,  biting  his  lips,  and  wearing  the  sleeves 
of  a  friar's  frock;  and  Covotousness,  bony,  beetle-browed,  blear- 
eyed.  The  repentant  hearers  set  out  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Truth. 
They  meet  a  far-travelling  ]-)ilgrim,  who  proves  a  blind  guide, 
for  of  sucli  a  saint  he  has  never  heard.  The  wanderers  put  them- 
selves under  the  direction  of  a  carter,  Piers  the  Plowman.  His 
is  a  gospel  of  works,  and  he  puts  them  to  toil  in  his  vinevard. 
But  they  become  seditious,  and  are  at  last  reduced  by  the  aid 
of  Hunger,  who  sulxlues  Waste,  leader  of  the  revolt,  and  hum- 
l>les  his  followers.  'Pardons,'  or  'indulgences,'  are  satirized,  and 
with  tlu^  anxiety  of  LuthcM-  to  know  what  is  righteousness  the 
poet  goes  in  search  of  Do-well.  He  asks  each  one  to  explain 
where  he  mav  be  found,  and  finds  him  by  the  descri])tion  of 
Wit,  in  tlie  Castle  of  the  Flesh  built  by  Kind  (Nature),  who 
resides  there  with    his    bride    Anima   (Soul).       Do-better   is    her 


POETRY  —  PIERS    PLOWMAN.  179 

handmaid,  and  Do-best  her  spiritual  guide.  Thence,  for  further 
instruction  he  is  taken  to  dine  with  Clergy,  and  while  they 
refresh  themselves  with  psalms  and  texts,  which  are  the  bill 
of  fare,  Clergy  gives  his  pupil  a  dissertation,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  refers  to  one  Piers  Plowman  who  had  made  light  of 
all  knowledge  but  love,  and  says  that  Do-well  and  Do-better 
are  finders  of  Do-best,  who  saves  men's  souls.  The  pilgrim  ex- 
claims,— 

'This  is  a  long  lesson, 
And  litel  am  I  the  wiser,' 

and  receives  a  reproof  for  his  indocile  temper.  Vain  is  the  wis- 
dom of  man.  Do-well,  Do-better,  and  Do-best  are  at  last  identi- 
fied with  the  Saviour,  who  is  Love.  Of  low  estate,  come  to  direct 
the  erring  and  redeem  the  lost,  he  appears  in  the  garb  of  Piers 
the  Plowman, —  type  of  the  poor  and  simple.  The  Immortal 
dies,  descends  into  Hell,  rescues  the  patriarchs  and  propliets, 
triumphs  over  Death  and  the  Devil.  The  rhjhteous  life  is  found, 
and  the  dreamer  wakes  in  a  transport,  with  the  Easter  chimes 
pealing  in  his  ears.  Alas,  only  in  a  dream  is  mortal  victory 
complete.  Over  the  beatific  vision  roll  the  mists  of  earth  again, 
and  Antichrist  —  the  Man  of  Sin  —  with  raised  banner  appears. 
Bells  are  rung,  and  tlie  monks  in  solemn  procession  go  out  to 
receive  with  congratulations  their  lord  and  father.  Witli  seven 
great  g'iants  —  the  seven  Deadlv  Sins' — he  besieges  Conscience 
Idleness  leads  the  assault,  and  liriugs  with  him  more  than  a 
thousand  prelates.  Nature  sends  up  a  host  of  plagues  and  dis- 
eases to  punish  the  sacrilegious  show: 

'Kynde  Conscience  tho  herdc, —  and  cam  out  of  the  phuietes, 
And  sente  forth  his  forreyonrs  —  feveres  and  fluxes, 
Coughes  and  cardiacles,— crampcs  and  tooth-aqnes, 
Retimes  and  radegiindes, — and  roynous  scabbes. 
Biles  and  l)ocches, —  and  brennynae  aques, 
*  Frcnesics  and  foul  yveles,—  forasjores  of  kynde.  .  .  . 

There  was  '-Harrow!  and  Help! — Here  conieth  Kynde  1 

With  Deeth  that  is  dredful  — to  undo  us  alle  ! "' 

The  lord  that  lyved  after  lust  — tho  aloud  cryde.  .  .  . 

Deeth  cam  dryvyns:e  after, —  and  alle  to  dust  passlied 

KyMLTts  and  knyi;lites, —  kaysers  and  popi's,  .  .  . 

Manye  a  lovely  lady  — and  leninian-:  of  knyu'htes,  fMc^r.s- 

Swowned  and  swelted  for  .-orwc  t)f  hise  dytites." 

'  Pride.  LuT'irij,  F.nry.  \\rit1h,  a  friar,  whose  aunt  is  a  nun,  ainl  who  is  both  eook 
and  <,'ardener  to  a  convent:  Ararice,  \\\\i.t  lies,  cheats,  IciuN  money  ui)on  u~ury,  and 
who,  not  understandiuLT  the  French  word  r>'''t'it<ittoii,  thinks  it  another  term  for  <t<'al- 
in;;:  Gluttony,  who,  on  his  way  to  church,  is  leinpteii  into  a  Loudon  ale-hou^e;  Siclh.  a 
priest,  who  knows  rliymes  al)o'ut  Kobin  Hood  IjcttiT  than  hi<  prayers,  and  wlio  can  liud 
a  hare  in  a  field  morereadily  than  lie  can  read  tlie  live-;  of  the  -aint-. 


180  INITIATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Contrition  is  implored  for  aid,  but  slumbers;  and  Conscience, 
hard  pressed  by  Pride  and  Sloth,  rouses  himself  with  a  final  effort, 
and  seizing  his  staff  resumes  his  doubtful  quest,  praying  for  luck 
and  health  '  till  he  have  Piers  the  Plowman ' —  till  he  find  the 
Christ;  no  clear  outlook,  no  sure  hope;  like  the  Wandering  Jew, 
bowed  beneath  the  burden  of  the  curse,  weary  with  unrelieved 
toil,  worn  with  ceaseless  trudging. 

This  serious  poem,  which  makes  Scripture  and  deed  the  test  of 
creed  —  all  outward  observances  but  holk»\v  shows  —  prepares  the 
soil  for  the  reception  of  that  seed  which  Wycliffe  and  his  asso- 
ciates are  sowing.  The  imitations  —  the  Ploimnaii's  Creed,  by  a 
nameless  author,  and  the  Pkncracai's  Tale,  attributed  to  Chaucer 
—  bear  witness  to  its  popularity  and  fame.  Its  wide  circulation 
among  the  commonalty  of  the  realm  is  chiefly  due  to  its  moral 
and  social  bearings.  Like  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  it  ex- 
presses the  popular  sentiment  on  the  subjects  it  discusses, —  the 
vices  of  Church,  State,  and  Society.  A  spiritual  picture  which 
brings  into  distinct  consciousness  what  many  feel  and  but  dimly 
apprehend, —  the  solitary  advocate  of  the  children  of  want  and 
oppression. 

A  part  of  its  interest,  at  least  for  posterity,  is  derived  from  its 
antiquated  Saxon  and  its  rustic  pith.  Without  artifice  of  connec- 
tion or  involution  of  plot,  it  is  an  impulsive  voice  from  the  wilder- 
ness, in  the  language  of  the  people;  and,  as  such,  returns  to  or 
continues  the  old  alliterative  metre  and  unrhymed  verse  —  the 
recurrence  at  certain  regular  intervals  of  like  beginnings,  without, 
as  Milton  contemptuously  calls  it,  the  jingling  sound  of  like  end- 
ings.    Thus; 

'In  a  corner  ^I't^oii  —  whan  »6ft  was  the  Sonne, 
I  sAope  nil'  in  «Ar6ucleB  — as  I  a  «/ii'pe  were, 
In  A;i>)itf  as  an  /n'roniite  —  nn/ioly  of  workes, 
Went  /'ry<ie  in  this  Morld  —  Mondres  to  liere.'  • 

The  fashionable  machiiicrv  of  talking  abstractions  gives  evidence 
of  French  influence.  The  satirist,  like  Bunvan,  veils  his  head  in 
allegory.  Perliaps  tlie  ideal  com])anv  who  flit  along  the  dreamy 
scenes  of  his  wild  iiivciitiou,  have  some  distant  relationshi})  to  the 
shadowy  ])ilgriiiiage  of  that  'Immortal  Dreamer'  to  the  'Celestial 
City.' 

Tlie  second  main  stream  of  tlie  ])oetical  literature  of  the  })eri()d  is 
story-telling.   Robert  Mannings  garnishes  with  rhymes  a  history 


POETRY  —  THE   NEW   TASTE. 


181 


of  England  beginning  with  the  immemorial  Brutus,  and  calls.it  a 
poem.  Of  a  style  easier  than  that  of  Robert  of  Gloucester  and 
of  diction  more  advanced,  it  discourses  without  developing,  and 
sees  moving  spectacles  without  emotion: 

'  Lordynges  that  be  now  here, 

If  ye  wille  listene  and  lere  [learn 

All  the  story  of  Inglande, 

Als  Robert  Mannyng  wryten  it  fand,  [0.?,  wrif/en 

And  on  Inglysch  has  it  schewed. 

Not  for  the  lered  but  for  the  lewed;  [laity 

For  tho  that  on  this  land  wonn  [those,  dwell 

That  the  Latin  ne  the  Frankys  conn  [htow 

For  to  hauf  solace  and  gainen, 

In  felatischip  when  tha  sitt  samcn;  ,  [together 

And  it  i.s  wisdom  for  to  wytten  [know 

Tho  state  of  the  Land,  and  hef  it  wryten, 
What  manere  of  folk  first  it  wan, 
And  of  what  kynde  it  first  began. 
And  gude  it  is  for  many  thynges 

For  to  here  the  dedis  of  kynges,  [fiear 

Whilk  were  foles,  and  whilk  were  wyse  [utdch 

And  whilk  of  tham  couth  most  quantyse;  [kneu;  artfvlness 

And  whilk  did  wrong,  and  whilk  ryght. 
And  whilk  maynteued  pes  and  fight.'  [peace 

So  forth  and  so  forth.  Loquacious,  clear,  and  insipid,  we  imag- 
ine, as  its  French  original. 

But  reverie  and  fantasy  are  needed  to  satisfy  the  pleasant 
indolence  of  the  chivalric  world  and  the  courts  that  shine  upon 
tlie  heights.  The  tales  that  sufficed  to  allure  the  attention  of  a 
ruder  ancestry,  now  demand  more  volume,  more  variety,  more 
color;  and  all  that  history  and  imagination  have  gathered  in  the 
East,  in  France,  in  Wales,  in  Provence,  in  Italy,  wrought  and  re- 
wrought  by  the  minstrelsy  of  three  centuries,  heroics  of  the 
North  that  magnify  the  valor  and  daring  of  the  cavalier,  lyrics  of 
the  South  that  dwell  on  the  devotion  of  the  knight  to  his  latly- 
love, —  serve  as  the  stuff  for  the  looms  of  the  mighty  weavers  of 
verse.  Before  the  frivolous  unreality  of  the  new  chivalry,  songs 
of  martial  achievement  predominated;  hut  th<^  intellectual  j)alate 
of  the  gentry  now  prefers  the  later  poetry  of  sensuous  enjoy- 
ment,—  the  trouvere,  with  its  amours  and  mysticism;  or  th(» 
troubadour,  with  its  romantic  folli(»s.  The  ])assi()n  of  war  has 
degenerated  into  a  pageant,  and  liottianci',  from  the  light  I'a- 
l)liaux  to  the  entangling  liction  of  many  tliousand  lines,  trlls  of 
little  but  the  ecstasies  of  love.  Love  is  tlu'  (\ss(Mit  ial  thtMni\ — 
love  in   its  first  emotions,  love  happv,  jealous;   the  lovrr  walking. 


182  INITIATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

sitting,  sleeping,  sick,  despairing,  dead.  In  France  they  have 
Floral  Games  where  the  assembled  poets  are  housed  in  artificial 
arbors  dressed  with  flowers,  and  a  violet  of  gold  is  awarded  the 
best  poem.  The  love-courts  discuss  —  and  decide  affirmatively  — 
whether  each  one  who  loves  grows  pale  at  the  sight  of  her  whom 
he  loves;  whether  each  action  of  the  lover  ends  in  the  thought  of 
her  whom  he  loves;  whether  love  can  refuse  anything  to  love.  A 
company  of  enthusiasts,  love-penitents,  to  prove  the  strength  of 
their  passion,  dress  iu  summer  in  furs  and  heavy  garments,  and 
in  winter  in  light  gauze.  When  Froissart  presents  to  Richard 
his  book  bound  in  crimson  velvet,  guarded  by  clasps  of  silver, 
and  studded  with  golden  roses, — 

'  Than  the  kyng  demanded  me  whereof  it  treated,  and  I  shewed  hym  how  it  treated 
maters  of  louc;  wherof  the  kynge  was  ghidde.' 

While  rowing  on  the  Thames,  Go"Wer  (1325-1408)  meets  the 
royal  barge,  and  is  called  to  the  king's  side.  'Book  some  new 
thing,'  says  Richard,  '  in  the  way  you  are  used,  into  which  book  I 
myself  may  often  look';  and  the  request  is  the  origin  of  Confcssio 
Amantis  —  the  Confession  of  a  Lover.  It  is  a  dialogue  between 
an  unhappy  lover  and  his  confessor,  the  object  of  which  is  to 
explain  and  classify  the  impediments  of  love.  Through  thirty 
thousand  weary  lines,  the  lover,  like  a  good  Catholic,  states  his 
distress,  and  is  edified,  if  not  comforted,  by  expositions  of  her- 
metic science  and  Aristotelian  philosophy,  discourses  on  politics, 
litanies  of  ancient  and  modern  legends,  gleaned  from  the  com- 
pilers for  the  morality  they  furnish.  Thus  a  serpent,  Aspidis, 
bears  in  his  head  the  precious  stone  called  the  carbuncle,  which 
enchanters  strive  to  win  from  him  by  lulling  him  asleep  with 
magic  songs.  The  wise  reptile,  as  soon  as  the  charmer  approach- 
es, presses  one  ear  flat  upon  the  ground,  and  covers  the  other 
with  his  tail.  Er(/(>,  let  us  obstinately  resist  all  temptations  that 
assail  us  through  the  avenues  of  the  bodily  organs.  Even  as 
Ulysses  stopped  his  com])anions'  ears  with  wax  and  lashed  him- 
self to  the  ship's  mast,  to  escape  tlie  enticement  of  the  Sirens' 
song.  The  confession  terminates  with  some  jiartiiig  injunctions 
of  the  j)ricst,  the  bitter  judgment  of  Venus  that  he  should  re- 
member his  old  age  and  leave  off  such  fooleries,  his  cure  from 
the  wound  of  Cupid's  dart,  and  his  absolution.  He  is  dismissed 
witli  advice  from  tlie  yoddess  to  iro  '  where  n)oraI  virtue  dweJleth.' 


POETRY  —  GOWER.  183 

To  the  last,  Gower  is  learned,  dignified,  didactic.  He  would  be 
nothing,  if  he  were  not  moral.  His  principal  merit  lies  in  the 
sententious  passages  which  are  here  and  there  interspersed,  and 
the  narratives  culled  with  dull  prolixity  from  legendary  lore,  some 
of  which  —  as  the  Trumpet  of  Death  —  deserve  notice  for  their 
striking  tone  of  reflection,  and  others  for  the  charm  of  their 
details.  Thus,  it  was  a  law  in  Hungar\',  that  when  a  man  was 
condemned  to  die,  the  sentence  should  be  announced  to  him  by 
the  blast  of  a  brazen  trumpet  before  his  house.  At  a  magnificent 
court-festival,  the  monarch  was  plunged  in  deep  melancholy,  and 
his  brother  anxiously  incjuired  the  reason.  No  reply  was  made, 
but  at  break  of  morn  the  fatal  trumpet  sounded  at  the  brother's 
gate.  The  doomed  man  came  to  the  palace  weeping  and  despair- 
ing. Then  the  king  said  solemnly,  that  if  such  grief  were  caused 
by  the  death  of  the  body,  how  much  profounder  must  be  the 
sorrow  awakened  by  the  thought  which  afflicted  him  as  he  sat 
among  his  guests, —  the  thought  of  that  eternal  death  of  the 
spirit  which  Heaven  has  ordained  as  the  wages  of  sin. 

The  tale  of  Florent  is  in  Gower's  happiest  manner,  and  re- 
veals, in  the  desert  of  platitudes,  some  of  the  brilliancy  and 
grace  of  older  models.  A  knight  riding  through  a  narrow  pass 
in  search  of  adventures,  is  attacked,  taken,  and  led  to  a  castle. 
There,  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  he  is  required  to  state  — 

'What  alle  women  most  desire.' 

That  he  may  have  time  for  reflection   and  consideration,   he   is 

granted  a  leave  of  absence,  on  condition  that  at  the  expiration 

of  his  term  he  shall  return  with   his  answer.      He  tells  all  wliat 

has  befallen  him,  and  asks  the  opinion  of  the  wisest,  liut  — 

'  Such  a  thiiiLT  they  cannot  (uul 
By  constelhition  nc  kind, — ' 

that  is,  neither  by  tiio  stars  nor  by  tlie  laws  of  nature.  Our 
hero  —  still  pondering  what  to'say — sets  out  on  Ills  return.  His 
troubled  meditations  are  at  length  interrupted  by  tlie  discovery 
of  an  old  woman  sitting  under  a  large  tree, — 

'Tliat  for  to  si)cak  of  tlesh  and  l)on(> 
So  foul  yet  saw  he  never  none.' 

He  fain  would  pass  quickly  on,  but  she  calls  liini  by  name,  jiiid 
warns  him  that  he  is  riding  to  his  death,  adding,  however,  that 
she   can   save   him.      He  begs   her  advice,   and   she   asks,  '  \\  hat 


184  INITIATIVE   PERIOD — FEATURES. 

wilt  thou  give  me?'     'Anything  you  may  ask.'     'I  want  nothing 
more,  therefore  pledge  me ' — 

'"That  you  will  be  my  housebande." 
"  Nay,"  said  Florent,  "  that  may  not  be." 
"  Ride  theune  forth  thy  way,"  quod  she.' 

In  vain   he  offers  lands,   parks,  houses, —  she  must  have  a  hus- 
band.    He  wisely  concludes  that  it  is  — 

'  Better  to  take  her  to  his  wife, 
Or  elles  for  to  lose  his  life.' 

He  also  reflects  that  she  probably  will  not  live  very  long,  and 

resolves  to  put  her  meanwhile  — 

'  Where  that  no  man  her  shoulde  know 
Till  she  with  death  were  overthrow.' 

Havino'  sio-nified  his  assent,  she  tells  him,  that  when  he  reaches 
his  destination,  he  is  to  reply  — 

'That  allc  women  lievest  would 
Be  sovereign  of  mannes  love;' 

for  as  sovereign,  she  will  have  all  her  loill,  which  is  the  beatitude 

of  her  desire.     With  this  answer,  she  says  he  shall  save  himself, 

and  he   rides  sadly  on,  for   he  is   under  oath   to  return  for  his 

bride.     At  the  castle,  in  the  presence  of  the  summoned  inmates, 

he  names  several  things  of  his  own  invention,  but  none  will  do; 

and  finally  he  gives  the  answer  the  old  woman  directed,  which 

i.s  declared  to  be  the  true  one.     Retracing  his  steps,  a  free  but 

wretched  man,  he  finds  the  old  woman  in  the  identical  spot, — 

'  The  loathliest  wight 
That  ever  man  cast  on  his  eye, 

Her  nose  has,  her  browes  high,  [low,  fiat 

Her  eyen  small,  and  depe-set. 
Her  chckes  ben  with  teres  wet. 

And  rivelin  as  an  empty  skin,  [shrivelled 

Hangende  down  unto  her  chin,  [hanging 

Her  lippes  shrunken  ben  for  age; 
There  was  no  grace  in  her  visage.' 

Site   insists,  however,  upon   the  agreement,  and,  sick   at  heart, 

almost  preferring  death, — 

'  In  ragges  as  she  was  to-tore 
He  set  her  on  his  horse  before.' 

riding  through  all  tho  lanes  and   by-ways  that  no  one  may  see 
him.      At  homo  he  ex}>lains  that  he  is  obliged  — 

'This  bcste  wcdde  to  his  wife. 
For  elles  he  had  lost  his  life.' 

Maids  of  honor  are  s(Mit  in,  who  renew  her  attire,  all  except  her 


POETRY  —  GOWER,  185 

matted  and  unsightly  hair,  which  she  will  not  allow  them  to 
touch. 

'  But  when  she  was  fully  urray'd, 
And  her  attire  was  all  assay'd. 
Then  was  she  fouler  unto  see.' 

Poor  Florent  takes  her  less  for  better  than  for  worse,  and,  the 
ceremony  over,  covers  his  head  in  grief: 

'  His  body  mighte  well  be  there ; 
But  as  of  thought  and  of  memoire 
His  hearte  was  in  Purgatoire.' 

She  would  ingratiate  herself  in  his  affections,  and  approaching 
him  takes  him  softly  by  the  hand.  He  turns  suddenly  and  be- 
holds a  vision  of  sweet  smiles  and  beautiful  eyes.  He  would 
come  nearer,  is  stopped,  and  told  — 

'  that  for  to  win  or  lose 
He  mote  one  of  two  thinges  choose, 

Wher  he  will  have  her  such  o'  night  [whetfur 

Or  elles  upon  daye's  light; 
For  he  shall  not  have  bothe  two.' 

At  loss,  conscious  only  of  his  idolatry,  he  at  last  exclaims, — 

'"I  n'ot  what  answer  I  shall  give. 
But  ever,  while  that  I  may  live, 
I  will  that  ye  be  my  mistre.«s 
For  I  can  naught  myselve  guess 
Which  is  the  best  unto  my  choice. 
Thus  grant  I  you  my  whole  voice. 
Choose  for  us  bothcn,  I  you  pray, 
And,  what  as  ever  that  ye  say, 
Right  as  ye  willc,  so  will  I."  ' 

This  is  the  point  —  the  surrender  of  his  will  to  hers.  This  is 
'What  alle  women  most  desire' — to  be  sovereign  of  man's  love 
—  in  short  to  have  tlieir  own  way.  Foretaste  of  Paradise  for  the 
happy  groom,  whose  cup  is  now  filled  to  overflowing: 

'"My  lord,"  she  saide,  "srand-merci  \manij  thanks 

For  of  this  word  that  ye  now  sayn 
That  ye  have  made  mo  sovereign. 
My  destiny  is  overi)assed; 

That  n'er  hereafter  shall  be  lass'd  [lessened 

My  beauty,  which  that  I  now  have. 
Till  I  betake  unto  my  grave. 
Both  night  and  day  as  1  am  now, 
I  shall  always  l)e  siicli  to  you. 
Thus,   [  am  yours  for  everiiio."  ' 

As  an  artist,  partly  the  rel'onnor  and  ])artly  tho  storv-toll<M-, 
Gower  bridges  tlu>  space  between  Langlaiid  and  Chaucer.  II is 
English,  too,  in  vocabulary  and  structure   is  later  than  the   first 


186  INITIATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

and  earlier  than  the  second.  His  metre  is  the  octosyllabic,  of 
four  iambics.  His  rhythm  is  more  smooth  than  melodious.  He 
is  touched  only  by  French  influence.  There  are  extant  about  fifty 
French  amatory  sonnets  composed  by  him  in  imitation  of  Proven- 
gal  models.  On  the  whole,  like  the  dozen  of  translators  who 
copy,  compile,  abridge,  he  constructs  an  encyclopaedia,  a  text- 
book, in  rhymed  memoranda;  but  if  excellence  be  comparative 
and  all  criticism  relative  to  the  age,  we  may  hail  this  grave  father 
of  our  poesy,  whose  verses,  if  destitute  of  creative  touches,  are 
stamped  with  the  force  of  ethical  reasoning.  Amid  triflers,  he  is 
earnest,  with  a  deep-rooted  idea  that  the  minstrel  should  be  a 
preacher.  In  his  political  admonitions,  in  his  satire  on  the  re- 
laxed morals  of  the  Pulpit,  the  Bench,  the  Bar,  the  Throne,  and 
the  Court,  he  sounds  the  deep  tones  of  the  patriot.     He  savs: 

'I  do  not  affect  to  touch  the  stars,  or  write  the  wonders  of  the  poles;  but  rather,  with 
the  common  human  voice  that  is  himcnting  in  this  land,  I  write  the  ills  I  see.  In  the 
voice  of  my  crying  there  will  he  nothing  doubtful,  for  every  man's  knowledge  will  be  its 
best  interpreter.' 

Again: 

'Give  me  that  there  shall  be  less  vice,  and  more  virtue  for  my  speaking.' 
Only  one  of  his  three  great  works  has  been  opened  to  the 
world,  but  the  marble  perpetuates  what  the  press  docs  not.  In 
the  Southwark  Church  of  St.  Saviour,  his  image  lies  extended  on 
the  tomb,  with  folded  hands,  in  damask  habit  flowing  to  his  feet; 
his  head  supported  by  three  sculptured  volumes'  and  decked  with 
a  garland  of  roses,  while  three  visionary  virgins,  Charity,  Mercy, 
and  Pity,  solicit  the  prayer  of  the  passer-by  for  the  soul  of  the 
dreamless  sleeper. 

The  fashions  of  man  have  their  date  and  their  termination. 
The  fourteenth  century  is  memorable  as  the  era  in  which  the 
romance-poetry  of  France,  disj^laced  in  form,  declines  in  sub- 
stance. Even  comedy  cannot  thrive  on  trifles.  The  literature 
that  has  not  truth  or  seriousness  must  die.  Life  does  not  move 
through  a  perpetual  ^fay-day,  nor  is  it  invigorated  in  gorgeous 
idleness.  Nourished  on  tliis  poetry,  another  taste  is  S])ringiiig 
up,  which  is  to  seek  its  sul)jects,  not  in  France,  but  in  the 
chaster  Koman  and  Cirecian  lore.  A  new  spirit  pierces  through, — 
no  hmgcr  the  childish   iinitatioii  of  chivalrous  life,  but  the  crav- 

'  Siieriiliiw  MdVitarit'iK  {Mirror  of  ()t,f  Meilltotuig).  in  French:  Vox  Clamantin  {Voice 
of  Out  Cry'iTKj),  in  Lutiii:  VonUtinio  Amaiitii<,  in  English; — equally  graced  with  Lutiu 
titles,  though  in  three  languages. 


PROSE  —  HISTORY.  187 

ing  for  deep  truths.  English  poetry,  as  distinguished  on  the 
one  hand  from  the  pedantry  and  barrenness  of  the  romancers, 
and  on  the  other  from  the  impulsive  cries  of  Jh<Knilf,  begins 
with  Chaucer,  the  first  skilled  and  conscious  workman;  who, 
ceasing  to  repeat,  observes;  whose  characters,  no  longer  a  phan- 
tom procession,  are  living  and  distinct  persons, —  individualized 
and  typical;  and  who,  seeking  material  in  the  common  forest 
of  the  middle  ages,  replants  it  in  his  own  soil,  to  send  out  new 
shoots  and  enduring  bloom. 

Prose. — Our  early  literature,  as  formerly  observed,  is  almost 
exclusively  one  of  poetry.  Records,  chronicles,  books  of  instruc- 
tion, of  science,  there  are;  but  of  prose,  as  the  embodiment  of 
high  art,  there  is  absolutely  none.  As  we  have  cathedrals  while 
the  builders  live  in  hovels,  so,  under  the  impulse  of  the  imagina- 
tive sentiment,  we  have  poetry  before  we  have  prose,  which 
passes  into  pure  literature  only  when  the  views  of  men  have 
settled  down  to  sober  truth,  and  art  is  so  diffused  as  to  give 
grace  and  expression  to  things  familiar  and  homely. 

Divines  and  philosophers,  mathematicians  and  scientists,  write 
in  Latin.  The  prose  works  in  English  have  an  archaic  and  moral 
rather  than  an  artistic  interest.  Mandeville  and  Wycliflfe  — 
the  one  in  his  travels,  the  other  in  his  translations  of  the  Bible  — 
are,  in  the  mixed  vernacular,  the  first  reapers  on  the  margin  of 
the  great  future  of  English  prose. 

History. — In  this  mixed  state  of  glory  clouded  with  bar- 
barism, there  is,  there  can  be,  no  annalist  deserving  the  name  of 
historian.  The  chroniclers  have  the  usual  aptitude  for  credence, 
unastonished  at  astonishing  events,  credulous  and  ha})py  by  con- 
stitution and  contagion.  They  begin,  as  usual,  ah  initio,  with 
the  Conquest,  and  reach  home,  across  chasms  supplied  by  an 
ever-ready  fancy.  The  narrative  grows  like  a  rolling  sno\vl)all, 
gathering  whatever  lies  in  its  path,  fact  or  legend,  approjiriate 
or  inappropriate.  The  readers  or  hearers  are  as  well  prepiircd 
to  believe  as  the  writers  are  promjit  to  collate.  .\  liundrcd  years 
hence  the  first  peer'  of  the  realm  will  he  proud  of  deriving  liis 
pedigree  from  a  fabulous  knight  in  a  romantic  genealogy. 

Of  plumed  knights  and   penitential   saints,   of  warring   kings 

J  Duko  of  ButkiiiL'haiii. 


188  INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

and  feasting  nobles,  of  furious  and  raving  figures,  we  have  a 
plenty;  but  of  history  that  will  trace  the  ideal  tendencies  of 
the  age,  that  will  exhibit  the  world  of  ideas,  the  life  of  the 
people  as  a  drama  in  which  good  and  evil  fight  their  everlasting 
battle, —  of  history  in  which  calmness  of  insight  exists  with  in- 
tensity of  feeling,  there  is  yet  no  prophecy. 

Philosophy. — This  consists,  for  the  most  part,  in  ringing 
changes  on  the  syllogism, — 

'Barbara,  Celarent,  Darii,  Ferio, 
Ccsare,  Camestrcs,  Festiuo,  Baroko,'  etc.; 

circulating  in  endless  vortices ;  creating,  swallowing, —  itself. 
Inductions,  corollaries,  dilemmas,  logical  diagrams,  cast  wonder- 
ful horoscopes,  but  end  —  where  perhaps  all  metaphysical  specu- 
lation ends,  as  to  the  stolen  jewel  of  our  search  —  in  nothingness. 

The  old  dispute,  long  dormant,  was  now  revived  with  a  white- 
heat  of  disputation.  The  Realists  maintained  that  universal 
ideas  or  essences  belonged  to  the  class  of  real  things,  either 
eternally  impressed  upon  matter  or  eternally  existent  in  the 
Divine  Mind  as  the  models  ol  created  objects;  while  the  Nomi- 
nalists held  that  these  pretended  universals  had  neither  form  nor 
essence,  but  were  merely  modes  of  conception,  existing  solely  in 
and  for  the  mind, —  only  individuals  are  real. 

Of  Nominalism,  Occam'  was  now  the  eminent  spokesman. 
The  universal,  he  argues,  exists  in  the  mind,  not  substantially, 
but  as  a  representation;  while  outwardly  it  is  only  a  word,  or  in 
general  a  sign,  of  whatever  kind,  representing  conventionally 
several  objects.  Only  an  a  posteriori  proof  of  the  being  of  God, 
and  that  not  a  rigorous  one,  is  possible.  As  for  the  rest,  the 
'articles  of  faith'  have  not  even  the  advantage  of  probability  for 
tlie  wise,  and  especially  for  those  who  trust  to  the  natural  reason. 
Here  only  the  authority  of  the  Bible  and  Christian  tradition 
sliould  ho  accepted.  Theological  doctrines  are  not  demonstrable, 
yet  tlio  will  to  believe  tli(^  indemonstrable  is  meritorious.  Thus 
r<'asoii  and  faitli  are  antagonized,  the  critical  inethod  rises  to  an 
inflcpciident  I'ank,  and,  with  the  cooperation  of  oth-^r  influences 
tending  in  the  same  direction,  the  way  is  prepared  for  an  induc- 
tive investigation  of  external  nature  and  ])syc])ical  phenomena. 

'A  Fianciscaii  of  tin-  -^cvcri'  orilcr,  and  a  i)ii|)il  of  Duns  Scotiis;  born  in  the  county 
of  Surr.'v,  (liud  Ai.ril  7,  l-i4r. 


PROSE  —  PHILOSOPHY   AND   SCIENCE.  189 

The  bearings  of  the  discussion  upon  vital  theology  explain 
the  furious  energy  of  the  disputants.  If,  for  example,  the  uni- 
versal is  a  mere  symbol,  Christ  —  the  Infinite  —  is  not  really 
present  in  the  Eucharist.  If  Realism  is  false,  tiie  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity,  according  to  which  the  one  divine  essence  is  entirely 
present  in  each  of  the  three  divine  persons,  is  false.  Distinctions 
of  less  moment  might  in  the  x\ges  of  Faith  shatter  an  empire. 
Hence  it  was  that  the  University  of  Paris,  by  a  public  edict 
(1339)  solemnly  condemned  and  prohibited  the  philosophy  of 
Occam,  as  prejudicial  to  the  interests  of  the  Church.  His  party 
in  consequence,  flourished  the  more.  What  is  more  natural  tlian 
to  love  and  pursue  the  forbidden  ? 

Science. — When,  as  here,  the  measure  of  probability  is  es- 
sentially theological,  if  scientific  theories  are  discussed,  they  will 
be  colored  with  religious  thought.     The  scientist, — 

'  Transported 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies," — 

is  imagined  to  know  more  than  the  human  faculties  can  acquire. 
The  wise  are  magicians;  and  the  enlightened,  heretics. 

Astrology  —  fortune-telling  by  the  aspect  of  the  heavens  and 
the  influence  of  the  stars  —  was  the  favorite  superstition  of  the 
East  and  West.  Great  circumspection  was  necessary;  neglect 
of  it  was  fatal.  In  1327,  Asculanus,  having  performed  some  ex- 
periments that  seemed  miraculous  to  the  vulgar,  and  having  also 
offended  many  by  some  predictions  said  to  have  l)ecn  fidfilled, 
was  supposed  to  deal  witli  infernal  spirits,  and  was  connnitted  to 
the  flames  by  the  inquisitors  of  Florence.  * 

Alchemy  was  generally  confined  to  the  mystery  which  all 
sought  to  penetrate, —  the  transmutation  of  metals  into  golil. 
Edward  HI,  not  less  credulous  than  liis  grandfather,  issui'd  an 
order  in  the  following  terms: 

'Know  all  men  that  we  have  been  assured  that  John  of  Kous  and  Ma-Irr  William  of 
Dalby  know  how  to  make  silver  by  the  art  of  alchemy:  that  thry  have  madr  il  in  former 
times,  and  still  continue  to  make  it:  and,  eonsiderintr  tliat  these  men.  Iiy  their  art,  and 
by  making  the  precious  metal,  may  be  profitable  to  us  and  to  our  kinLrdom,  we  have  com- 
manded our  well  beloved  Thomas  Cary  to  apprehend  the  afore-;iid  John  and  William, 
wherever  they  can  be  found,  within  liberties  or  without,  and  briaii:  them  to  i:-,  toL'elhcr 
with  all  the  instruments  of  their  art,  under  safe  and  sure  custody." 

The  art  of  medicine  was  still  in  the  groatei"  i)art  a  conipoiind 
of  superstition  and  quackerv.  Iiclics,  shrines,  and  tniracli'-ciU'S 
were  a  source   of   boundless   ]ii"()flt   to   ecclesiastics.      ll    fciiiis   an 


190  INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

epoch,  that  in  this  century  Mundinus  publicly  dissected  two 
human  bodies  in  Bologna.  A  French  surgeon,  writing  in  1363, 
says : 

'The  practitioners  in  surgery  are  divided  into  five  sects.  The  first  follow  Roger  and 
Roland,  and  the  four  masters,  and  apply  poultices  to  all  wounds  and  abscesses;  the 
second  follow  Brunus  and  Theodoric,  and  in  the  same  cases  use  wine  only;  the  third 
follow  Saliceto  and  Lanfranc,  and  treat  wounds  with  ointments  and  soft  plasters;  the 
fourth  are  ehietly  Germans,  who  attend  the  armies,  and  promiscuously  use  charms, 
potions,  oil,  and  wool;  the  fifth  are  old  women  and  ignorant  people,  who  have  recourse 
to  the  saints  in  all  cases.' 

One  of  Gower's  most  graceful  passages  is  that  in  which  he  pict- 
ures Medea  going  forth  at  midnight  to  gather  herbs  for  the  incan- 
tations of  her  witchcraft: 

'Thus  it  befell  upon  a  night, 
Whann  there  was  naught  but  sterre  light, 
She  was  vanished  right  as  hir  list. 
That  no  wight  but  hirselfc  wist: 
And  that  was  at  midnight  tide; 
The  world  was  still  on  every  side. 
With  open  head,  and  foote  all  bare 
His  heare  to  spread;  she  gan  to  fare: 
Upon  the  clothes  gyrte  she  was, 
And  spcecheles,  upon  the  gras 
She  glode  forth,  as  an  adder  doth.' 

Theology. — The  central  doctrine  of  the  media3val  Church 
was  the  carnal  nature  of  the  sacraments  —  Transuhstantiation.^ 
Long  ago,  in  the  ninth  century,  it  had  been  denied  that  the  bread 
and  wine  of  the  Lord's  Supper  were  transnmted  into  the  body  and 
blood  of  Christ.  Two  centuries  later,  the  dispute  was  famous; 
and  Berenger,  who  had  the  temerity  to  teach  that  they  were  but 
symbols,  was  terrified  into  publicly  signing  a  confession  of  faith, 
wliicli,  among  other  tenets,  declared: 

'  The  bread  and  wine,  after  consecration,  arc  not  only  sacrament,  but  also  the  real 
body  and  blood  of  Jesus  Christ;  and  this  body  an<l  blood  are  handled  by  the  priest  and 
consumed  by  the  faithful,  not  merely  in  a  sacramental  sense,  but  in  reality  and  truth,  as 
other  sensible  objects  are." 

The  controversy  continued.  Bread  was  deified,  carried  in  solemn 
j)onip  through  the  ])ublic  streets  to  be  administered  to  the  sick  or 
dying.  By  his  exclusive  right  to  the  performance  of  the  miracle 
in  the  mass,  the  luunblest  ])riest  was  exalted  above  jirinces. 
Against  this  cardinal  belief  of  the  early  Church,  as  of  the  Roman 
Catholics  now, —  that  the  material  flesh  and  blood  of  the  Saviour 
could  be  eaten  as  ordinary  meat, —  Wycliffe  issued  a  formal  pro- 

1  A  word  introduced  un<l  e-tabli~lu'(l  bv  Innocent  III,  at  the  fourth  Lateran  Council, 
1215. 


PROSE — THEOLOGY    AND    ETHICS.  101 

test   (1381),  and  with  that   memorable   denial   began   the   move- 
ment of  revolt. 

Under  every  creed,  however  monstrous,  beneath  every  formula, 
however  obsolete,  is  a  philosophy.  Wherever  the  importance  of 
conduct  has  been  felt,  one  question  has  been  of  chief  concern, — 
'Who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this  death/''  Jew  and 
Persian  had  witnessed,  with  idolatrous  Greece,  that  the  esi)ecial 
strength  of  evil  lay  in  matter.  How  came  this  substance  to  be 
tainted  and  infirm  ?  Plato  had  left  the  question  doubtful.  The 
Jew  found  his  solution  in  the  fatal  apple.  The  earth  was  a  garden 
of  delight,  over  whose  hospitable  surface  no  beast  or  bird  of  prey 
broke  the  changeless  peace:  but  Adam,  the  first-born,  sinned  — 
no  matter  how,  and  all  this  fair  scene  dissolved  in  carnage. 
Creation  groaned  in  ruins,  and  the  human  frame  —  hitherto  pure 
as  immortal  seraph  —  was  infected  with  disease  and  decay,  unruly 
appetites,  jealousies,  rapines,  and  murders.  Thenceforward  every 
material  organization  contained  in  itself  the  elements  of  destruc- 
tion. How  shall  the  soul  be  saved,  unless  the  body  —  its  compan- 
ion and  antagonist,  which  bears  it  down  —  is  purified?  Tlie  old 
substance  must  be  transfigured — leavened  by  the  flesh  of  the 
Redeemer,  which  is  free  from  the  limitations  of  sin.  So  will  the 
new  creature,  thus  fed  and  sustained,  go  on  from  strength  to 
strength,  and  at  last,  dropping  in  the  gate  of  the  grave  the 
'muddy  vesture'  which  is  death's,  stand  robed  in  glorified  form, 
like  refined  gold.  Such,  we  doubt  not,  is  the  root-idea  of  tlie 
Eucharist.  It  was  the  conscious  idea,  not  in  metaphor,  l)ut  in 
fact.  As  a  symbolism,  beautiful  still.  The  weary  fasts  of  the 
saints  may  be  their  glory  or  their  re})roach;  but  the  same  desire 
—  however  expressed  —  that  set  St.  Simeon  on  his  pillar,  tunes 
the  heart  and  forms  the  mind  of  the  noblest  of  mankind, —  simili- 
tude with  the  divine  through  victory,  however  wrought,  over  the 
fleshly  lusts. 

fithics. — About  tliis  time,  more  writers  than  in  any  former 
century  occupied  themselves  in  collecting  and  solving  what  tliey 
styled  Cases  of  Cousriertre.  Their  industry  may  have  tenth^d 
as  freely  to  a  wrangling  s])irit  as  to  a  suitable  practice,  l)ut  it 
indicates  an  advance  along  the  line  of  moral  consciousness.  The 
moral  law,  in  the  view  of  Occam  as  in  tiuit  of  Srotus,  is  founded 
upon  the  will  of  God.      The  just  and  the  unjust  are  what  lb'  lias 


192  INITIATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

declared  to  be  such,  by  attaching  to  them  the  rewards  and  pun- 
ishments of  another  life.  Had  His  will  been  different,  He  would 
have  sanctioned  other  principles  than  those  which  we  are  now 
taught  to  consider  as  the  foundation  of  the  good. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  also,  that  moral  duties  were  explained, 
and  moral  precepts  enforced  by  allegories  of  a  new  and  whimsi- 
cal kind,  as  the  Vision,  and  by  examples  drawn  from  the  quali- 
ties and  habits  of  brutes.  A  thousand  picturesque  legends  centre 
on  the  intimate  connection  of  the  hermit  with  the  animal  world 
in  the  lonely  deserts  of  the  East  or  in  the  vast  forests  of  Europe. 

Christianity,  as  the  main  source  of  the  moral  development  of 
nations,  has  discharged  its  office  less  by  the  inculcation  of  a 
system  of  ethics  than  by  the  attractive  influence  of  its  perfect 
ideal, —  the  character  of  the  Christian  Founder. 

Resume. — Parliament  grew  steadily  in  power  and  impor- 
tance. The  popular  element  was  beginning  to  manifest  itself  in 
government.  Feudal  bondage  was  relaxing.  The  spirit  of  free- 
dom, which  heretofore  had  animated  only  .the  noble  and  the 
high-born,  was  now  inflaming  the  heart  of  the  serf.  There  was 
an  almost  simultaneous  movement  of  the  lower  orders  in  various 
countries,  owing  plainly  to  general  causes  affecting  European 
society.  Amalgamation  of  races  and  hard-won  concessions  from 
despotic  kings  were  creating  an  independent  body  of  freemen. 

Laws  were  inadequately  administered.  Property  was  insecure. 
The  dwelling  of  the  peasant  was  open  to  plunder,  without  hope 
of  redress.  Poverty  and  ignorance  hovered  over  the  masses. 
Domestic  virtues  were  but  slightly  felt.  Ideas  of  feasting  and 
defense  were  jnished  into  the  foreground.  Luxury  was  inele- 
gant, pleasures  indelicate,  pomp  cumbersome  and  unwieldy. 
War  stood  on  the  right,  and  riot  on  the  left. 

The  angry,  fretful  spirit  of  the  working  classes  was  joined  to 
a  restless  state  on  religious  matters,  issuing  in  satire  and  stern 
attack.  The  multiplied  abuses  in  different  branches  of  the 
Church,  strongly  supported  indeed  by  the  overshadowing  super- 
stition of  the  land,  were  yet  at  war  with  stubborn  English  in- 
stincts,—  love  of  home,  industry,  and  justice.  Theory  and  prac- 
tice were  corrupt,  and  tlie  corruption  irritated  the  ethical  sense 
of  the  few  and  the  commf)n  sense  of  the  many;  the  first  result 
finding  representation  in  Wycliff'e,  the  second  in  Chaucer. 


RESUME.  193 

Every  department  of  life  was  penetrated  with  the  beliefs,  or 
interwoven  with  the  interests  of  theology.  Astronomy  was  be- 
wildered with  astrology,  chemistry  ran  into  alchemy,  philosophy 
traversed  mechanically  the  region  of  arid  abstractions,  science 
—  pursued  in  suspicious  secrecy  —  wantoned  in  the  grotesque 
chimeras  of  magical  phantoms,  and  the  physician's  medicines 
were  powerless  unless  the  priests  said  prayers  over  them.  Four 
chief  causes  were  operating  to  emancipate  the  intellect  from  its 
servile  submission  and  faith: 

1.  The  rapid  growth  of  the  industrial  classes, —  at  all  times 
separated  from  theological  tendencies. 

2.  The  awakening  of  a  spirit  of  bold  inquiry. 

3.  The  discredit  fallen  upon  the  Church  on  account  of  the 
rival  popes. 

4.  The  corruption  of  the  monasteries. 

Literature  was  affected  and  shaped  by  two  generic  forces, — 
foreign  and  indig-enous: 

1.  Classical,  wrought  into  Latin  Christianity  or  translated 
into  scholastic  tomes,  as  a  benefit  of  instruction,  but  shown 
chiefly  and  most  directly  in  a  trading-stock  of  semi-historical 
tales. 

3.  Italian,  embodied  in  the  sweet  and  stately  measures  of 
Dante  or  Petrarch  and  the  studied  prose  or  verse  of  Boccaccio,  in 
which  the  spirit  of  the  antique  was  seen  as  in  a  modern  mirror. 

3.  French,  steeped  in  the  imagery  of  Southern  beauty  and 
closely  connected  with  the  over-strained  sentiments  of  chivalry, 
rising  to  its  height  and  dying  in  the  translation  of  the  Iloniaiint 
of  the  -Rose. 

4.  Religious,  the  atmosphere,  the  climate,  under  which  the 
literary  product  springs,  grows,  and  derives  its  vigor  of  life;  a 
perpetual  irritant,  arousing,  with  individual  energy,  the  Teutonic 
conscience  and  the  English  good  sense. 

5.  Social,  of  half-barbaric  cast,  violent  in  pride,  prodigal  in 
splendor,  extravagant  in  its  fanciful  virtues,  gross  in  its  real 
vices. 

6.  Linguistic,  able  —  since  now  almost  devoid  of  inflections  — 
to  receive  all  the  words  of  other  languages  that  any  might  bring 
to  it;  open  for  all  uses,  waiting  for  the  hand  of  a  master-builder 
to  consolidate  and  temper  it. 

13 


194  INITIATIVE    PERIOD — REPRESEXTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

7.  Formal,  almost  exclusively  poetic,  and  dividing-  itself  into 
two  schools  —  romantic  and  religious;  the  one  following  Conti- 
nental models,  the  other  reviving  the  laws  of  Saxon  verse. 

An  age  of  heightened  life,  of  wider  culture,  or  more  harmon- 
ized society,  into  which  are  born  a  reformer,  whose  call  awakes 
the  spirit  of  national  independence  and  moral  earnestness,  and  a 
poet  —  not  a  rhymer,  but  a  'maker,'  who  has  something  new  to 
say,  and  has  found  the  art  of  saying  it  beautifully.  Against  the 
ruder,  sadder  lines  of  Langland,  which  paint  with  terrible  fidelity 
the  hunger,  toil,  and  misery  of  the  poor  man's  life,  are  the  fresh, 
glad  notes  of  Chaucer,  which  breathe  the  perfumed  elegance  and 
luxury  of  the  court. 


MANDEYILLE. 


Now  I  am  comen  horn  to  reste. 


Biography. — Born  at  St.  Albans,  about  twenty  miles  north 
of  London,  in  the  year  1300.  He  studied  medicine,  but  the 
globe  was  his  liome;  and,  at  a  time  when  the  Orient  was  but  a 
Land  of  Fairy,  impelled  by  an  irresistible  desire  of  change  and  a 
deep  religious  emotion,  he  set  forth  'on  tlie  day  of  St.  Michael, 
in  tlie  year  of  our  Lord  1322,  passed  the  sea,  and  went  the  way 
to  Hierusalem,  to  behold  the  mervayles  of  Inde.'  With  no  cre- 
dentials but  his  honorable  sword,  and  his  medical  science  (which 
might  sometimes  prove  as  perilous),  he  penetrated  into  Turkey, 
Persia,  Armenia,  India,  Ethiopia,  China,  spending  three  years  at 
Pekin;  joined  a  Mahometan  army  in  Palestine,  served  under  the 
Sultan  of  Egypt;  and  after  an  absence  of  more  than  thirty  years, 
returned,  as  another  L'lyssos,  to  find  himself  forgotten  save  by  a 
few  thin  and  withered  friends  of  his  youth,  who  supposed  him 
lost  and  dead. 

Gout  and  the  aching  of  liis  limbs  had  'defined  the  end  of  my 
lal)or  against  my  will,  God  knoweth.'  He  wrote  for  'solace  in 
his  wretched  rest';  then,  witli  his  thoughts  ever  passing  beyond 
tho  e(|uator,  he  set  off  again  on  another  roving  expedition,  and 
ovei-taken  with  illness  died  at  Belgium  in  1371. 


OUR   FIRST   TRAVELLER.  195 

"Writings. —  Travels,  first  composed  in  Latin,  which  was 
afterwards  translated  into  French,  and  lastly  out  of  French  into 
English,  that  'every  man  of  my  nation  may  understand  it.'  The 
book  was  submitted  to  the  pope  and  to  '  his  wise  council,'  who 
after  a  critical  review  '  ratified  and  confirmed  my  book  in  all 
points.'  In  this  'true'  book  are  many  things  very  untrue,  but 
the  author  himself  designs  no  imposition.  With  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  a  child,  he  has  stood  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
and  says: 

'  Zee  schull  undirstonde  that  whan  men  comen  to  Jerusaleni  her  first  pilgrymage  is 
to  the  chirche  of  the  Holy  Sepulcr  wheroure  Lord  was  biiryed,  that  is  withoute  the  cytee 
on  the  north  syde.  But  it  is  now  enclosed  in  with  the  ton  wall.  And  there  is  a  full  fair 
chirche  all  round,  and  open  above,  and  covered  with  leed.  And  on  the  west  syde  is  a  fair 
tour  and  an  high  for  belles  strongly  made.  And  in  the  myddes  of  the  chirche  is  a  taber- 
nacle as  it  wer  a  lytyll  hows,  made  with  a  low  lityll  dore ;  and  that  tabernacle  is  made  iu 
maner  of  a  half  a  compas  right  curiousely  and  richely  made  of  gold  and  azure  and  otherc 
riche  coloures,  full  nobelyche  made.  And  in  the  ryght  side  of  tliat  tabernacle  is  the 
gepulcre  of  oure  Lord.  And  the  tabernacle  is  viij  fote  long  and  v  fote  wide,  and  xj  fote 
in  heghte.  And  it  is  not  longe  sithe  the  sepulcre  was  all  open,  that  men  myghte  kisse  it 
and  louche  it.  .  .  .  And  there  is  a  lamp  that  hongeth  befor  the  sepulcre  that  l)renneth 
light,  and  on  the  Gode  ffryday  it  goth  out  be  him  self,  at  that  hour  that  our  Lord  roos 
fro  dcth  to  lyve.  Also  within  the  chirche  at  the  right  side  besyde  the  queer  of  the  cliurche 
is  the  Mount  of  Calvarye,  wher  our  Lord  was  don  on  the  cros.  And  it  is  a  roche  of  white 
coloure  and  a  lytill  medled  with  red.  And  the  cros  was  set  in  a  morteys  in  the  same 
roche,  and  on  that  roche  dropped  the  woundes  of  our  Lord,  whan  he  was  pyned  on  the 
cros,  and  that  is  cleped  Golgatha.  And  men  gon  up  to  that  Golgatha  be  degrees.  And 
in  the  place  of  that  morteys  was  Adamcs  hed  found  after  Xoes  llode,  in  tokene  that  the 
synnes  of  Adam  scholde  ben  bought  in  that  same  place.' 

With  pious  artlessncss,  in  which  the  marvellous  delights,  he  re- 
lates  how  St.   John   sleeps   placid   and   uncorrupted   in  abysmal 

gloom, — 

'God-preserved,  as  tliough  a  treasure, 
Kept  unto  the  waking  day  ' : — 

'From  Pathmos  men  gone  nnto  Epheism,  a  fair  citee  and  nyghe  to  ilie  see.  And 
there  dyede  Seynte  Johne,  and  was  buryed  behynde  the  highe  Awtiere,  iu  a  ioumbi>. 
And  there  is  a  faire  chirche.  For  Christene  menc  wcren  wont  to  lidUleu  tliat  i)l:uc 
alwcyes.  And  in  the  tombe  of  Seynt  John  is  noughte  but  nianna,  tliat  is  ilcpt  AiinL'rl.< 
mete.  For  his  body  was  translated  into  Paradys.  And  Turkt-^  hoUlcn  imw  :illi-  that 
place  and  the  citee  and  the  Cliirelie.  And  all  Asic  tlie  lesse  is  yelriit  Turk>  r.  And  yc 
shalle  nndrestond,  that  Seynt  Johne  bid  make  his  grave  there  in  liis  Lyf,  and  Kyd  liiui- 
self  there-inne  all  quyk.  And  therefore  somnie  men  seyn,  lliat  lif  dyed  iu)ui;htr,  liut 
that  he  resteth  there  till  the  Day  of  Dooni.  And  forsootho  there  i-  a  irrrt  uiarvtule: 
P'or  men  may  see  there  Ilie  erthe  of  tlie  toml)f  apertly  many  tyincs  -term  ami  nioven, 
as  there  weren  (piykke  thinges  undre." 

A  suggestion  of  the  picturesque  myth  of  tlio  Seven  Slt'opcrs. 
So  Rip  Van  Winkle  ]:)assed  twenty  year.s  .sliiinlieriiig  in  the 
Catskill  mountains.  Even  Xa]K)l(M:)ii  is  Ix'lioved  among  some 
of  the  French  peasantiy  to  be  sleeping  on  in  like  manner. 


196         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Who  has  not  reverted,  fondly,  regretfully,  to  the  spring-time 
of  his  being,  with  its  simple  pleasures  and  unconscious  joys,  as 
the  Eden  of  his  individual  existence?  It  may  not  be  precisely 
defined,  but  it  is  there  —  the  same  for  all  —  somewhere  beyond 
the  storm-line  of  perils  and  pitfalls.  Even  so  the  generations, 
world-worn  and  foot-sore,  look  longingly  back  to  the  '  shady 
bowers,  the  vernal  airs,  the  roses  without  thorns,'  of  Paradise. 
None  has  seen  it,  many  have  sought  it  in  vain,  but  all  concur 
in  the  fact.  In  the  imagination  of  the  ages  it  is  there, —  or 
teas,  somewhere  in  the  dewy  morn  of  mortal  life  before  the  im- 
measurable wreck.  Thus  our  honest  traveller's  description  of 
the  locality  of  this  delectable  spot  is  much  the  same  as  given 
by  men  of  finer  genius  centuries  afterwards.  He  fairly  acknowl- 
edges that  he  cannot  speak  of  it  propcrl}',  '  for  I  was  not  there.' 
With  charming  simplicity  he  adds: 

'The  earthly  Paradise,  or  Garden  of  Eden,  as  wise  men  say,  is  the  highest  point  of 
the  earth,  and  it  is  so  liij;h  that  it  nearly  touches  the  circle  of  the  earth  there  as  the  moon 
makes  her  turn.  And  it  is  so  high  that  the  flood  of  Koah  might  not  come  to  it.  And 
Paradise  is  enclosed  all  about  with  a  wall,  and  men  know  not  whereof  it  is,  for  the  wall 
is  all  covered  over  with  moss  as  it  seems,  and  it  seems  not  that  this  is  natural  stone.  .  .  . 
And  you  shall  understand  that  no  man  that  is  mortal  shall  approach  to  that  Paradise, 
for  by  land  may  no  man  go,  for  wild  beasts  that  are  in  the  deserts,  and  for  the  high 
mountains  and  great  huge  rocks  tliat  no  man  may  pass  by  for  the  diirk  places  there; 
and  by  the  rivers  no  man  may  go,  for  tlie  water  runs  so  rouglily  and  sharply,  because  it 
comes  down  so  outrageously  from  the  high  i)laces  above  that  it  runs  so  in  great  waves 
that  no  ship  may  run  or  sail  against  it.  Many  lords  in  past  time  have  attempted  to  pass 
by  these  rivers  into  Paradise,  with  full,  great  companies,  but  they  might  not  speed  in 
their  voyage,  and  many  died  of  weariness  of  rowing  against  the  strong  waves,  and  many 
of  them  became  blind  or  deaf  by  the  noise  of  the  water,  and  many  perished  that  were 
lost  in  the  waves.  So  that  no  mortal  man  may  approach  tliat  place  without  special 
grace  of  God,  and  of  that  place  I  can  tell  you  no  more.' 

When  he  relates  from  his  own  personal  observation,  it  is  no 
longer  with  the  prelude  of  'men  scyn.'  Of  Chinese  royalty  he 
says: 

'The  gret  Kyng  bathe  cvory  day,  .50  fair  Damyscles,  alle  Maydenes,  that  serven  him 
everemore  at  his  Mete.  .\nd  whan  he  is  at  the  Table,  thei  bryngen  him  hys  Mete  at 
every  tyme,  .5  and  a  to  godre.  .\nd  in  bryngynge  hire  Servyse,  thei  syngen  a  Song.  And 
after  that,  thei  kutten  his  Mete,  and  putten  it  in  his  Mouthe:  for  ho  touchethe  no  thing 
ne  handlethe  nought,  but  holdethe  evere  more  his  Ilondes  before  him,  upon  the  Table. 
For  he  hath  so  lonu'e  Xayles,  tliat  be  may  take  no  thing,  ne  handle  no  thing.  For  the 
Noblesse  of  that  Contree  is  to  have  longe  Nayles,  and  to  make  hem  growen  alle  weys  to 
ben  as  lon<;e  as  men  may.  And  there  ben  manye  in  that  Contree,  that  han  hyre  Navies 
so  lonire,  that  thei  envyronne  alle  the  Ilond :  and  that  is  gret  'Noblesse.  .\nd  the  Xo- 
blessi' of  the  Women,  is  for  to  have  sinale  Feet  and  litille:  and  therefore  anon  as  thei 
ben  born,  they  leet  bynde  hire  Feet  so  streyte,  that  thei  may  not  growen  half  as  nature 
wolde:  And  alle  weys  theise  Damyscles,  tliat  I  spak  of  beforn,  syngen  alle  the  tyme  that 
tliis  rifhe  man  etethe:  and  when  tliat  he  etetlie  no  more  of  his  tirste  ('ours,  thannc  other 
5  and  .'>  of  faire  Damyseles  bryngen  him  his  seeonde  Cours,  alle  weys  syngynge,  as  thei 


OUR    FIRST   TRAVELLER.  197 

dide  beforn.  And  so  thci  don  contyniiclly,  every  day,  to  the  ende  of  his  Mete.  And  in 
this  manere  he  ledethe  his  Lif.  And  so  dide  thei  before  him,  tliat  weren  his  Aiincesires; 
and  so  shulle  thei  tliat  comen  aftre  him,  with  outen  doynge  of  ony  Dedes  of  Amies:  but 
lyven  evere  more  thus  in  ese,  as  a  Swyn,  that  is  fedde  in  Sty,  for  to  ben  made  fatte.' 

He  enters  the  Valley  Perilous,  of  which  he  has  heard  with  won- 
dering awe;  and  what  he  does  not  see,  his  horrifying  fancy  sup- 
plies : 

'Beside  that  isle  of  the  Mistoralc,  upon  the  left  side,  nigh  to  the  river  IMiisou,  is  a 
marvelous  thing.  There  is  a  vale  between  the  mountains  that  dureth  near  a  four  mile. 
And  some  clepen  it  the  vale  enchanted,  some  clepen  it  the  vale  of  devils,  and  some 
clepen  it  the  vale  perilous.  .  .  .  This  vale  is  full  of  devils,  and  hath  been  always.  And 
men  say  there  that  it  is  one  of  the  entries  of  hell.  In  that  vale  is  plenty  of  gold  and 
silver;  wherefore  many  misbelieving  men,  and  many  Christian  men  also,  gon  in  often- 
time,  for  to  have  of  the  treasure  Iliat  there  is,  but  few  comen  again;  and  namely  of  the 
misbelieving  men,  ne  of  the  Christian  men  nouther:  for  they  ben  anon  strangled  of 
devils.' 

Naturally, — 

'I  was  more  devout  then  than  ever  I  was  before  or  after,  and  all  for  the  dread  of 
fiends  that  I  saw  in  divers  figures." 

He  believes  the  earth  to  be  round,  but  marvels  how  the  antijjodes, 
whose  feet  are  right  upwards  toward  us,  do  not  fall  into  the  fir- 
mament. The  more  wonderful  the  narrative,  the  deeper  it  sinks 
into  the  softest  and  richest  moulds  of  the  most  germinating  mind. 
*The  trees  of  the  sun  and  of  the  moon,'  he  observes,  'are  well 
known  to  have  spoken  to  King  Alexander,  and  warned  him  of  his 
death.'  In  the  Island  of  Lango,  not  far  from  Crete,  he  forgets 
not  the  unfortunate  Lady  of  the  Land  who  remained  a  dragoness 
because  no  one  had  the  hardihood  to  kiss  her  lips  to  disenchant 
her.  Near  Bethlehem,  he  assures  us,  is  the  field  Floridus,  in 
which  a  fair  maiden  was  unjustly  condemned  to  die: 

'And  as  the  fire  began  to  burn  about  her  she  made  her  prayers  to  our  Lord,  tliat  as 
truly  as  she  was  not  guilty  He  would  of  Ilis  merciful  grace  heli)  her  and  make  ii  known 
to  all  men.  .\nd  when  she  had  thus  said  she  entered  into  the  fire  and  immediately  it  was 
extinguished,  and  the  fagots  that  were  burning  became  red  rose  trees,  and  those  that 
were  not  kindled  became  white  rose  trees,  full  of  roses.  And  these  were  the  first  rose 
trees,  red  and  white,  that  ever  man  saw.' 

Style. —  Straightforward,  unpoetical,  unadorned,  idiomatic, 
drawn-out,  as  if  the  idea,  to  be  made  jilain,  must  be  driven  in 
and  clinched.      These  several  linens  are  representative: 

'.\iid  zee  schull  vnderstonde  Machamete  [Mahomet]  was  l)()rn  in  Araybe,  that  was 
first  a  pore  knaue  that  kept  cameles  that  weiitcn  witli  marchantes  for  manhaudisc,  ami 
so  befell  that  he  wente  with  the  marchantes  in  to  Rgipt,  and  tlui  were  tlKinuc  cri~Iciii' 
in  tho  partyes.  And  at  ttie  dcsartes  of  .\raybe  he  wente  in  to  a  cli.ipell  wln-r  a  I'.nniyii' 
ducltc.  And  whan  he  entered  in  to  the  rtia|)cll,  tliat  was  but  a  lytill  ami  a  low  ihiiiL',  .iml 
had  but  a  lytill  dore  and  a  low,  than  tlic  entree  bei:an  to  wt-xr  so  ■j.rvX  and  so  InrL'i',  and 
so  high,  as  though  it  had  be  of  gret  niynstr,  or  the  zate  of  a  paleys." 


198         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Rank. — An  ingenuous  voyager;  the  first  example  of  the 
liberal  and  independent  gentleman  journeying  over  the  world  in 
pursuit  of  knowledge,  honored  wherever  lie  went  for  his  talents 
and  personal  accomplishments.  If  he  was  gossipy  and  credulous, 
it  was  because  his  age  was  so.  The  critic  who  thus  comprehends 
him,  will  neither  calumniate  nor  ridicule  him.  A  journey  over 
the  globe  at  that  distant  day  was  scarcely  less  solemn  than  a 
departure  to  the  realm  of  spirits;  and,  considering  tlie  circum- 
stances under  which  lie  travelled  and  wrote,  he  must  be  conceded 
to  have  been  a  remarkable  man.  If  he  related  fables,  he  did  it 
honestly,  while  other  accounts,  long  resting  on  his  single  and  un- 
supported authority,  have  been  confirmed  by  later  discoveries, — 
as  the  burning  of  widows  on  the  funeral  pile  of  their  husbands  — 
the  artificial  egg-hatching  in  Egypt  —  the  spheroidal  form  of  the 
earth  —  the  crocodile  —  the  hippopotamus  —  the  Chinese  predilec- 
tion for  small  feet  —  the  trees  which  bear  wool  of  which  clothing 
is  made. 

Character. — Studious  from  childhood,  unconquerably  curious 
to  see  tlie  unknown,  courageous  to  wander  wherever  the  step  of 
man  could  press;  a  knight  of  spotless  honor,  a  man  of  unim- 
peached  probity,  and  a  Christian  of  devoted  piety.  Offered  in 
marriage  a  Sultan's  daugliter  and  a  province,  he  refused  both 
when  his  faith  was  to  be  exchanged  for  Mahometanism.  He  wlio 
can  mourn  the  wickedness  of  liis  country  caimot  be  without  a 
large  measure  of  those  moral,  affectional,  and  religious  faculties, 
whose  fairest,  sweetest  blossom  is  goodness.  On  his  return  to 
Euro})e,  lie  wrote: 

'In  our  time  it  may  bn  siiokpii  more  truly  then  of  oleic,  that  Vcrtue  is  gone,  the 
Churcli  is  under  foote,  tlio  Clcrgic  is  in  crrour,  tlu;  Dcvill  raignt'th,  and  Simonie  buaretli 
the  sway." 

Influence. — By  the  popularity  of  his  book,  he  did  more, 
probably,  tlian  any  otlier  writer  of  the  centurv,  to  increase  the 
proportion  of  Latin  and  Romance  words  in  the  English  vocabu- 
lary. Tlie  following  are  illustrative:  asse/til/li/,  iiijfame,  nKjisten, 
h<iti<>ii,  crmlf)/^  coriitr,  Ontc,  chfriid,  idol,  ]>hiIosopher,  plauibj, 
prom !.'<(',  jii'ohoHin'c^  rcroiicilc,  t(  uiporol,  pxblisJt,  inonMer,  visit, 
cur  iron,  roiKjxir,  rtri  rtin/,  sjiirifmil. 

\\c,  from  whom  the  ethereal  lines  of  that  glowing  day  have 
faded   (alas  I),   may  smile  at   liis  budget  of  wonders,  but  to  the 


PRECURSOR   OF  THE   REFORMATION.  199 

spirit  of  such  we  owe  perhaps  the  map  of  the  world  and  the 
intercourse  of  nations.  His  Travels  will  always  remain  a  deeply 
interesting  monument  of  the  thought  of  the  period. 


WYCLIFFE. 


Honored  of  God  to  be  the  first  Preacher  of  a  general  Reformation  to  all  Europe.— 
Milton. 

Biography. — Son  of  a  country  squire,  born  13"24,  in  the  little 
village  of  Wycliffe  —  the  cliff  by  the  icater.  Entered  Oxford  at 
sixteen,  where  he  distinguished  himself  in  logic  and  theology. 
In  13G1,  he  was  elected  Master  of  Balliol,  and  in  that  year  was 
presented  by  his  college  to  the  rectory  of  Fylingham.  Four  years 
later,  he  was  appointed  Warden  of  Canterbury  Hall,  and,  as  the 
champion  of  the  State,  threw  himself  into  the  stormy  disputes 
between  Romanism  and  the  government.  Armed  with  the  degree 
of  Doctor  of  Divinity,  he  began  in  a  wooden  hall,  roughly  plastered 
and  roofed  with  thatch,  to  lecture  on  divinity,  boldly  assailing  the 
practices  of  the  Church,  His  fame  in  13T-i  led  to  his  selection  as 
one  of  an  embassy  to  Bruges,  to  remonstrate  against  the  tribute- 
claims  of  the  papacy,  whose  demands,  amid  the  social  troubles 
from  pestilence,  from  the  cost  of  war,  and  from  the  strife  between 
capital  and  labor,  rose  ever  higher.  Obtaining  some  concessions 
from  the  pope,  he  was  rewarded  with  the  rectorship  of  Lutterworth, 
which  was  afterwards  his  chief  residence.  Identity  of  political 
views  had  allied  him  with  the  ]iowerful  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of 
Lancaster,  who  was  eager  to  drive  the  prelates  from  oilice  and  to 
seize  their  wealth.  He  had  said  that  church  property,  like  otlicr, 
might  be  employed  for  national  jnirposes,  and  Iiad  exlioi'ted  t  ho 
clergy  to  return  to  their  origiiiiil  poverty.  'J'liese  ofTciices  were 
not  to  be  forgiven.  On  the  10th  of  February,  loTT,  his  grey 
l>eard  sweeping  to  his  breast,  his  belted  robe  flowing  to  his  fcot, 
his  white  staff  firnily  in  his  thin  hand,  lie  a])pear(>d  ))cfor('  the 
Bishop  of  London,  to  answer  for  heresy.  By  his  side  were  Lan- 
caster and  the  Marshal  of  England.  There  was  no  trial.  A  I.ow  I- 
ina-  mob,  to  whom  the  Duke  as  the   leader  of  the  baronaii-c  was 


200        INITIATIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

unpopular,  dissolved  the  meeting.  The  hearts  of  the  monks 
burned  to  smite  him  down;  and  again,  at  the  close  of  the  ensuing 
year,  he  was  summoned  to  the  Capitol.  Supported  by  the  Crown 
and  the  people,  he  bore  himself  defiantly  and  returned  to  Oxford 
in  peace.  '  It  is  not  possible,'  he  asserted,  '  that  a  man  should  be 
excommunicated  to  his  damage,  unless  he  were  first  and  princi- 
pally excommunicated  by  himself.'  In  his  chamber,  where  he  lay 
at  the  point  of  death,  eight  men  urged  him  to  recant.  When 
they  had  done,  he  rose  by  help  of  his  servant,  and,  '  holding  them 
with  his  glittering  eye,'  cried:  'I  shall  not  die,  but  live;  and 
again  declare  the  evil  deeds  of  the  friars  ! '  In  1381,  deserted 
and  alone,  he  openly  inveighed  against  the  doctrine  of  transub- 
stantiation.  The  university,  panic-stricken,  first  condemned  him, 
then  tacitly  adopted  his  cause.  In  the  presence  of  his  class,  he 
had  challenged  a  refutation  of  his  conclusions,  and  was  com- 
manded by  Lancaster  to  be  silent,  to  which  he  replied:  'I  believe 
that  in  the  end  the  truth  will  conquer.'  His  courage  had  restored 
confidence:  but  turning  from  the  rich  and  learned,  he  appealed 
to  England  at  large,  and,  from  being  a  schoolman,  became  a 
pamphleteer.  His  enemies  were  persistent.  Of  twenty-four  pro- 
positions, carefully  collated  from  his  works,  a  council  solemnly 
decreed  ten  to  be  heretical  and  the  rest  erroneous.  Alarmed  by 
the  Peasant  Revolt  and  the  attitude  of  the  barons,  Richard  II,  to 
strengthen  his  position  by  an  alliance  with  the  Church,  issued  a 
royal  order  of  expulsion  from  the  university;  and  Wycliffe, 
silenced  at  Oxford,  retired  to  the  hovels  of  I>utterworth,  where 
he  forged  the  great  weapon  of  future  warfare  against  the  tri- 
umphant hierarcliy, —  the  EiKjlhh  Bible.  Summoned  to  appear 
at  Rome,  his  failing  strength  inspired  the  sarcastic  reply: 

'I  am  always  f:la<l  to  cxi)lain  my  faith  to  anyone,  and  above  all  to  the  Bishoj)  of 
Rome;  for  I  take  it  for  granted  tliat  if  it  be  orthodox  he  will  confirm  it;  if  it  be  erroneous, 
he  will  correct  it.  .  .  .  Now  Christ  during  his  life  upon  earth  was  of  all  men  the  poorest, 
casting  from  Him  all  worldly  authority.  I  deduce  from  these  premises,  as  a  simple 
counsel  of  my  own,  that  the  Pope  should  surrender  all  temporal  authority  to  the  civil 
power,  and  advise  his  clerL'y  to  do  the  same.' 

The  terrible  strain  on  his  energies  enfeebled  by  age  and  study 
had  iiulucod  paralysis,  and  a  final  stroke  while  he  was  lioaring 
mass  in  his  parish  church  was  followed  a  day  or  two  later  by  his 
quiet  deatli,  December  )}1,  138-1.  The  lips  of  malice  pursued 
him  with   redoul)led   fury;    and,  besides  assuring  the  people   of 


PRECURSOR   OF  THE   REFORMATION.  201 

his  eternal  damnation,  took  care  to  represent  his  malady  as  the 
visible  judgment  of  Heaven  for  his  heresies.' 

Writing^. — An  incredible  number  of  sermons,  letters,  tracts, 
and  treatises,  in  Latin  and  English,  asserting  collectively  and 
essentially: 

1.  All  power  is  of  God.  Hence  the  royal  is  as  sacred  as  the 
ecclesiastical.     The  king  is  as  truly  His  vicar  as  is  the  Pope. 

2.  Each  individual  holds  the  dominion  of  his  conscience,  not 
of  a  mediating  priesthood,  but  immediately  of  his  Creator,  who 
is  the  tribunal  of  personal  appeal. 

3.  The  bread  in  the  Eucharist  is  not  the  real  body  of  Christ, 
but  only  its  sign. 

4.  The  Roman  Church  has  no  true  claim  to  headship  over 
other  churches. 

5.  Temporal  privileges  cannot  be  exacted  or  defended  by 
spiritual  censures. 

6.  Ecclesiastical  courts  should  be  subject  to  the  civil. 

7.  The  clergy  ought  not  to  possess  temporal  wealth;  they 
should  be  maintained  by  the  free  alms  of  their  flocks. 

8.  Pilgrimages  and  image-worship  are  akin  to  idolatry. 

9.  Priests  have  no  power  to  absolve  from  sin. 

10.  The  Bible  is  the  one  ground  of  faith,  and  it  is  the  right 
of  every  man  to  examine  it  for  himself. 

What  a  result  for  the  fourteenth  century  !  A\'hat  a  promise 
for  the  renovated  head  and  heart  of  the  sixteenth  I  Keligicjn 
must  be  secularized  —  no  longer  forestalled  —  and  purged  from 
indulg-enees  and  rosaries.  Let  each  hear  and  read  for  himself. 
To  this  end,  let  God's  word  quit  the  learned  schools  and  tlie 
dusty  shelves  of  the  monastery.  I'o  the  mass  it  is  a  sealed 
book,  locked  up  in  a  dead  and  foreign  tongue,  coveri'd  with  a 
confusion  of  connnentaries  and  Fathers.  How  far  it  is  corrupted 
by  the  traditions  and  devices  of  men,  we  know  not  till  we  see  it 
in  the  simjile  speech  of  the  market  and  the  fireside: 

'  Ecli  place  of  lioly  writ,  botli  o])}])  and  (icik,  tccliith  nickciu's  ami  diaritc:  ami 
tticrfori'  he  tliat  kc|)itli  inckcncs  and  cliaiitc  liatli  llic  ircwe  luidirstondynir  and  pcrfei- 
tioun  of  al  lioli  writ.  .  .  .  Therforc  no  simple  man  of  wit  lie  aferd  iinmesiiraljli  to  stmlie 
in  the  text  of  lioly  writ.' 

'  Tlip  impartial  tiistori.-m  of  opinions  mnst  he  early  impressed  witli  tlie  mournful 
truth  that  all  reliijions  ai;ree  in  forexi'r  rewardiuLT  tlu'  believi'r  and  forever  daninini,'  the 
one  who  doubts  or  denies, —  the  lieretie.  Under  the  irreat  law^  of  eternal  dt\  elopinent, 
are  we  not  all  heretics? 


202        INITIATIVE   PERIOD  —  REPKESENTATIYE   AUTHORS. 

In  this  spirit,  Protestant  Wyclijffe  translates  the  Testament,  Old 
and  New,  which  men  will  consult,  not  for  amusement,  but  to  find 
in  it  their  doom  of  life  and  death,  and  to  learn  a  new  worship, 
without  the  rites  that  smother  a  living  piety  beneath  external 
forms. 

Style. — Rugged,  homely,  sometimes  slovenly ;  but  always 
clear,  terse,  vehement,  stinging,  as  if  feeling  ever  the  galling 
shackles  of  spiritual  despotism.  The  mind  intent  upon  the  eter- 
nal tragedy  of  the  conscience  is  disdainful  of  elegance. 

S.ailk. — In  the  immense  range  of  his  intellectual  powder,  he 
stood  in  Oxford  without  a  rival.  Like  Bacon,  Scotus,  and  Occam, 
an  audacious  partisan;  unlike  them,  a  dexterous  politician.  The 
organizer  of  a  religious  order,  the  founder  of  our  later  English 
prose;  first  of  the  great  Reformers  and  last  of  the  great  Scholas- 
tics. The  grandeur  of  his  position  is  marked,  as  well  by  the 
reluctance  to  adopt  extreme  measures  against  him,  as  by  the 
admission  of  a  contemporary  and  opponent,  who  acknowledged 
him  to  be  'the  greatest  tlieologian  of  the  day,  second  to  none 
as  a  philosopher,  and  incomparable  as  a  schoolman.'  To  be  the 
first,  amidst  a  host  of  prejudices  and  errors,  to  strike  out  into  a 
new  and  untried  way,  indicates  a  genius  above  the  connnon  order. 

Character. — Devout,  benevolent,  austere;  a  man  of  sterling 
sense,  of  amazing  industry,  of  ardent  zeal,  with  the  stout-heart- 
edness  that  dared  be  singular  for  God  and  the  right.  Altogether 
a  brave  and  admirable  spirit,  open  to  the  divine  significance  of 
life;  seeing  through  the  show  of  things,  believing  in  the  truth  of 
things,  and  striking  with  tlie  poets,  in  a  troul)lous  period,  the 
first  blow  of  demolition  against  an  ancient  thing  grown  false, 
preparatory  afar  off  to  a  new  thing. 

Influence. — To  Wycliife  is  due  the  establishment  of  a  sacred 
diaU'ct,  whicli,  with  slight  variation,  as  will  appear  below  in  his 
version  of  the  first  chapter  of  the  Gospd  of  St.  Jfar/>\  has  con- 
tinued to  be  the  language  of  devotion  to  the  present  day: 

'1.  The  l)iL'yniiyiiiro  of  tlu'  t:os])cl  of  Jliesu  Crist,  tlic  soiic  of  (lod. 

'J.  A-  it  i~  \M'ituii  ill  Vsaic,  the  i)roplieto,  Lo !  I  send  myii  aiiL'ol  liiforc  thi  face,  tliat 
schal  make  thi  weye  redy  before  tliee. 

'■i.  Tile  voyee  of  ooii  eryiiiL'e  in  desert.  Make  ye  redy  tlie  weye  of  the  Lord,  make  ye 
his  pathis  rilitful. 


PRECURSOR    OF   THE    REFORMATION.  203 

4.  John  was  in  desert  baptisynge,  and  prechinge  the  baptys^m  of  penaunce,  into 
remisciouu  of  synnes. 

5.  And  alle  men  of  Jerusalem  wenten  out  to  him  and  al  the  cuntree  of  Judee;  and 
weren  baptisid  of  him  in  the  flood  of  Jordan,  knowlui-hinge  her  synnes. 

0.  And  John  was  clothid  with  heeris  of  camelis,  and  a  girdil  of  skyn  abowte  his 
leendis;  and  he  oet  locusts,  and  hony  of  the  wode,  and  precliide,  seyinge: 

7.  A  strengere  than  I  schal  come  aftir  me,  of  whom  I  knelinge  am  not  worthi  for  to 
vndo,  or  vnbynde,  the  thwong  of  his  schoon. 

8.  I  have  baptisid  you  in  water:  forsothe  he  shall  baptise  you  in  the  Holy  Goost."  .  .  . 

He  and  his  school  introduced  or  popularized  many  Latin  and 
Romance  terms;  and  thus  enriched  literary  diction  by  enriching' 
that  of  familiar  currency,  from  which  the  Shakespeares  draw 
their  stock  of  living  and  breathing  words. 

He  accomplished  a  work  which  no  ecclesiastical  censure  could 
set  aside.  The  period  was  eminently  favorable  to  a  successful 
revolt  through  a  general  spirit  of  disaffection  to  the  pope.  Men 
of  rank  became  his  adherents.  The  learned  of  Oxford  were  his 
apostles.  Wandering  scholars  carried  his  writing  into  Bohemia, 
and  disseminated  his  principles.  Lollardism  spread  through 
every  class  of  society,  a  floating  mass  of  religious  and  social  dis- 
content. The  grave  nor  persecution  could  extinguish  tlie  new 
forces  of  thouo-ht  and  feelins;  which  were  breakinij  throuo-h  the 
crust  of  feudalism.  His  Bible  was  proscribed;  his  votaries,  as 
will  presently  appear,  were  imprisoned  and  burned;  but  the  seed 
had  been  dropped,  and  was  rooted  in  the  soil.  Tliirty  years 
hence  the  vultures  of  the  law  will  uiigrave  him,  and  consuming 
to  ashes  what  little  they  can  find,  will  cast  it  into  the  brook  that 
runs  hard  by,  thinking  thus  to  make  away  both  with  his  bones 
and  his  doctrines;  but  — 

'As  thou  these  ashc<,  little  brook,  wilt  bear 

Into  the  Avon  —  Avon  to  ilie  tide 

Of  Severn  —  Severn  to  the  narrow  sens  — 

Into  main  ocean  they  —  tliis  deed  accurst 

An  emblem  yields  to  friends  and  enemies, 

Hf)W  tlie  bold  teacher's  doctrine,  sanctilied 

By  trutli,  stiall  spread  tlirougliout  tlu;  world  dispersed.' 

When  the  'simple  preacliers'  liave  sluinl)ere(l  a  century  and  a 
half,  their  day  of  triumph  will  l)o  at  hand.  The  ago,  though 
strongly  disposed,  is  not  yet  ripe  for  revolution.  Reforms  or- 
dained to  be  permanent  are  of  slow  growth. 


204         INITIATIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 


CHAUCER. 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 

With  sounds  that  echo  still. —  Tennyson. 

Biography, — Born  in  London,  1328, — 'the  city  of  London, 
that  is  to  nie  so  dear  and  sweet  in  which  I  was  forth-grown'; 
studied  at  Cambridge,  then  at  Oxford;  acquired  all  branches  of 
scholastic  and  elegant  literature,  Latin,  Italian,  English,  and 
French;  was  page  in  the  royal  household;  served  in  the  army, 
was  taken  prisoner  in  France;  again  at  the  court  of  Edward  III, 
the  most  splendid  in  Europe,  surrounded  by  the  wit,  beauty,  and 
gallantry  of  chivalry;  marries  the  queen's  maid  of  honor,  wonder- 
ing that  Heaven  had  fashioned  such  a  being, — 

'And  in  so  little  space 
Made  such  a  body,  and  such  face; 
So  great  beauty  and  such  features 
More  than  be  in  other  creatures!' 

thus  brother-in-law  of  the  heir  apparent  to  the  throne,  Duke  of 
Lancaster,  strengthening  their  political  bond  by  a  family  alliance; 
an  ambassador  in  open  or  secret  missions  to  Florence,  Genoa, 
Flanders;  takes  part  in  pomps  of  France  and  Milan;  converses 
with  Petrarch,  perhaps  with  Boccaccio  and  Froissart;  is  high  up 
and  low  down, —  now  a  placeholder,  now  disgraced,  now  the  ad- 
mired of  the  Court,  now  an  exile  dreading  to  see  the  face  of  a 
stranger,  now  incarcerated  in  the  Tower,  and  again  basking  in 
the  sunshine  of  kingly  favor;  at  one  time  occupied  with  cere- 
monies and  processions,  at  another  secluded  in  his  lovely  retreat 
at  Woodstock;  finally,  weary  of  the  hurry  and  turmoil  of  the 
varied  and  l)rilliant  world,  retiring  to  the  coiintry  quiet  of  l)on- 
niiigton  Castle;  then,  l)owed  beneath  the  weight  of  years,  dying 
in  Palace-yard  on  the  2.")th  of  October,  1400, —  his  earthly  friend- 
ship dissolved, —  liiiiisolf  tlie  only  withered  leaf  upon  a  stately 
Vjranch.  He  was  the  first  buried  in  what  is  now  famous  as  the 
Poets'  Corner  of  Westminster  Al)bey. 

What  an  education  was  that,  with  its  splendor,  varieties,  con- 
trasts I      What  a  stage  for  the  mind  and  eyes  of  an  artist  ! 

Appearance. — Of   middle   stature,    late    in   ]if(>   inclining  to 


THE    DAWN    OF   ART  —  CHAUCER.  205 

corpulency, —  a  point  upon  wliich  the  Tabard  host  takes  occasion 
to  jest  with  him: 

'Now  ware  you,  sirs,  and  let  this  man  have  place; 
He  in  the  waist  is  shaped  as  well  as  I: 
This  were  a  poppet  in  armes  to  embrace.' 

Of  full  face,  indicative  of  health  and  serenity;  of  fair  complexion, 
verging  towards  paleness;  of  dusky  yellow  hair,  sliort  and  thin, 
with  small  round-trimmed  beard;  of  aquiline  nose,  of  expansive 
marble-like  forehead,  and  drooping  eyes, —  a  peculiarity  likewise 
noticed  by  the  host: 

"'What  man  art  thou,"  quoth  he, 
"That  lookest  as  thou  wouldest  find  a  hare? 
Forever  on  the  ground  I  see  thee  stare.'" ' 

His  ordinary  dress  consisted  of  a  loose  frock  of  camlet,  reaching 
to  the  knee,  with  wide  sleeves  fastened  at  the  wrist;  a  dark  hood, 
with  tippet,  or  tail,  which  indoors  hung  down  his  back,  and 
outdoors  was  twisted  round  his  head;  bright-red  stockings,  and 
black,  horned  shoes. 

Diction. — As  to  the  ancient  accentuation,  we  are  much  in 
the  dark.  Certainly  it  was  not  in  all  respects  like  that  of  our 
own  day.  It  is  slightly  different  even  in  Shakespeare  and  his 
contemporaries  from  what  it  now  is.  For  example,  aspect,  which 
in  tlieir  time  was  always  accented  on  the  last  syllable,  is  now 
accented  on  the  first.  A  short  composition  is  now  called  an 
hsciy,  but  a  century  ago  it  was  called  an  essay.     Thus  Po])e, — 

'And  write  next  winter  more  essays  on  man." 

At  an  earlier  period,  this  change  was  much  more  active.  There 
was  no  recognised  standard  of  accidence,  and  the  modes  of  spell- 
ing, as  of  emphasis,  were  extremely  irregular.  It  will  render  thc^ 
approach  to  Chaucer's  poetry  easier,  to  remember: 

1.  That  the  Romance  canons  of  verse,  which  were  adoptcnl  as 
the  laws  of  poetical  composition,  tended  to  throw  the  stress  of 
voice  upon  the  final  syllable,  contrary  to  the  Saxon  articulation, 
which  inclined  to  emphasize  the  initial  syllable.  Hence  the  pro- 
nunciation would  oscillate  between  the  two  systems.  Thus  Chau- 
cer has  lanf/ar/e  in  one  line,  lanydye.  in  another,  as  the  veise 
may  require. 

2.  The  ed  at  the  end  of  verbs,  and  the  es,  when  it  is  the  jilmal 
or  possessive  termination  of  a  noun,  should  generally  be  soiiiuleil 
as  distinct  syllables. 


206         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

3.  The  presence  of  their  Anglo-Saxon  root  is  often  denoted 
by  an  ?i  at  the  end  of  words;  as,  'Thou  shalt  boi  quit'  (be), 
'■  icithoutcJi  doubt'  (without),  'I  shall  you  telhn''  (toll). 

4.  Not  infrequently  two  negatives  are  used;  as,  'I  ??'ill  nat 
go'  (will  not),  'I  ^^'am  nat  sure'  (am  not),  'I  ne  owe  hem  not  a 
word  '  (do  not  owe). 

5.  Forms  of  the  personal  pronouns  ai"e  exhibited  in  the  follow- 
in";  declension: 


Sing. 

1st  person. 

2d  person. 

3d])erson. 

Norn. 

I,  Ic 

thou 

he 

she 

hit,  it 

Gen. 

inin,  mi 

thin,  thi 

his 

hire,  hir 

his 

Ace. 

me 

the,  thee 

him 

liir,  hire 

hit,  it 

Plural. 

Xoiii. 

wo 

ye 

the,  they 

Gen. 

our,  on  re 

you  re,  your 

here 

Act. 

us 

you 

hem. 

G.  Final  e  (with  us  totally  inoperative  upon  the  syllabication) 
is  usually  pronounced, —  silent  before  h  or  a  vowel;  as  AjyriU'e, 
sicoote. 

Chaucer's  position,  so  far  as  we  know,  has  no  parallel  in  liter- 
ary liistory.  His  poems  are  not  in  a  foreign  language  —  hardly 
in  our  own.  They  present  to  the  eye  terms  that  are  familiar,  and 
terms  that  are  uncouth.  The  use  of  a  glossary  is  wearisome;  the 
intermingling  of  sunsiiine  and  shadow,  in  which  the  reader  is  un- 
certain how  long  the  clearness  will  continue,  and  how  soon  the 
obscurity  will  recur,  is  vexatious.  He  is  the  star  of  a  misty  morn- 
ing. 

Versification. —  Chaucer  composed  several  pieces  in  octosyl- 
lal)ic  metre  —  iambic  tetrameter;  but  by  far  the  most  considera- 
ble ])art  of  his  poetry  was  written  in  our  present  heroic  measure 
—  iambic  pentameter  in  rhymed  couplets  or  stanzas.  In  prac- 
tice, spondees  (  -  -  ),  trochees  (  -  ^  ),  and  anapaests  (  w  ^  -  ) 
are  often  introduced.  To  vary  the  position  of  the  accents  pre- 
vents monotonv;  to  reduce  their  inonhcr,  as  from  five  to  four, 
(juickeiis  the  movement  of  the  line.  A  line  may  be  catalectic  — 
wanting  a  syllable;  or  hypercatalectic  —  lengthened  by  a  syllable 
or  even  two,  which  gives  a  lifting  billowy  rhythm.  Ijv  a  little 
attention  to  the  law  of  the  vers(\  the  difficulties  of  ]ironunciation 
will  greatly  diminish,  and  the  air  of  archaism  will  rather  enhance 
the  effect.     Thus  of  the  death  of  Arcite: 


THE   DAWN    OF   ART  —  CHAUCER.  207 

'And  with  that  \v6rd  his  spech*  failtf  gaii; 
For  fro  his  fcete  up  too  liis  brest  was  come 

The  cuUl  of  dt'th  that  hadde  liiin  6vern6ine  {overtaken 

And  yet  moreover  in  his  arm**'  twoo 
The  vital  strength  is  lost,  and  al  agou. 
Only  the  intellect,  withoiiten  more, 
That  dwelled  in  liis  hert«  sik  and  s6re, 
Gan  fayle  when  the  he'rte  felt«  deth." 

The  poet  himself  seems  anxious  that  transcribers  and  reciters 
should  not  violate  his  metre.  Thus,  gracefully  bidding  adieu  to 
a  finished  poem,  he  adds: 

'And  for  there  is  so  grcte  dpersite 
In  English  and  in  writynge  of  our  tonge, 
So  preye  I  God  that  non  miswrite  thee 
Xe  thee  mismetre  for  defaute  of  tonge.' 

His  stanza  —  called  rJojme  royal,  from  the  circumstance  of  its 
being  used  by  a  royal  follower  —  was  formed  from  the  Italian 
octave  rhyme  by  the  omission  of  the  fifth  line.  It  thus  consists 
of  seven  lines,  three  on  each  side  of  a  middle  one,  which  is  the 
last  of  a  quatrain  of  alternate  rhymes,  and  first  of  a  quatrain  of 
couplets.     Thus: 

'"Xay,  God  forbede  a  lover  sliulde  chaungel" 
The  turtcl  seyde,  and  wex  for  shame  al  reed: 
"Thoogh  tliat  liys  lady  evermore  be  straunge. 
Yet  let  hyni  serve  liir  ever,  tyl  he  l)e  deed. 
Forsoth,  I  ])reyse  noght  the  gooses  reed: 
For  though  she  deyed,  I  wolde  noon  other  make: 
I  wol  ben  hirs  til  that  the  deth  me  take."" 

It  remained  a  favorite  with  English  poets  down  to  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth. 

In  rhythmic  history,  Langland  terminates  the  ancient  period, 
and  Chaucer  begins  the  modern.  The  first  presents  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  tvpe  ^  '^  >  ' J  '  ^^^it  with  the  accent  at  the  second  time- 
unit  of  the  bar  instead  of  tlie  first.      Thus: 


In     a    soin        -        er         se    -    son         whan  soft    was 


*        >       ^ 


0  0        0      \      0  0        0     0      \      0^     0        0       \      0  0  0       \ 

1  sliop  -  e  nif  in  sliroud-es    as  I       a    slic])      -       e        wi-r    -    c 

The  second  presents  the  same,  with  the  last  two  of  tlu^  eight Ii- 
notes  joined  together  into  a  quart (M--note;  as  if  in  iiiu>ic  wi- 
should  write    T      *  ,  where   tlie  slur  '"^  unites  two  sounds  in  (ine 


208         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

precisely  equivalent   to    f .      Hence  for  the  predominant  form 
3:    f    f    r  >  ^'6  have  the  predominant  form  3:    f    f  .     Thus: 


0    0 

u   1 

0 

1 

0 

0 

1        0 

1    u 

1 

• 
1        P 

f 

Whil-om 

as 

old 

e 

sto 

ries 

tell 

en 

us 

0   ; 

0 

f 

'  : 

1 

1        0 

1     u 

1 

1    u 

1 

There  was 

a 

due 

that  hight 

e 

The 

»c 

-    118 

"Writings. — Like  all  the  rest,  Chaucer  begins  as  a  copyist, 
and,  turning  with  greatest  sympathy  to  those  in  whom  the 
romantic  element  is  strongest,  translates  the  Jioniatmt  of'  the 
Hose,  an  allegorical  love  poem,  built  up  by  the  troubadours  into 
colossal  proportions,  one  of  the  most  famous  in  the  fashionable 
literature  of  the  time.  Under  the  figure  of  a  rose  in  a  delicious 
garden,  it  portrays  the  trials  of  a  lover,  who  in  the  attainment  of 
his  desire,  has  to  traverse  vast  ditches,  scale  lofty  walls,  and  force 
the  gates  of  castles.  These  enchanted  fortresses  are  inhabited 
by  visible  divinities,  some  of  whom  assist  and  some  oppose.  The 
garden  itself  is  enclosed  with  embattled  masonry,  whereon  are 
the  emblematic  Hatred,  Avarice,  Envy,  Sorrow,  Old  Age,  and 
Hypocrisy.  AVithin  are  the  smiling  dancers,  and,  by  way  of  con- 
trast, Danger,  who  starts  suddenly  from  an  ambuscade,  and  sad. 
Travail,  who  forever  mingles  with  the  merry  company.  All  this, 
as  usual,  is  seen  in  a  dream,  a  dream  of  May,  with  its  mantling- 
green  and  gladsome  melody  of  birds: 

'Thiit  it  was  May  me  thouKhtcn  Iho,  [t/ien 

It  is  five  ytar  or  more  ago. 
That  it  was  May  thus  dreamed  me 
In  time  of  love  and  jollity.  .  .  . 
And  then  becomelh  the  ground  so  pniiid 
That  it  woU  have  a  newe  shrowd. 
And  make  so  quaint  his  robe  and  fair 
That  it  had  hews  an  hundred  pair, 

Of  grass  and  nouri's  Ind  and  Pors,  [Indian,  Persian 

And  many  hewes  full  diverse.   .  .  . 
The  hirdcs,  that  han  left  tlieir  song 
While  they  had  siifrcicd  cold  full  strong 

In  weathers  gril,  and  derk  to  sight,  [dreanj 

Been  in  May  for  the  sunne  bright 
So  glad,  that  they  shew  in  singing 
That  in  their  lieart  is  such  liking. 

That  they  mote  singen  and  been  light 

Then  yoiinge  folk  intenden  aye 


THE   DAWN   OF   ART  —  CHAUCER.  209 

For  to  been  gay  and  amorous. 
The  time  is  then  !so  savouroii;;. 
Hard  is  his  heart  that  loveth  nought 
In  May,  when  all  this  mirth  is  wrought, 
When  he  may  on  these  branches  hear 
The  smale  blrdes  singen  clear 
Their  blissful  swete  song  pitous." 

Under  the  influence  of  the  prevalent  taste  for  novelty  and 
splendor,  he  writes  the  House  of  Fame,  known  to  modern  read- 
ers chiefly  through  Pope's  paraphrase,  bearing  the  statelier  title 
of  the  'Temple  of  Fame.'  Chaucer  is  transported  in  a  dream  to 
the  Temple  of  Venus,  which  is  of  glass,  in  a  wide  waste  of  sand, 
and  on  whose  walls  are  figured  in  gold  all  the  legends  of  Virgil 
and  Ovid.  Dante's  eagle,  glittering  like  a  carbuncle,  looks  on 
him  from  the  sun: 

'That  faste  by  the  sonne,  as  hye 
As  kenne  myght  I  with  myn  eye, 
Me  thought  I  sawgh  an  egle  sore, 
But  that  hit  semede  mochc  more 
Then  I  had  any  egle  seyne.  .  .  . 
Hit  was  of  golde  and  shone  so  bryght, 
Tliat  never  sawgh  man  such  a  syght." 

Suddenly  the  eagle  descends  with  lightning  wing,  and,  bearing 
him  aloft  in  his  talons  above  the  stars,  drops  him  at  last  before 
the  House  of  Fame,  built  of  polished  beryl,  and  standing  on  a 
rock  of  almost  inaccessil)le  ice.  All  the  soutliern  side  is  covered 
with  the  names  of  famous  men  —  perpetually  melting  away  I 
The  northern  side  is  alike  graven,  but  the  names,  here  shaded, 
remain.  All  around,  on  the  turrets,  are  the  minstrels,  with 
Orpheus,  Arion,  and  the  renowned  harpers.  Behind  them  are 
myriad  musicians,  then  charmers,  magicians,  and  prophets.  He 
enters,  and  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  paved  and  roofed  with 
gold,  and  embossed  witli  gems,  sees  Fame  seated  on  a  throne  of 
carbuncle,  a  'gret  and  noble  queue,'  amidst  an  infinite  number  of 
heralds,  robed  nobles,  and  crowned  heads.  From  her  throne  to 
tlie  gate  stretches  a  row  of  pillars,  on  which  stand  the  great  his- 
torians and  poets.  The  ]ialace  rings  with  the  sounds  of  instru- 
ments, and  the  celestial  melodv  of  Callio{)e  and  her  seven  sisters, 
in  eternal  praise  of  the  goddess.  People  of  every  nation  and 
condition  crowd  the  hall  to  pr<'sent  their  claims.  Some  ask  fame 
for  their  good  works,  and  are  denied  gcKxl  or  bad  fame.  Others 
who  merit  well,  are  trumjicted  l)y  Slaiidcr.  A  few  obtain  tlicir 
just  reward.     Some,  who  have  done  nobly,  desire  their  good  works 


210        INITIATIVE   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

to  be  hidden,  and  their  request  is  granted.  Others  make  request, 
and  their  deeds  are  trumpeted  through  clarion  of  gold.  Chaucer 
himself  refuses  to  be  a  petitioner.  Enough  that  he  best  knows 
what  he  has  suffered,  and  what  thought.  He  is  then  carried  by 
the  eagle  to  the  House  of  Rumor,  sixty  miles  long  and  perpetually 
whirling.  Made  of  twrgs  like  a  cage,  it  admits  every  sound.  Its 
doors,  more  numerous  than  forest  leaves,  stand  ever  ajar.  Thence 
issue  tidings  of  every  description,  like  fountains  and  rivers  from 
the  sea,  flying  first  to  Fame,  who  gives  them  name  and  duration. 
Would  you  know  how  the  waves  of  air  perambulate  the  oceans  of 
space  —  how  the  lightest  word  speeds  unerringly  to  its  destina- 
tion, and  mayhap  in  the  Hereafter  will  vibrate  still  in  the  speak- 
er's ear  —  how  the  atmosphere  we  breathe  may  be  the  ever-living 
witness  of  the  sentiments  we  have  uttered?     Listen: 

'Sound  is  naught  but  air  tliat's  l)rokcn, 
And  every  speeche  that  is  spokun, 
Whc"cr  loud  or  low,  foul  or  fair, 
In  his  substance  is  but  air: 
For  as  flame  is  l)ut  lighted  smoke, 
Right  so  is  sound  but  air  that's  broke.  .  .  . 
Now,  henceforth,  I  will  thee  teach 
However,  speechu,  voice  or  sown. 
Through  his  multiplicion, 
Though  it  were  piped  of  a  mouse, 
Must  needs  come  to  Fame's  House. 
I  prove  it  ihus;  takelh  heed  now 
By  experience,  for  if  that  thou 
Throw  in  a  water  now  a  stone. 
Well  wofst  thou  it  will  make  anon 
A  little  roundel  as  a  circle. 
Par  venture  as  l)road  as  a  covercle. 
And  riirht  anon  thou  shalt  see  well 
That  circle  cause  another  wheel. 
And  that  the  third,  and  so  forth,  brother, 
Every  circle  causing  other. 
Much  broader  than  himselfen  was: 
Right  so  of  air,  my  leve  brother, 
Ever  eacli  air  another  stirreth 
More  and  more,  and  speech  upbcareth, 
Till  it  be  at  the  House  of  Fame.' 

The  occupants  of  this  house  —  chiefly  sailors,  pilgrims,  and  par- 
doners—  are  continually  employed  in  hearing  or  telling  news, 
inventing  and  circulating  reports  and  lies.  In  one  corner,  the 
poet  sees  a  throng  of  eager  listeners  around  a  narrator  of  love- 
stories.  The  uproar  about  this  shadow  of  himself  wakes  him 
from   his  dream. 

Grand  suffirestiveness  here,  true  .strokes  of  the  Gothic  imagi- 


THE   DAWN   OF   ART  —  CHAUCER.  211 

nation.  Pass  away  the  highest  things  !  There  are  no  eternal 
corner-stones.  All  things  that  have  been  in  this  place  of  hope, 
all  that  are  or  will  be  in  it,  earth's  wonder  and  her  pride,  have 
to  vanish, —  rising  only  to  melt  in  air  and  be  no  more  ! 

Amid  all  this  exuberancy,  love  is  the  sovereign  passion.  As 
we  have  seen,  it  has  the  force  of  law.  It  is  inscribed  in  a  code, 
combined  with  religion,  confounding  morality  with  pleasure,  dis- 
playing the  fatal  excess  and  pedantry  of  the  age.  From  his 
sojourn  beneath  Italian  skies,  Chaucer  returns  with  his  Northern 
brain  powerfully  stimulated,  and,  with  close  attention  to  his  origi- 
nals, writes  the  story  of  Tro'ilus  and  Creseide,  in  which  the  well- 
loved  visions  wear  a  more  tangible  form,  and  mingle  in  a  more 
consecutive  history,  than  in  the  hazy  distance  of  allegory.  It  is 
a  tale  of  Troy  told  in  tlie  Middle  Ages.  A  Trojan  seer,  warned 
by  Apollo  that  Troy  must  fall,  deserts  to  the  Greeks,  leaving  be- 
hind him  in  the  beleaguered  city  his  beautiful  daughter  Creseide, 
overwhelmed  with  grief  at  her  father's  treachery.  Troilus,  valor- 
ous brother  of  Hector,  sees  her  in  the  temple,  clad  in  mourning, 
and  loves: 

'And  when  that  he  in  chaumber  was  allon. 
He  clown  upon  hi*  beddes  feet  him  i^ette. 

And  thought  a"y  on  hire  so,  witlioutvn  lette  [Cfonng 

That  as  he  satt  and  woke,  his  spirit  niette  [fancmt 

That  he  hire  saugh,  and  temple,  and  al  the  wj'se  [manner 

Right  of  hire  loku,  and  gan  it  new  avise.'  [cons'vler 

Like  Dante,  he  is  reticent,  would  languish  and  die  in  silence  Init 
for  Pandarus,  her  uncle,  who  persuades  him  to  disclose  the  name 
of  his  love  and  promises  to  forward  his  suit.  Troilus  is  born 
anew  —  an  invincible  knight,  yet  gentle,  generous,  and  sincere; 
his  cruelty,  his  levity,  his  haughty  carriage,  all  gone;  of  so  gentle 
manner, — 

'That  each  him  loved  that  locked  in  his  face.' 

Pandarus  seeks  his  niece,  witli  the  comforting  adieu, — 

'Give  me  this  labour  and  this  business, 
And  of  my  speed  \w  thine  all  the  sweetness.' 

He  prevails  upon  her  to  ])ity  his  friend,  takes  his  leave  'glad  and 
well  begone.'  As  she  sits  alone  in  troubled  meditation,  a  shout 
in  the  street  proclaims  the  victorious  advance  of  Troi'his,  who, 
omnipotent  in  hope,  has  put  the  Greeks  to  (light,  and  comes 
a  conquering  hero.  She  sees  his  triumph,  marks  his  mode.st 
deineanor, — 


212         INITIATIVE    PERIOD — llEPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'  And  let  it  in  her  heart  so  softly  sink 
That  to  herself  she  said,  "Flo!    give  me  drink."  ' 

She  blushes,  drops  her  liead,  thinks  of  his  prowess,  his  estate,  his 
fame, —  above  all,  of  his  distress;  almost  decides  that  she  will 
love,  then  thinks  of  the  woes  of  love: 

'For  love  is  yet  the  n\oste  storniy  life 
Right  of  himself  that  ever  was  begun. 

For  ever  some  mistrust  or  nice  strife  [foolish 

There  is  in  love  some  cloud  over  the  sun; 

Thereto  we  wretched  women  nothing  conne,  [can  do 

When  us  is  woe,  but  weep,  and  sit,  and  think: 
Our  wreak  is  this,  our  owne  woe  to  drink.'  [revenge 

TroYlus,  in  wasting  suspense,  asks  his  friend,  just  returned, 
*  Shall  I  weep  or  sing  ?  '  Assured  of  her  friendly  regard,  he  fears 
his  heart  will  leap  forth,  'it  spreadetli  so  for  joy': 

'But,  Lord,  how  shall  I  doen?  how  shall  I  liven? 
When  shall  I  next  my  own  dear  heart  ysee? 
How  shall  this  longe  time  away  be  driven 
Till  that  thou  be  again  at  her  from  me? 
Thou  may'st  answer,  "Abide,  abide";   but  he 
That  hangeth  by  the  neck,  the  soth  to  sain. 
In  great  disease  abideth  for  the  pain."  [discomfort 

In  answer,  Pandarus  recommends  him  to  write  a  letter,  and  fur- 
thermore, to  ride,  as  it  were  accidentally,,  by  her  house,  when  he 
will  take  care  that  she  shall  be  at  the  window  engaged  in  conver- 
sation with  himself, —  the  subject  the  man  whom  he  desires  to 
serve.  When  the  letter  is  brought,  she  is  ashamed  to  open  it, 
and  consents  only  when  told  the  poor  kniglit  is  about  to  die. 
When  asked  how  she  likes  it,  'all  rosy  hucd  then  waxeth  she'; 
refuses,  however,  to  answer  it,  but  yields  at  leng'tli  to  the  impor- 
tunities of  her  uncle,  a>id  writes  that  she  will  feel  for  him  the 
affection  of  a  sister: 

'She  thanked  him  of  all  that  he  well  meant 
Townrdes  her,  liiit  holden  him  in  hand 
She  woulde  not,  ne  niaken  herself  bond 
In  love,  but  MS  his  sister  him  to  please. 
She  would  aye  fain  to  do  his  heart  an  ease.' 

Wlieii  the  messenger  arrives,  TroVlus  trembles,  pales,  doubts  his 
happines.s.  All  night  long  he  ponders  how  he  mav  best  merit  her 
favor.  Slowly,  a  ('tor  many  heart-aches,  and  much  stratagem  on 
the  part  of  Pandarus.  he  ol)taiiis  her  delicate  confession: 

'And  as  the  new  abashed  ni!;htin)iale, 
Tliiit   sliiilcth   first,  when  she  bcErlnncth  sing. 
When  that  she  hearitli  any  licrdes  tale,  [shepherd's  call 


THE    DAWN    OF    ART  —  CHAUCER.  213 

Or  in  the  hedges  any  wight  stirring; 

And  after,  siker  doth  her  voice  out  ring; —  [more  boldly 

Riglit  so  Creseid",  when  that  lier  dread  stent,  [ceased 

Opened  her  heart,  and  told  him  her  intent.' 

Of  their  delight,  judge  'ye  that  have  been  at  the  feast  of  such 
gladness  ! '  They  exchange  rings,  and  part,  vowing  eternal  con- 
stancy.    As  to  him, — 

'In  alle  nedes  for  the  townes  war 

He  was,  and  aye  the  first  in  amies  dight,  [dad 

And  certainly,  but  if  that  bookes  err. 
Save  Hector  most  idread  of  any  wight; 
And  this  encrease  of  hardiness  and  might 

Come  him  of  love  his  lady's  thank  to  win,  [reward 

That  altered  his  spirit  so  within.' 

All  day  long  she  sings: 

'Whom  should  I  thanken  but  yon,  god  of  love. 
Of  all  this  blisse,  in  which  to  bathe  1  ginue? 
And  thanked  be  ye,  lorde,  for  that  I  love, 
This  is  the  right  life  that  I  am  inne, 

To  flemen  all  mauer  vice  and  sinne:  [banlsfi 

This  doth  me  so  to  vertue  for  to  entende 
That  dale  by  daie  I  in  my  will  amende. 
And  who  that  saieth  that  for  to  love  is  vice,  .  .  . 
He  either  is  envious,  or  right  nice, 
Or  is  unmightie  for  his  shrudnesse 
To  loven.  .  .  . 

But  I  with  all  mine  herte  and  all  my  might. 
As  I  have  saied,  woll  love  unto  my  last, 
My  owne  dere  herte,  and  all  mine  owue  knight. 
In  whiche  mine  herte  growen  is  so  fast. 
And  his  in  me,  that  it  shall  ever  last.' 

'But  all  too  little,  welaway  !  lastoth  such  joy,'  A  truce  between 
the  two  armies  is  struck.  Her  fatlier  Calchas  reclaims  her.  Told 
that  she  is  to  be  exchanged  for  a  prisoner,  she  swoons,  and  Troi- 
lus,  thinking  her  dead,  cries: 

'O  cruel  Jove!   and  thou  Fortune  adverse! 
This  all  and  some  is,  falsely  have  ye  slain 
Creseid",  and  sith  ye  may  do  me  no  worse. 
Fie  on  your  might  and  workes  so  diverse! 
Thus  cowardly  ye  sliall  me  never  win: 
There  shall  no  death  me  from  my  lady  twin.'  [separatr' 

Love  sports  with  death  when  it  mak(\s  th(»  whole  of  life,  ^^'itll 
his  sword  unsheatlied,  lie  calls  upon  the  loved  and  lost  to  rcci^ivc 
his  spirit: 

'But  as  God  would,  of  swoon  shi'  then  nhraid,  [a'la^'f'f 

And  gan  to  sigh,  and  "TroTlus!""  she  cried: 
And  he  answered;   "Lady  mine,  Creseid'! 
Liven  ye  yet?"  and  let  liis  sword  down  irlidc 
"Yea,  hearte  mine!   tliat  thanked  be  (.'lipid," 


214        INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

(Quod  she)  and  therewithal  she  sore  sight,  [sighed 

And  he  began  to  glad  her  as  he  might; 

Took  her  in  amies  two,  and  kiss'd  her  oft. 

And  her  to  glad  he  did  all  his  intent. 

For  which  her  ghost,  that  flickered  aj'e  aloft, 

Into  lier  woful  heart  again  it  went; 

But  ut  the  last,  as  that  her  oven  glent  [glanced 

Aside,  anon  she  "gan  his  sword  espy 

As  it  lay  bare,  and  "gan  for  fear  to  cry. 

And  asked  him  why  he  had  it  out  draw? 

And  Trollus  anon  the  cause  her  told. 

And  how  himself  therewith  he  would  have  slaw;  [slain 

For  which  Creseid'  upon  him  'gan  behold. 

And  "gan  him  in  her  amies  fast  to  fold. 

And  said;  "O  mercy,  God  I  lo  which  a  deedl 

Alas  I  how  nigh  we  weren  bothe  dead!'" 

Separated  at  last,  he  despairs,  hears  the  '  bird  of  night '  shriek, 
arranges  for  his  sepulture,  bequeaths  to  his  lady  the  ashes  of  his 
heart  in  a  golden  urn;  is  exhorted  to  calm  himself,  bidden  remem- 
ber that  he  is  a  knight,  that  others  —  the  wisest  and  best  —  have 
been  separated  from  their  lovers,  and  are  so  every  day,  even  for- 
ever ;  goes  reluctantly  with  Pandarus  to  a  royal  banquet,  to 
forget  his  sorrow,  but  amid  the  revelry  of  beauty,  wit,  and  wealth, 
sees  and  hears  only  the  absent  : 

'On  her  was  ever  all  that  his  heart  thought. 
Now  this  now  that  so  fast  imagining 
That  gladden,  iwis,  can  him  no  feasting.' 

Alone  he  murmurs: 

'Who  sceili  you  now,  my  right  lodestar? 
Who  siiteth  now  or  stant  in  your  presence? 
Wlio  can  coinforten  now  your  heartes  war, 
Xow  1  am  gone?  whom  give  ye  audience? 
Who  speaketh  for  me  now  in  my  absence? 
Alas!  no  wiglit,  and  that  is  all  my  care. 
For  well  wote  I,  as  ill  as  I  ye  fare.  .  .  . 

O  lovesome  lady  bright  I 
How  have  ye  fared  since  that  yc  were  there? 
Welcome  iwis,  mine  owne  lady  dear  I  .  .  . 
Every  tiling  came  him  to  remembrance 
As  he  rode  forth  by  places  of  the  town 
In  which  he  whilome  had  all  his  pleasance; 
Lol  yonder  saw  I  mine  own  lady  dance. 
And  in  that  temple  witli  her  eyen  clear 
Mf  captive  cauglit  first  my  riglit  lady  dear: 

And  yonder  have  I  licard  full  lustily 

My  dear  heart  Creseid'  laiiL'h,  and  yonder  iilay 

Saw  I  her  ones  eke  full  blissfully. 

And  yonder  ones  to  me  'gan  she  say, 

"Now,  goode  sweet!    loveth  im  well  I  pray"; 


THE   DAWN   OF   ART  —  CHAUCER.  215 

And  yond  so  goodly  'gan  she  me  behold 
That  to  the  death  my  heart  is  to  her  hold: 

And  at  the  corner  in  the  yonder  house 

Heard  1  mine  alderlevest  lady  dear  [sweetest 

So  womanly  with  voice  melodious 

Singen  so  well,  so  goodly  and  so  clear. 

That  in  my  soule  yet  me  think'th  I  hear 

The  blissful  sound,  and  in  that  yonder  place 

My  lady  first  me  took  unto  her  grace.' 

She  —  with  what  words  and  what  tears! — has  prayed  that  body 
and  soul  might  sink  into  the  bottomless  pit  ere  she  prove  false  to 
Troilus,  and  has  pledged  that  in  ten  days  she  will  come  back. 
But  Fortune  seems  truest  when  she  will  beguile  : 

'From  Troilus  she  'gan  her  brightc  face 
Away  to  writhe,  and  took  of  him  no  heed, 
And  cast  him  clean  out  of  his  lady's  grace 
And  on  her  wheel  she  set  up  Diomed.' 

Creseide  through  sheer  weakness  yields  to  the  pleading  of  Dio- 
mede.  In  vain  Troilus  appeals  to  her  in  the  tenderest  of  letters, 
and  bewails  his  woe  in  endless  rhymes.  He  accepts  the  inevitable 
then,  in  a  last  piteous  reproach: 

'O  lady  mine,  Creseid': 
Where  is  your  faith,  and  where  is  your  behest? 
Where  is  your  love?  where  is  your  truth?' 

There  is  nothing  left.    Light  and  life  are  stricken  from  the  world  : 

'And  certainly,  withouten  more  speech. 
From  hennes  forth,  as  farforth  as  I  may. 
Mine  owne  death  in  amies  will  I  seech, 
I  ne  recke  not  how  soone  he  the  day; 
But  truely,  Creseide,  swocte  May! 
M'hom  I  have  aye  with  all  my  might  iscrved. 
That  ye  thus  done  I  have  it  not  deserved.' 

Courting  death,  he  throws  himself  upon  the  Greeks,  thousands  of 
whom  perish;  seeks  Diomede  everywhere,  wounds  him,  but  is 
himself  slain  by  the  spear  of  the  invincible  Achilles.  Borne  up 
to  the  seventh  sphere,  he  looks  compassionately  down  upon  tiiis 
little  spot  of  earth,  and  esteems  it  vanity.     Wherefore, — 

'O  young  and  freshe  folkcs,  he  or  she  I 
In  which  that  love  up  groweth  with  your  age, 
Repaireth  home  from  worldly  vanity, 
•Vnd  of  your  licarts  up  casteth  tlie  visage 
To  thilke  God  lliat  after  his  imai:e 
You  made,  and  thinkctli  all  n'is  but  a  fair, 
This  world  that  passeth  soon,  as  flow"res  fair.' 

There  is  improvement    liere.      The   worldly   view  t(Mii]iors  tlif 
sentimental    element.      Chaucer,  still    in   .sympathy   with    the    lie- 


216        INTTIATIVE   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

mand  of  the  ag-e  for  excessive  sensation,  is  growing  into  man- 
hood, and  winning  liberty.  His  jpy  in  the  poetry  of  others  gives 
way  to  his  desire  to  render  it  purer,  simpler,  more  beautiful,  and 
more  true.  As  knowledge  and  learning  increase,  these  fantastic 
beings,  these  exquisite  refinements,  which  make  the  evening 
hours  of  the  lord  flow  sweetly,  give  way  to  real  manners  and 
living  characters. 

The  popular  excursion  of  the  day  is  the  pilgrimage,  and  the 
most  famous  is  that  to  the  shrine  of  the  martyred  Becket'  at 
Canterbury.  Persons  of  every  condition  meet  in  the  month  of 
April  and  travel  together,  starting  from  a  London  Inn.  Social 
distinctions  are  for  the  time  disregarded,  partly  from  the  religious 
sense,  of  which  the  occasion  is  suggestive,  that  all  men  are  equal 
before  God;  but  chiefly  from  the  common  disposition  of  chance 
companions  to  put  off  restraint,  and  relieve,  by  friendly  inter- 
change, the  tediousness  of  solitary  and  dangerous  travel.  The 
occasion  is  not  too  solemn  for  mirth,  even  coarse  and  vigorous; 
for  since  the  Devil  is  thwarted  by  the  object  of  the  mission,  it  is 
not  at  all  necessary  to  maintain  any  strictness  by  the  wayside. 
Chaucer  seizes  upon  this  custom  as  the  frame  in  which  to  set  his 
immortal  pictures  of  life  —  the  Canterbury  Tales.  Bound  for  the 
tomb  of  the  illustrious  saint,  he  joins  at  the  'Tabard'  a  troop  of 
pilgrims,  twenty-nine  in  number.  Thoy  set  out  in  early  morning, 
accompanied  by  the  merry  host,  who  is  the  presiding  spirit  of  the 
party.  To  beguile  the  plodding  ride  through  the  miry  highways, 
it  is  agreed  that  each  shall  tell  at  least  one  story  on  the  journey 
and  another  on  the  return, — 

'For  trewc-ly  comfort  ne  mirthe  is  none 
To  ridon  by  the  way  domb  as  the  stone.' 

All  the  great  classes  of  English  humanity  are  represented, —  a 
knight,  a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  an  Oxford  student,  a  miller,  a  prioress, 
a  monk,  carpenters,  farmers, —  all  in  hearty  human  fellowship. 
The  stories  related  are  as  various  as  the  characters  of  the  narra- 
tors, and  comprclicnd  the  whole  range  of  middle-age  poetry, — 
chivalric,  vulgar,  grave,  gay,  pathetic,  humorous,  moral,  and 
licentious. 

The  knight,  bronzed  by  the  Syrian  sun,  leads  us  among  arms, 
palaces,    temples,    tournameiits,    and    glittering    barbaric    kings. 

1  The  Saxon  archbishop,  murdered,  it  will  be  remembered,  by  the  minions  of  Henry  II. 


THE   DAWN    OF   ART — CHAUCER. 


217 


Palamon  and  Arcite,  the  heroes  of  the  story,  are  lovers  of  the 
fair  Emily,  and  in  a  forest  solitude  fight  in  deadly  combat: 

'  The  brighte  swordes  wentcn  to  and  fro 
So  hideousl}'  that  with  the  leastc  stroke 
It  seemed  that  it  wouldo  fell  an  oak.' 

But  the  king,  whose  delight  is  the  chase,  accidentally  discovers 
them, — 

'And  at  a  start,  he  was  betwixt  them  two. 
And  pulled  out  a  sword  and  cncd,— "  Ho : '" ' 

He  orders  that  fifty  weeks  hence  each  shall  bring  a  hundred 
knights  to  contest  his  claim  —  Emily  to  wed  the  victor: 

'Who  looketh  lightly  now  but  Palamon? 
Who  springeth  up  for  joye  but  Arcite? 
Who  could  it  tell,  or  who  could  it  indite. 
The  joye  that  it  makcd  in  the  place 
When  Theseus  hath  done  so  fair  a  grace?' 

He  prepares  at  fabulous  expense  a  magnificent  theatre,  a  mile  in 
circuit,  walled  with  stone,  graduated  sixty  paces  high,  adorned 
with  altars  and  oratories  of  alabaster,  gold,  and  coral.  Wrought 
on  the  wall  of  the  temple  of  Venus,  'full  piteous  to  behold,' are  — 


'The  broken  sleepcs,  and  the  sikes  cold 
The  sacred  teares,  and  the  waimentings. 
The  fiery  strokes  of  the  desirings, 
That  Loves  servants  in  this  life  endurcn. 
The  oathes  that  their  covenants  assiiren.' 


[sighs 
[lamentadoHS 


Within  the  fane  of  mighty  Mars,- 


' First  on  the  wall  was  painted  a  forest, 
In  which  there  wonneth  neither  man  nor  beast, 
With  knotty  gnarry  barren  trees  old 
Of  stubbcs  sharp  and  hidous  to  behold, 
In  which  there  ran  a  rumble  and  a  swough. 
As  though  a  storm  should  bursten  every  bough; 
And  downward  from  a  hill  under  a  bent 
There  stood  the  Tempi'  of  Mars  Armipotent, 
Wrought  all  of  burned  steel,  of  which  tli'  entree 
Was  long  and  strait,  and  ghastly  for  to  see; 
And  tliereout  came  a  rage  and  such  a  vise 
That  it  made  all  the  gates  for  to  rise. 
The  northern  light  in  at  the  doore  shone. 
For  window  on  the  wall  ne  was  there  none 
Throii<rh  which  men  mi<:htcn  any  light  discern: 
The  door  was  all  of  adamant  elern, 
Yclenfthed  overthwart  and  en(io1r)nic 
Witli  iron  tough,  and  for  to  make  it  strong. 
Every  i>illar  the  temi)le  to  sustain 
Was  tonne-great,  of  iron  l)righl  and  sheen.' 


[duellelh 

[swooning  noise 

[declivity 

[burnished 

[rush 


[shining 


218        INITIATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Within  the  gloomy  sanctuary, — 


Here,- 


'  There  saw  I  first  the  dark  imagining 
Of  Felony,  and  all  the  compassing; 
The  cruel  ire,  red  as  any  glede. 
The  pickpurse,  and  eke  the  pale  drede 
The  smiler  with  the  knife  under  the  cloak; 
The  shepen  burning  with  the  black  smoke; 
The  treason  of  the  murdering  in  the  bed; 
The  open  war,  with  woundes  all  bebled; 
Conteke  with  bloody  knife  and  sharp  menace: 
All  full  of  chirking  was  that  sorry  place. 
The  slayer  of  himself  yet  saw  I  there. 
His  hearte"s  blood  hath  bathed  all  his  hair; 
The  nail  ydriven  in  the  shode  on  height; 
The  colde  death,  with  mouth  gaping  upright.' 

'The  statue  of  Mars  upon  a  carte  stood 
Armed,  and  looked  grim  as  he  were  wood,  .  . 
A  wolf  there  stood  before  him  at  his  feet 
With  eyen  red,  and  of  a  man  he  eat.' 


[burning  coal 
I  fear 


[strife 
[hateful  sound 


[hair  on  the  head 


[mad 


Now  the  train  of  combatants  who  come  to  joust  in  the  tilting 
field: 

'There  mayst  thou  see  coming  with  Palamon 
Licnrge  himself,  the  greate  King  of  Thrace: 
Black  was  his  beard,  and  manly  was  his  face 
The  circles  of  his  eyen  in  his  head 
They  glowcden  betwixen  yellow  and  red. 
And  like  a  griffon  looked  he  about, 
With  combed  haires  on  his  browes  stout; 
His  limbes  great,  his  brawnes  liard  and  strong. 
His  shoulders  broad,  his  amies  round  and  long; 
And  as  the  guise  was  in  his  countree. 
Full  high  upon  a  car  of  gold  stood  he. 
With  foure  wliite  bulles  in  the  trace.  .  .  . 
A  hundred  lordes  had  he  in  his  rout 
Armed  full  well,  with  heartes  stern  and  stout. 
With  Arcita,  in  stories  as  men  find. 
The  great  Emetrius  the  King  of  Ind, 
Upon  a  steede  bay,  trapped  in  steel. 
Covered  with  cloth  of  gold  diapred  wele. 
Came  riding  like  the  god  of  Armes,  Mars; 
His  coat  armour  was  of  a  cloth  of  Tars, 
Couched  with  pearles  white,  and  round,  and  great; 
His  saddle  was  of  burnt  gold  new  ybeat; 
A  mantelet  upon  liis  shoulders  hanging 
Bretfiil  of  ruljies  red,  as  fire  sparkling; 
His  crispe  hair  like  rintrcs  was  yrun, 
And  tliat  was  yellow,  and  glittered  as  the  sun;  .  .  . 
His  voice  was  as  a  trumpe  thundering: 
Upon  his  head  he  wear'd  of  laurel  green, » 
A  garland  fresh  and  lusty  for  to  seen; 
Upon  his  hand  he  bare  for  his  deduit 
An  eagle  tame,  as  any  lily  wliite: 
A  hundred  lordes  had  be  with  him  there. 
All  armed,  save  their  heads,  in  all  tlieir  gear.  .  .  . 


[a  silk 
[trimmed 

[beaten 

[brimfull 


[pleasant 
[amusement 


THE   DAWN   OF   ART  —  CHAUCER.  219 

About  this  king  there  ran  on  every  part 
Full  many  a  tame  lion  and  leopart.' 

Such  is  the  gorgeous  iinager^^,  contrasted  and  varied,  by  which 
Chaucer  belongs  to  the  romantic  age  and  school.  He  belongs  to 
it  as  well  by  his  amorous  discussions,  his  broad  jokes,  his  indeli- 
cate particulars.  Alisoun,  one  of  the  pilgrims,  a  wife  of  Bath, 
has  buried  five  husbands  —  saw  the  fifth  at  the  burial  of  the 
fourth !  — 

'And  Jankin  ouro  clerk  was  on  of  tho: 
As  holpe  me  God,  whan  that  I  saw  him  go 
Aftir  the  here,  me  thought  he  had  a  paire 
Of  legges  and  of  feet,  so  clene  and  faire 
,  That  all  my  herte  1  yave  unto  his  hold. 

He  was,  I  trow,  a  twenty  winter  old, 
And  I  was  fourty,  if  I  shal  say  soth  .  .  . 
As  helpc  me  God,  I  was  a  lusty  on. 
And  faire,  and  riche,  and  yonge,  and  well  begon.' 

She  subdues  her  husband  by  the  continuit}'  of  her  tempest: 

'And  whan  that  I  had  getten  unto  me 
By  maistrie  all  the  soverainetee. 
And  that  he  sayd,  min  owen  trewe  wif, 
Do  as  the  list,  the  terme  of  all  thy  lif, 
Kepe  thin  honour,  and  kepe  eke  min  estat; 
After  that  day  we  never  had  debat.' 

In  acquiring  the  art  of  taming  her  husbands,  she  has  learned  the 
art  of  arguing,  and  can  pile  up  reasons  beyond  a  Lapland  winter, 
to  justify  her  practice  : 

'God  bad  us  for  to  wex  and  multiplie; 
That  gentil  text  can  I  wel  understond; 
Eke  wel  I  wot,  he  sayd,  that  min  husbond 
Shuld  leve  fader  and  moder,  and  take  t(»  me; 
But  of  no  noumbre  mention  made  lie, 
Of  bigamic  or  of  octoizamie: 
Why  shuld  men  tlian  .--iJeke  of  it  vilauie? 
Lo  here  the  wise  king  Dan  Solomon, 
I  trow  he  liadde  wives  mo  than  on,  .  .  . 
Which  a  gift  of  Ciod  had  he  for  alle  his  wives?  .  .  . 
Blessed  be  God  that  I  have  wedded  live. 
Welcome  the  s^ixtlie  whan  that  ever  he  shall.' 

The  religious  mendicant  is  a  jolly  hypocrite,  'a  wanton  anil  a 
merry': 

'Full  well  beloved  and  familier  was  he 
With  franklins  over  all,  in  his  countree, 
And  eke  with  worthy  women  of  the  town.  .  .  . 
Full  sweetely  heard  he  confession, 
And  ])Ieasant  was  his  iibsolutlon. 
lie  was  an  easy  man  to  L'ivc  iiennaiu-e 
There  as  he  wisi  to  have  a  gnoil  i)itt;nuT;  .  .  . 
Therefore  instead  of  weepiiiiT  and  pra.xers, 
Men  must  give  silver  to  the  pcjure  friars.  .  .  . 


220  INITIATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

His  tippet  was  ay  farced  full  of  knives  [stuffed 

And  pins  for  to  given  fairc  wives: 

And  certainly  he  had  a  merry  note ; 

Well  could  he  sing  and  playen  on  a  rote.  .  .  . 

And  over  all,  there  as  profit  should  arise, 

Courteous  he  was,  and  lowly  of  service : 

There  n'as  no  man  no  where  so  virtuous;  [was  not 

He  was  the  heste  beggar  in  all  his  house.  ... 

For  though  a  widow  hadde  but  a  shoe, 

(So  pleasant  was  his  "/«  Principio") 

Yet  would  he  have  a  farthing  ere  he  went.' 

Wallet  in  hand, — 

'  In  every  hous  he  gan  to  jwre  and  prie. 
And  begged  nicle  and  chese,  or  elles  corn.  .  .  . 
"Yeve  us  a  bushel  whete,  or  malt,  or  reye,  , 

A  Goddes  kichel,  or  a  trippe  of  chese. 
Or  elles  what  you  list,  wo  may  not  chese; 
A  Goddes  halfpeny,  or  a  masse  peny; 
Or  yeve  us  of  your  braun,  if  ye  have  any, 
A  dagon  of  your  blanket,  leve  dame. 
Our  suster  dere,  do  here  I  write  your  name)."  .  .  . 
And  wlian  that  he  was  out  at  dore  anon, 
He  i)laned  away  the  names  everich  on.' 

In  the  course  of  iii.s  tour,  he  finds  one  of  his  most  liberal  clients 
ill,  in  bed,  who  has  given  half  his  fortune,  and  still  suffers; 
assures  him  that  he  has  said  'many  a  precious  orison'  for  his 
salvation,  then  inquires  for  the  dame,  who  enters: 

'This  frcre  ariseth  up  ful  curtisly. 
And  hire  embraccth  in  liis  amies  narwe. 
And  kissetli  hire  swete  and  chirketh  as  a  sparwe.' 

Then: 

'Thanked  be  God  that  you  yaf  soule  and  lif. 
Yet  saw  I  not  this  day  so  faire  a  wif 
In  all  the  chirche,  God  so  save  me." 

Or  again,  the  summoner,  rallied  by  the  friar,  retorts  in  good 
humor: 

'This  Frcre  bostcth  that  he  knowcth  hcUe, 
And,  God  it  wot,  that  is  but  litel  wonder, 
Frcres  and  fendos  bon  but  litel  asonder. 
For  parde,  ye  lian  often  time  herd  telle 
How  that  a  Frere  ravished  was  to  helle 
In  sjjirit  ones  by  a  visioun, 
And  as  an  iuii^el  lad  liim  up  and  donn, 
To  shewon  him  tlic  peincs  that  ther  were  .  .  . 
And  er  than  half  a  furlong  way  of  space. 
Right  so  as  bees  out  swarinen  of  an  hive, 
Out  of  the  (levil-i  .  .  .  ther  ironnen  to  drive, 
A  twenty  thoii-^and  Frcres  on  a  route, 
And  thursliout  bell  they  swarmed  al  aboute. 
And  com  aL'en.  as  f;ist  as  they  may  gon." 

Tf   .such    characters    and    sciitiineuts   show   that    Chaucer,    like 

everv  writer,  bears  on  his  forehead  the  traces  of  his  origin,  there 


THE    DAWN    OF   ART — CHAUCER.  221 

are  others  which  carry  him  beyond  it,  and  give  him  affinity  with 
the  latest  and  highest.  There  is  the  Oxford  clerk,  silent  or 
sententious,  poor,  learned,  and  thin  by  dint  of  hard  study,  riding 
on  a  horse  lean  as  a  rake: 

'He  rather  have  at  his  bcdv  head 
Twenty  bookes  clothed  in  black  or  red 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  pliilosophy. 
Than  robes  rich    or  fiddle  or  psallry: 
But  all  be  that  he  was  a  philosopher 
Yet  hadde  he  but  little  gold  in  coffer, 

But  all  that  he  might  of  his  friendes  hent,  [eatcA 

On  bookes  and  on  learning  he  it  spent,  .  .  . 
Of  study  took  he  moste  cure  and  heed; 
Not  a  word  spoke  he  more  than  was  need  .  ,  . 
Sounding  in  moral  virtue  was  his  speech. 
And  gladly  would  he  learn  and  gladly  teach.' 

Or  the  young  squire: 

'With  lockes  curl'd  as  they  were  laid  in  press; 
Of  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  I  guess.  .  .  . 
Embroider'd  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mead 
All  full  of  freshe  floweres  white  and  red: 

Singing  he  was  or  floyting  all  the  day;  [whistling 

He  was  as  fresh  as  is  tlic  month  of  May: 
Short  was  his  gown,  with  sleeves  long  and  wide; 
Well  could  he  sit  on  horse,  and  faire  ride: 
He  coulde  songes  make,  and  well  endite. 
Joust  and  eke  dance,  and  well  pourtray  and  write: 
So  hot  he  loved,  that  by  niglitertale  [night-lime 

He  slept  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale: 
Courteous  he  was,  lowly  and  serviceable. 
And  carv'd  before  his  father  at  the  table.' 

And  his  father  the  knight,  brave  but  gentle: 

'That  from  the  time  that  he  first  began 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  chivalry. 
Truth  and  honour,  freedom  and  courtesy. 
Full  worthy  was  he  in  liis  lordes  war,  .  .  . 
And  ever  honour'd  for  his  wortliincss.  .  .  . 
And  though  tliat  he  was  wortliy  lie  was  wise, 
And  of  his  porte  as  meek  as  is  a  maid. 
He  never  yet  no  villainy  ne  said 
In  all  his  life  unto  no  manner  wiirht: 
He  was  a  very  perfect  gentle  knight.' 

When  Arcite,  flushed  with  the  victory  that  awards  him  Emily,  is 
mortally  hurt  by  a  plunge  of  hi.s  .steed,  lie  call.s  to  his  bed-side 
the  maiden  and  his  rival  'that  was  his  cousin  dear,'  boquoiitlis  to 
her  the  service  of  his  disrobed  spirit,  and  asks  her  to  I'orgi't  not 
Palamon  if  '  ever  ye  shall  l)e  a  wife,' — ail  his  resentment  iron<\ 
only  his  idolatry  left,  which  surges  f>ver  liiiii  in  one  supreme  con- 
sciousTiess  ere  the  silence  and  eternitv  of  the  i^-rave: 


222         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

'Alas  the  woel  alas  the  paines  strong, 
That  1  for  you  have  siifiered,  and  so  long  I 
Alas  the  death:    alas  mine  Emily! 
Alas  departing  of  our  company  I 
Alas  mine  hearte's  queen  I   alas  my  wife! 
Mine  hearte's  lady,  ender  of  my  life! 
What  is  this  world?  — wliat  asken  men  to  have? 
Now  with  his  love,  now  in  his  colde  grave  — 
Alone, —  witliouteu  any  company. 
Farewell  my  sweet,— Farewell  mine  Emily! 
And  softe  take  nie  in  your  amies  tway 
For  love  of  God,  and  hearkeneth  what  I  say.' 

Were  ever  the  sighs  and  sobbings  of  a  broken  and  ebbing  spirit 
more  pathetically  related  ?  Against  the  chattering  wife  of  Bath, 
who  stuns  her  listeners,  is  the  demure  prioress — 'Madame  Eglan- 
tine,' simple  and  pleasing,  with  nice  and  pretty  ways,  showing,  as 
we  have  seen,  signs  of  exquisite  taste.     As  to  her  conscience, — 

'She  was  so  charitable  and  so  i)iteous, 
She  woulde  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  mouse 
Caught  in  a  trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bled. 
Of  snialle  houndes  had  she  that  she  fed 
With  roasted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wastel  bread. 
But  sore  wept  she  if  one  of  them  were  dead, 
Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  yarde  smart: 
And  all  was  conscience  and  tender  heart,' 

As  befits  her,  she  tells  the  touching  story  of  a  Christian  child, 
*the  ruby  bright,'  murdered  in  a  Jewry,  whose  heart  is  so  filled 
with  divine  grace  that  it  breaks  out  continually  in  singing,  'to 
schoolward  and  homeward,'  0  Alma  Hedemptoris/  Dying  from 
the  dreadful  gash  in  his  throat,  he  sings  it  still  by  the  miracle  of 
mercy;  and  dead, — 

'In  a  tomb  of  marble  stones  clear 
Enclosen  they  his  little  body  sweet: 
There  he  is  now  God  lenc  us  for  to  meet.'  [where,  grant 

A  like  and  strotiger  contrast  is  Grisolda,'  who  softens  the  tyraimy 
of  her  lord  b\-  patient  submission  and  unconquerable  affection. 
Her  wliole  conduct  is  a  fervid  hvmn  in  praise  of  forbearance. 
Smitten  on  the  one  cheek,  she  turns  the  other.  Loving  her  hus- 
band, it  is  natural  to  her,  in  the  true  spirit  of  charity,  to  'suffer 
all  things,  believe  all  things,  hope  all  things,  endure  all  things.' 
Altogether  too  passive,  you  will  sav.  The  objection  is  antici- 
pated: 

'This  story  is  said,  not  for  that  wives  should 
Follow  Griselda  as  in  humility. 
For  it  were  importable  thou'^h  they  would; 

'  Clerk- g  Tale. 


THE   DAWN   OF    ART  —  CHAUCER.  223 

But  for  that  every  wight  in  his  degree 

Should  be  con^itant  in  adversity 

As  was  Griselda,  therefore  Petrarch  writeth 

This  story,  which  with  higli  style  he  euditeth. 

For  since  a  woman  wuc  so  patient 

Unto  a  mortal  man,  well  more  we  ought 

Receiven  all  in  gree  that  God  us  sent.  .  .  .  [kindness 

Let  us  then  live  iu  virtuous  sufferauce.' 

There  is  need  of  a  striking  antithesis,  in  an  age  of  brutality,  when 
the  only  choice  for  woman  lay  between  the  violence  of  vitupera- 
tion and  the  persuasion  of  meekness.  Never  to  be  forgotten  is 
the  secular  priest,  brother  to  the  plowman: 

'There  was  a  poore  Parson  of  a  town. 
But  rich  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  work; 
His  parishens  devoutly  would  he  teach; 
Benign  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversity  full  patient.  .  .  . 
Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  far  asunder. 
But  he  ne  left  naught  for  no  rain  nor  thunder. 
In  sickness  and  in  mischief,  to  visit 

The  farthest  in  his  parish  much  and  lite  [little 

Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staff: 

This  noble  "nsamplc  to  his  sheep  he  yaf,  [gave 

That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterward  he  taught. 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caught, 
And  this  figure  he  added  yet  thereto, 
That  if  gold  ruste  what  should  iron  do?  .  .  . 
He  was  a  shepherd  and  no  mercenary." 

There  is  yet  something  good  in  Nazareth.  Not  all  the  ecclesias- 
tics are  venal  and  voluptuous.  This  one  preaches  a  long  and 
earnest  sermon  on  the  text: 

'Stand  ye  in  the  ways,  and  see,  and  ask  for  the  old  i)aths,  where  is  the  good  way, 
and  walk  therein,  ami  ye  sliall  find  rest  for  your  souls." 

The  genius  that  in  large  measure  is  shaped  by  the  books  it 
has  read  and  the  times  it  has  lived  in,  is  itself  a  distinct  elemoiit 
of  growth.  What  could  Ije  more  broad  and  catholic  than  these 
7ales,  open  alike  to  Briton  and  to  man,  shedding  long  beams  of 
promise  on  the  horizon  ? 

Periods. —  Chaucer  was  nourished  on  tlie  French  Romance 
])oetry,  which  in  liis  early  life  formed  the  chief  reading  of  the 
court  circles.  After  tlie  date  of  his  first  visit  to  Italy,  impresseil 
with  the  ineffaceable  charm  of  that  land  of  loveliiie.s.s  and  kind- 
ling life,  his  foreign  models  were  less  French  than  Italian.  Her(» 
he  imitated  tlie  lively  Boccaccio  rather  than  l)aiit(>,  who  was  t^x) 
severe,  or  Petrarch,  who  was  too  sentimental.     From  his  favorite, 


224         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 


he  freely  translated  his  two  longest,  and,  in  a  sense,  two  greatest 
poems, —  Troilus  and  Creseide  and  the  Jvnif/hfs  Tale.  But  wliile 
his  riper  genius  is  guided  by  tlie  poets  of  Italy,  he  is  still  influ- 
enced by  those  of  France, —  the  troubadours  and  trouverea.  The 
comic  stories  in  the  Canterbury  Tales  are  mostly  based  on  the 
fabliaux.  His  indirect  debt  to  the  Italian  stars,  however,  in  all 
that  concerns  the  elegant  handling  of  material,  and  in  the  fusion 
of  the  romantic  with  the  classic  spirit,  is  more  important.  It  is 
in  the  immortal  group  of  pilgrims  that  he  breaks  away  from  the 
literary  traditions  and  restricted  tastes  of  ranks  and  classes,  and 
becomes  characteristically  English,  distinctly  national.  Even 
here  extraneous  influences  may  be  detected,  but  original  genius 
gives  itself  freely  to  the  native  force  of  its  theme,  and  we  have, 
for  the  most  part,  the  pleasing  conditions  of  daily  life.  The  pre- 
dorninant  influence,  therefore,  till  1372,  is  French  ;  thence  till 
1384,  Italian;  from  1384  till  1400,  English.  This  poetic  develop- 
ment may  be  represented  by  the  correspondent  table  of  works: 
Romaunt  of  the  Rose, 
Complaint  to  Pity, 
Book  of  the  Duchess, 
The  Dream,  ^ 

The  Court  of  Love,  V  [attributed).^ 

The  Flower  and  the  Leaf,     ) 

The  Former  Age, 
The  Assembly  of  Fowls, 
jecond  period. . . .  ^    The  House  of  Fame, 
Troi'lus  and  Creseide, 
Knig'ht's  Tale. 


First  period - 


Third  period 


r  Legend  of  Good  Women, 

Canterbury  Tales  {the  mnjorify), 
Astrolabie  {prose), 
Testament  of  Love   {attributed), 
A'arious  Ballads. 


Style. — Refined,  precise,  pers])icuous,  employing  figures  less 
for  oriuiment  than  lucidity;  flexible  and  graceful,  varying  in 
subtle  response  to  the  sul)j<'C't  and  tlie  mood;  the  living  voice,  as 

'  The  fjemiinencKs  of  many  work-^  wliich  till  recently  have  pas>ie(l  as  Chaurer"!=,  has 
been  ((iiestioned  by  the  most  advanced  school  of  criticism.  The  dust  of  the  controversy 
has  not  vet  settled. 


THE    DAWN    OF    ART  —  CHAUCER.  225 

it  were,  of  nature,  carrying  a  tone  as  original  and  divine  as  the 
music  of  her  purling  brooks;  sometimes  tedious  from  too  great 
minuteness,  as  in  other  writers  from  too  frequent  digression ;  if 
somewhat  artificial  and  disjointed  in  the  earlier  workmanship, 
simple  and  well-ordered  in  the  later.  Do  but  consider,  for  in- 
stance, the  'linked  sweetness'  of  the  love-passages  in  Troilus, 
or  the  grand  harmony  of  his  tragic  description,  as  of  the  temple 
of  Mars, — 

'First  on  the  wal  was  peynted  a  forest, 
In  which  ther  dwelleth  neither  man  ne  best. 
With  Icnotty  iinarry  bareyne  trees  olde 
Of  s^tubbes  scharpe  and  hidous  to  byholde 
In  which  ther  ran  a  cwynibel  in  a  ywoiigh.' 

Or  the  divine  liquidness  of  diction  and  fluidity  of  movement  in 
this  stanza  of  the  child-martyr: 

'My  tlirote  is  cut  unto  my  nelike-bone, 
Saide  this  child,  and  as  by  way  of  kinde 
I  shoulde  have  deyd,  yea,  longe  time  agone; 
But  Jesu  Christ,  as  ye  in  bookes  finde, 
'  Will  that  His  glory  last  and  be  in  minde. 

And  for  the  worship  of  His  mother  dere 
Yet  may  I  sing  0  Alma  loud  and  clere.' 

Compare  Wordsworth's  modernization  of  the  first  three  lines: 

'My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I  trow. 
Said  this  young  child,  and  by  the  law  of  kind 
I  should  have  died,  yea,  many  hours  ago." 

The  flower  must  fade,  though  gathered  by  the  most  skilful  liand, 
when  severed  from  its  root  that  lies  imbedded  in  the  soil. 

Rank. — First  modeller  of  the  heroic  couplet,  first  of  thr 
modern  versifiers,  whose  melody  and  ease  few,  if  any,  have  sur- 
passed; whose  variety  and  power  of  diction  not  ten  of  his  suc- 
cessors have  been  able  to  rival;  to  Occleve,  his  pupil, — 

'Tlie  llrste  fyndcr  of  our  faire  langage." 

The  first  artist  of  expression,  —  that  is,  the  first  to  cotniniind  or 
guide  his  impressions,  to  deliberate,  sift,  test,  reject,  and  alter. 
Inventive,  though  a  disciple;  original,  though  a  tran.shif  or;  and  — 
like  Shakespear(>  —  a  liorrowcr,  but  lending  to  all  that  In-  Ixurows 
the  gentle  luxurian('(>  of  his  own  fancy,  cxtr.'icting  from  the  old 
ronumces  their  sublime  extravagances  without  tlieir  frivolous 
descriptions,  re-qreating  the  rude  materials  of  the  truxcvris  into 
15 


226         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

forms  of  elegance,  retaining  the  gayety  and  critical  coolness  of 
the  French  without  its  wearisome  idleness,  and  tempering  the 
joyous  carelessness  of  the  Italian  with  the  English  seriousness. 

Our  first  painter  of  Nature,  who,  haunting  her  solitudes,  caught 
the  glow  of  her  skies  and  earth  in  his  landscape.  Without  the 
gift  to  see  the  hidden  wealth  of  meaning  in  the  springing  herb- 
age, dew-drops,  and  rivulets  glad,  in  the  sighings  among  the 
reeds  and  the  silent  openings  of  the  flowers,  no  great  poet  is 
possible.  Chaucer  has  it  conspicuously.  His  grass,  soft  as  velvet, 
which  he  is  never  done  praising,  is  '  so  small,  so  thick,  so  fresh  of 
hue  ! '  The  colors  of  petal  and  leaf,  '  white,  blue,  yellow,  and 
red,'  he  counts.  Tlie  note  of  every  song-bird  he  knows  and 
loves.  His  scenery  has  the  freshness  of  a  perennial  spring. 
Across  five  centuries  its  leaves  are  green,  and  its  breezes  fan  our 
cheeks.  The  May-time  is  his  favorite  season.  Before  Burns  or 
Wordsworth,  he  has  loved  and  sung  the  daisy,  the  eye-of-day, 
and  how  tenderly  ! 

'Then  in  my  bed  there  daweth  me  no  day 
That  I  n"am  up  and  walking  in  the  mead. 
To  see  this  flower  against  the  sunne  spread, 
When  it  iiprisetli  early  in  the  morrow; 
That  blissful  sight  softeneth  all  my  sorrow.' 

With  the  simple,  pure  delight  of  a  child,  he  kneels  to  greet  it 
when  it  first  unfolds: 

'  And  down  on  knees  anon  right  I  me  set. 
And  as  I  could  this  freshc  flow'r  I  grctte, 
Kneeling  always  till  it  unclosed  was 
Upon  the  small,  and  soft,  and  sweete  gras.' 

The  first  clear-eyed  and  catholic  observer  of  man,  who,  catch- 
ing the  living  manners  as  they  rise,  fixes  them  in  pictures  that 
show  the  life  of  a  hundred  years  as  vivid  and  familiar  as  the 
figures  in  the  i^trocts  of  our  cities.  Think  of  the  portraits  of  the 
knight,  the  squire,  the  prioress,  the  wife,  the  clerk,  the  parson, 
the  monk, — 

'And,  for  to  fasten  his  hond  under  his  chin, 
He  had  of  gold  ywroiiglit  a  curious  pin; 
A  love-knot  in  the  greater  end  there  was: 
His  head  was  bald,  and  shone  as  any  glass, 
And  eke  his  face,  as  it  had  been  anoint; 
He  was  a  lord  full  fat  and  in  good  point: 
His  even  steep,  and  rolling  in  his  head, 
That  steamed  as  a  furnace  of  a  lead.' 


THE    DAWN    OF   ART  —  CHAUCER. 


227 


Of  the  friar,- 

The  lawyer, — 
The  franklin, 


'Somewhat  he  lisped  for  his  wantonnesa 
To  make  his  English  sweet  upon  his  tongue  ; 
And  ill  hit;  liarping,  when  that  he  had  sung, 
His  eyea  twinkled  in  his  head,  aright 
As  do  the  starves  in  a  frosty  night.' 


'No  where  so  busy  a  man  as  he  there  n'as. 
And  yet  he  seemed  busier  than  lie  was.' 

'To  liven  in  delight  was  ever  his  won, 
For  he  was  Epicurus"  owen  sou,  .  .  . 
It  snowed  in  his  house  of  meat  and  drink 
Of  alle  dainties  that  men  could  of  think. 
After  the  sundry  seasons  of  the  year. 
So  changed  he  his  meat  and  his  soupere.  .  . . 
His  tabic  dormant  in  his  hall  alway 
Stood  ready  cover'd  all  the  longe  day.' 

The  doctor  of  physic, — 

'In  all  this  world  ne  was  there  none  him  like 
To  speak  of  physic  and  of  surgery, 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomy. 
He  kept  his  patient  a  full  great  deal 
In  houres  by  his  magic  naturel: 
Well  could  he  fortunen  the  ascendant 
Of  his  images  for  his  patient.  .  .  . 
Of  his  diet  measurable  was  he. 
For  it  was  of  no  superfluity. 
But  of  great  nourishing,  and  digestible. 
His  study  was  but  little  on  the  Bible. 
For  gold  in  jjhysic  is  a  cordial. 
Therefore  he  loved  gold  in  special.' 


[was  not 


[custom 


[make  fortunate 


The  miller, — 


The  reeve, — 


'He  was  short  shouldered,  broad,  a  thickc  gnarre, 
Ther  n"as  no  door  that  he  n"olde  heave  off  bar. 
Or  break  it  at  a  running  with  his  head; 
His  beard  as  any  sow  or  fox  was  red. 
And  thereto  broad  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Upon  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  had 
A  wert,  and  thereon  stood  a  tuft  of  hairs 
Red  as  the  bristlL's  of  a  sowes  ears: 
His  nose-tliirles  l)hu-ke  were  and  wide: 
A  sword  and  buckler  bare  he  by  his  side: 
His  mouth  as  wide  was  as  a  furnace: 
He  was  a  jaiigler  and  a  (ioliardeis, 
And  that  was  most  of  sin  and  harlotries: 
Well  could  he  st(^alen  corn  and  tollen  thrice.' 

'His  beard  was  shorn  as  nigh  as  ever  he  can: 
His  hair  was  by  his  eares  round  ysliorn : 
His  top  was  docked  like  a  i)riest  Ix'forne: 
Full  longe  were  his  letrgcs  and  full  lean, 
Ylike  a  staff;  there  was  no  calf  ysten." 


[knot 

[top 

[i,os/rit< 
[yvellei- 


228         INITIATIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 


The  suniinoner,- 


'Wiih  scalled  browes  black  and  pilled  beard;  [scurf ij,  bald 

Of  his  visage  children  were  sore  afeard.  .  .  . 
Well  lov'd  he  garlick,  onions,  and  leeks, 
And  for  to  drink  strong  wine  as  red  as  blood; 
Then  would  he  speak  and  cry  as  he  were  wood.'  [mad 

The  pardoner, — 

'That  straight  was  eonu-ii  from  the  court  of  Rome; 
Full  loud  he  sang  "Come  hither  love  to  me."  .  .  . 
His  wallet  lay  before  him  in  his  lap 
Bret-full  of  pardon  come  from  Rome  all  liol."  [brlmfuU 

Face,  costume,  disposition,  habits,  antecedents, —  all  are  here, 
each  character  distinct  and  to  this  day  typical;  each  maintained, 
moreover,  by  its  subsequent  actions;  each  speech  appropriate  to 
the  speaker,  and  all  strung  together  by  incidents  so  natural,  by 
conversations  so  life-like, —  a  veritable  troop  of  pilgrims  filing 
leisurely  on,  talking  and  trying  to  amuse  themselves  by  what 
they  have  heard  in  the  hall  or  by  the  wayside!  This  is  dramatic 
composition,  not  in  its  full  and  precise  form,  but  in  its  rudiments. 
The  pictorial  power  of  dealing  in  a  living  way  with  men  and 
their  actions  is  Chaucer's  point  of  contact  with  Shakespeare: 

I^ike  all  who  excel  in  the  delineation  of  character,  a  master  of 
humor  and  pathos.  To  take  an  additional  example;  the  pardon- 
er, describing  himself  preaching,  says: 

'Then  pain  I  me  to  stretchen  forth  my  neck. 
And  east  and  irest  ni)on  the  jjeoplc  I  heck. 
As  doth  a  dove  sittiiuj  upon  a  barn.' 

Or,  to  view  the  full  length  of  a  monk  in  one  line, — 

'Fat  us  a  wliale,  and  nalked  as  a  swan.' 

As  with  Shakespeare,  again,  it  is  difficult  to  decide  in  which 
style  Chaucer  is  greater, — the  humorous  or  the  pathetic.  When 
Griselda  is  informed  by  her  husband  that  she  must  return  to 
her  father  to  make  room  for  her  successor,  she  says: 

'I  never  held  me  lady  ne  maistress, 
But  humble  servant  to  your  worthiness, 
And  ever  shall,  while  that  my  life  may  dure, 
.■Vboveii  every  worldly  creature.  .  .  . 
And  of  your  ncwe  wife  fiod  of  his  grace 
So  grant  yon  weal  and  prosperity; 
For  I  wol  gladly  yielden  her  my  place. 
In  which  that  I  was  blissful  wont  to  be: 
For,  sith  it  liketli  you  niy  lord  quod  she. 
That  whilome  weren  all  my  heirles  rest. 
That  I  shall  gon,  I  wol  go  where  you  list.  .  .  . 


THE    DAWN    OF    ART  —  CHAUCER.  229 

0  goode  God!  how  gentle  and  ho/'-  kind 
Ye  seemed  by  your  speech,  and  your  visage 
Tfie  day  that  maked  was  our  marriage!' 

Find,  who  will,  a  finer  burst  of  natural  feeling  than  is  expressed 
in  the  closing  verses.  When  Troi'lus  is  bereft  of  Creseide  by  lier 
departure  for  the  Grecian  camp,  the  universe  is  absorbed  in  the 
one  idea  of  his  love: 

'And  every  night,  aa  was  his  wont  to  do, 
He  ^^tood,  the  bright  moon  shining  to  behold. 
And  all  his  sorrow  to  the  moon  he  told. 
And  said— "Surely  when  thon  art  horned  new, 

1  shall  be  glad  — J/  all  the  world  be  true.'" 

Ah  nie,  match  it  who  can  ! 

Yet  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  great  classics  whose  imagina- 
tions revel  equally  in  regions  of  mirth,  beauty,  and  grandeur. 
He  wants  their  high  seriousness,  which  detecting  the  divine  sig- 
nificance of  things,  breathes  the  aspiration  for  something  purer 
and  lovelier,  more  thrilling*  and  powerful,  than  real  life  affords, 
and  with  its  prophetic  vision  helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the  future 
life.  He  loves  the  fresh  green  of  the  panting  spring,  but  has 
little  sympathy  with  the  sear  and  yellow  of  the  mystical  autumn. 
His  love  of  nature  is  a  simple,  unreflective,  childlike  love: 

'He  listeneth  to  the  lark, 
Whose  song  conies  with  the  sunshine  through  the  dark 
Of  painted  glass,  in  leaden  lattice  bound, 
lie  listeneth  and  he  Uuighelh  at  the  sound. 
Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  cUrk.' 

Nature  is  not  to  him,  as  it  is  to  the  highest,  a  symbol  transluctMit 
w'itli  the  light  of  the  moral  and  spiritual  world.  He  lacks  the 
faculty  of  true  naturalistic  interpretation.     He  has  never  heard  — 

'The  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 
Must  tliiiik  on  wliat  will  be,  and  wtiat  has  been." 

Character.  —  A  man  of  lt>tters  and  of  action,  traineil  in 
bocjks,  war,  courts,  business,  travt'l.  -V  poet  and  a  logician,  ;i, 
student  and  an  observer,  a  linguist  and  a  ])(>litician,  a  coiirtifr  of 
opulent  tastes  and  a  ])hil()so])h('r  who  survc^yed  mankind  in  their 
widest  sphere.  He  was  a  iiard  worker.  ]5y  his  own  confession, 
reading  was  his  chief  delight.  Tli(>  eagle  thai  carri.'s  him  into 
the  empyrean,  savs: 

'Thou  irocst  lionie  to  tliiur  liouse  anoiie. 
And  allso  dumb  as  a  stone 
Thou  sittest  at  anotlier  book 
■     Till  fullv  dazed  is  thv  look/ 


230         INITIATIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Happy  among  books,  he  was  happy  among  men.  Scorning  only 
hypocrisy,  he  loved  many-colored  life, —  its  weakness  and  its 
strength,  its  delicacy  and  its  force,  its  laughter  and  its  tears. 
Modest,  glad,  and  tender.  Never  were  lovers  more  genuine,  un- 
tainted and  adoring,  than  his.  Troilus  and  Creseide  speak  with 
hearts  of  primeval  innocence.  He  had  indeed  said,  perhaps  in  a 
momentary  scepticism  or  irritation,  of  the  courtly  class  whose 
stability  seemed  to  lie  in  perpetual  change: 

'  What  man  ymay  the  wind  restrain. 
Or  holden  a  snake  by  the  tail? 
Who  may  a  slipper  eel  restrain 
That  it  will  void  withontcn  fail? 
Or  who  can  driven  so  a  nail 

To  make  sure  newfangleness,  [inconittancy 

Save  women,  that  can  gie  their  sail  [gttidi 

To  row  their  boat  with  doubleness?'' 

Yet  for  woman  he  had  a  true  and  chivalrous  regard.  It  was  with 
the  avowed  purpose  of  rendering  homage  to  the  beauty  of  pure 
womanhood   that  he  wrote  the  legend  — 

'Of  goode  women,  maidenes,  and  wives. 
That  weren  true  in  loving  all  their  lives." 

His  emblem  of  womanly  truth  and  purity  was  the  daisy,  with  its 
head  of  gold  and  crown  of  white.     And  how  he  loves  it! 

'  So  glad  am  I,  when  that  I  have  presence 
Of  it,  to  doon  it  alle  reverence 
As  she  that  is  of  alle  Houres  flour. 
Fulfilled  of  all  virtue  and  honour. 
And  ever  alike  fair  and  fresh  of  hue. 
And  I  lov(!  it,  and  over  alike  new. 
And  ever  shall,  till  that  mine  lierte  die.' 

I  know  of  nothing  like  it, —  this  man  of  the  world,  of  ceremonies 
and  cavalcades,  conversant  with  high  and  low,  with  gallant  knights 
and  bedizened  ladies,  far-travelled,  tempest-tossed,  and  time-worn, 
turning  from  the  gorgeous  imagery  that  filled  his  vision  to  find 
'revel  and  solace'  in  the  open-air  world,  and  dwelling  with  the 
glad,  sweet  abandon  of  a  cliild,  on  the  springing  flowers,  the 
green  fields,  the  budding  woods,  the  singing-  of  the  little  birds: 

'So  loud  they  san^'.  that  all  the  woodes  rung 
Like  as  it  sliould  sliiver  in  i)ieces  small: 
And  as  mcthonizht  that  the  Nightingale 
Witli  so  L'reat  niiglit  her  voice  out-wrest. 
Right  as  her  luart  for  love  would  burst.' 

Or  the  beauty  of  the  morning.  Were  never  sun-risings  so  exhila- 
ratiii<r  as  his: 


THE   DAWN   OF  ART  —  CHAUCER.  231 

'The  busy  larke,  messager  of  day 
Saluteth  in  her  song  the  niorwc  gray; 
And  fyry  Phebus  riseth  up  so  bright 
That  al  the  orient  laugheth  of  the  light. 
And  with  his  stremes  dryeth  in  the  greves 
The  silver  dropes  hongying  on  the  leeves." 

Sensitive  to  every  change  of  feeling  in  himself  and  others,  his 
sympathies  were  as  large  as  the  nature  of  man.  Bred  among 
aristocrats,  he  thought  that  good  desires  and  'gentil  dedes'  were 
the  only  aristocracy. 

Brave  in  misfortune.  Troubled  he  was,  but  no  trouble  could 
extort  from  him  a  fretful  note.  He  easily  shirks  the  burden,  and 
sings  to  his  empty  purse: 

'To  you  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight, 
Complain  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dear; 
I  am  sorry  now  that  ye  be  so  light. 
For  certes  ye  now  make  nie  heavy  cheer: 
Me  were  as  lief  be  laid  upon  a  bier, 
For  which  unto  your  mercy  thus  I  cry. 
Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  must  I  die. 

Now  vouchsafen  this  day  ere  it  be  night 

That  I  of  you  the  blissful  sound  may  hear. 

Or  see  your  colour  like  the  sunne  bright. 

That  of  yellowness  ne  had  never  peer; 

Ye  be  my  life,  ye  be  my  heartes  steer;  [/lelm 

Queen  of  comfort  and  of  good  company, 

Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  must  I  die. 

Now  purse,  that  art  to  me  my  lives  light, 
And  saviour,  as  down  in  tliis  world  here, 
Out  of  this  towne  help  mo  by  your  miglit, 
Sithen  that  you  will  not   be  my  tresor, 
For  I  am  shave  as  nigh  as  any  frere. 
But  I  prayen  unto  your  courtesy 
Be  heavy  again,  or  elks  must  1  die.' 

The  flying  shadow  of  grief  touches  him,  but  does  not  rest  there. 
Less  sportive,  he  would  have  been  less  vulgar.  Some  of  his 
pages  are  stained,  but  the  bleinislies  tire  not  ot"  evil  intent,  ;ind 
are  rather  to  be  imputed  to  the  age.  Our  minds  are  tinged  witli 
the  color  of  custom.  Kefinement  preserves  pul)lic-  decency,  want 
of  it  permits  the  grossest  violations.  Having  li.Kcd  upon  lii.s 
personage,  Chaucer,  as  he  hini.'-;elf  pleads,  had  to  atljust  the  tale 
to  the  teller.      TIowovim', — • 

'Who  li-t  lint  to  lioar. 
Turn  over  tlic  lc:if,  ami  chciose   another  talc!" 

Mis  svni})athi('S  tire  with  virtue  For  sul)j(.'cts  obscene  ;iii<l  <ii.s- 
gustful,  as  sUL'h,  he  has  no  taste.     It  is  not  xhvjUth  he  enjoys,  luit 


232         INITIATIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

the  fun.  Of  two  unnatural  selections  by  the  '  moral  Gower,'  he 
cries: 

'Of  all  such  cursed  stones  I  say,  Fy!' 

He  is  a  moralist,  but  a  happy  and  humorotis  one;  of  an  ethical 
temper,  too  indolent  to  make  a  reformer  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  fiery  Langland  or  the  stern  M^'ycliffe  was  one.  He  was  pro- 
gressive without  being  revolutionary. 

Influence. — He  rescued  the  native  tongue  from  Babylonish 
confusion,  and  established  a  literary  diction,  banishing  from 
Anglo-Saxon  the  superannuated  and  uncouth,  and  softening  its 
churlish  nature  by  the  intermixture  of  words  of  Romance  fancy. 

He  created,  or  introduced  a  new  versification;  exemplified  the 
principle  of  syllabical  regularity,  which  is  now  the  law  and  the 
practice  of  our  poetry;  and  by  the  superior  correctness,  grace, 
elevation,  and  harmony  of  his  style,  became  the  first  model  to 
succeeding  writers. 

He  delineated  English  society  with  a  pictorial  force  that  makes 
us  familiar  with  the  domestic  habits  and  modes  of  thinking  of  a 
most  interesting  and  important  period. 

He  is  an  unfailing  fount  of  joy  and  strength,  to  revive  the 

relish    of    simple    pleasures,   to    bring    back    the    freshness    that 

warmed  the  springtime  of  our  being,  to  refine  youthful  love,  to 

make  us  esteem  better  the  gentle  and  noble,  and  to  feel  more 

kindly  towards  the   rude   and   base.     Our  market-places  will   be 

grass-grown,  the  hum  of  our  industry  will  be  stilled,  but  the  ages 

will  carry,  as  on  the  odoriferous  wings  of  gentle  gales,  the  sweet 

strains  of  — 

'That  noble  Chaucer,  in  those  former  times. 
Who  first  enriched  our  English  with  his  rhymes. 
And  was  the  first  of  ours  that  ever  broke 
Into  the  Muse's  treasures,  and  first  sjjoke 
In  niijrhty  numbers:  delving  in  the  mine 
Of  perfect  knowledge.' 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER   V. 
FEATURES. 

A  brilliant  sun  enlivens  the  face  of  nature  with  an  unusual  lustre;  the  sudden 
appearance  of  cloudless  skies,  and  the  unexpected  warmth  of  a  tepid  atmospliere,  after 
the  gloom  and  inclemencies  of  a  tedious  winter,  fill  our  hearts  with  the  visionary  pros- 
pects of  a  speedy  summer;  and  we  fondly  anticii)ate  a  long  continuance  of  gentle  gales 
and  vernal  serenity.  But  winter  returns  with  redoubled  horrors;  the  clouds  condense 
more  formidably  than  before;  and  tliose  tender  buds,  and  early  blossoms,  which  were 
called  forth  by  the  transient  gleam  of  a  temporary  sunshine,  are  nipped  by  frost  and 
torn  by  tempests.— War/ow. 

Politics. — After  two  and  a  half  centuries  of  majestic  rule, 
the  dominion  of  the  Plantagenets'  proper  j)assed  away  forever; 
and  the  House  of  Lancaster,  in  the  person  of  Henry  IV,  was 
raised  to  the  throne  by  a  Parliamentary  revolution.  He  bought 
the  support  of  tlie  Church  by  the  promise  of  religious  pers(H"U- 
tion,  and  that  of  the  noljles  by  a  renewal  of  the  fatal  Frencii 
war.  Henry  V  continued  and  almost  realized  the  dream  of  an 
English  empire  in  France,  and  his  widow,  contracting  a  second 
marriage  with  Owen  Tudor,  desccMidant  of  the  Welsh  princes, 
became  the  ancestress  of  another  proud  line  of  English  sov- 
ereigns. The  career  of  Henry  VI  was  one  of  disa.ster  in  almost 
every  variety, — factional  strife  at  home,  and  calamity  abroad. 
Tlie  Hundred  Years'  War  ended,  hapjMly  for  mankind,  with  the 
expulsion  of  the  English  from  French  soil.  Revolts  of  th(>  poj>u- 
lace  were  folIow<Ml  I)y  a  long  and  d<>adlv  strugo-h>  for  su])r('macy 
l^etwccn  the  parties  of  the  red  rose  and  the  white,  headed  by  two 
branches  of  the  Plantagenet  dynasty, —  the  Lancastrians  ami  tlie 
\  orkists.  After  th(>  violent  crimes  and  excesses  of  Edward  l^ 
and  Richard  IH,  of  the  I  bntsi^  of  "^'ork  —  the  one  a  des]iot  and  ;i 
sensualist,  the  other  a   usiiiper  and   a    monstiM' — wlieii   tlie   ilhis- 

'Tlie  heads  of  the  line  wiiv  (;r.)fTrev  of  Anion  ;iiid  M:niil.  ilaiiLrliltr  of  II,  iiry  I  <<< 
England.  The  iianic  is  (Icrivcd  from  Plunlii  detiisla.  Latin  for  llir  r-hnih  wliiili  u:i-  w.irn 
as  iui  emblem  of  humility  l)y  the  lirst  Karl  of  Aiijoii  wlien  a  i)ili:riin  of  Holy  I. and.  I-'i"iii 
tliis  his  sMct-essors  toiii<  tlieir  crest  ami  tlieir  siiriianie. 


234  RETROGRESSIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

trious  barons  were  exterminated,  or  reduced  to  a  shadow  of  their 
former  greatness,  the  rival  claims  of  the  warring  lines  were 
united  in  the  House  of  Tudor. 

While  the  administration  swerved  continually  into  an  irregu- 
lar course,  the  restraint  of  Parliament  grew  more  effectual,  and 
notions  of  legal  right  acquired  more  precision,  till  the  time  of 
Henry  VI,  when  the  progress  of  constitutional  liberty  was  ar- 
rested by  the  Wars  of  the  Roses.  To  the  restriction  of  suffrage 
succeeded  the  corruption  of  elections.'  The  baronage  wrecked, 
the  Crown  towered  into  solitary  greatness,  and  by  its  overpower- 
ing influence  practically  usurped  the  legislative  functions  of  the 
two  Houses.  The  interests  of  self-preservation  led  the  church- 
man, the  squire,  and  the  burgess  to  lay  freedom  at  the  foot  of 
the  throne.  Without  a  standing  army,  however,  it  is  impossible 
to  oppress,  be>ond  a  certain  point,  an  armed  people.  Governors 
could  safely  be  tyrants  within  the  precinct  of  the  court,  but  an}' 
general  and  long-continued  despotism  was  prevented  by  the  ?.we 
in  which  they  stood  of  the  temper  and  strength  of  the  governed. 
From  the  accession  of  Henry  VII  is  to  be  dated  a  new  era, 
which,  if  less  distinguished  by  the  spirit  of  freedom,  is  more 
prosperous  in  the  diffusion  of  opulence  and  the  preservation  of 
order. 

Society. — Brutal  as  was  the  strife  of  the  Roses,  its  effects 
were  limited,  in  fact,  to  the  great  lords  and  their  feudal  retainers. 
The  trading  and  industrial  classes  appear,  for  the  most  part,  to 
have  stood  wholly  aloof.  It  was  of  this  period  that  Comines,  an 
accomplished  observer  of  liis  age,  wrote: 

'In  my  oiiiiiion,  of  all  Ilip  countries  in  Europe  where  I  was  ever  acquainted,  the  gov- 
ernment is  nowhere  so  well  managed,  the  peo|)le  nowhere  less  obnoxious  to  violence  and 
oppression,  nor  their  houses  less  liable  to  the  desolations  of  war,  than  in  England,  for 
there  the  calamities  fall  only  upon  their  authors.' 

Elsewhere: 

'Kngland  has  this  peculiar  grace,  that  neither  the  country,  nor  the  people,  nor  the 
houses  are  wasted,  destroyed,  or  demolished;  but  the  calamities  and  misfortunes  of  the 
war  fall  only  njion  the  soldiers,  and  especially  the  nobility."  ^ 

f  )r(lers  \ver(!   fretiuenlly  issued,  previotis  to  a  battle,  to  slav  tlie 

'The  cnini)laint  of  the  men  of  Kent  in  Cade's  revolt,  \43D,  alleges:  'The  people  of 
the  shire  are  not  allowed  to  have  their  free  election  in  the  choosing  of  knights  for  the 
shir( ,  but  letters  have  been  sent  from  divers  estates  to  the  great  rulers  of  all  the  coun- 
try, the  which  enforceth  their  tenants  and  other  people  by  force  to  choose  other  persons 
than  the  common  will  is.' 

2  The  actual  warfare  in  England  from  14.").5  to  MK)  included  an  aggregate  space  of 
about  two  vears. 


SOCIAL   STATE  —  INDUSTRIES  —  SAVAGERY.  235 

nobles  and  spare  the  commoners.  The  civil  war  was  the  death- 
struggle  of  feudalism.  The  consequent  depression  of  the  aristoc- 
racy was  the  elevation  of  the  people.  The  words  rent  and  icar/eSy 
in  familiar  use,  indicate  the  relations  of  class  to  class.  The  rude 
fidelity  of  vassalage  was  exchanged  for  the  hard  bargaining  of 
tenancy. 

There  were  no  factories.  Every  manufacture  —  cloth-making 
the  most  important  —  was  carried  on,  in  its  several  branches,  at 
the  homes  of  the  workmen.  The  natural  resources  of  the  country 
were  very  imperfectly  operated.  A  Venetian  traveller,  speaking 
of  the  general  aspect  of  the  country  in  the  time  of  Henrv  YU, 
says: 

'England  is  all  diversified  by  pleasant  undulating  hills  and  beautiful  valleys,  nothing 
being  to  be  seen  but  agreeable  woods,  or  extensive  meadows,  or  lands  in  cultivation." 

But  he  adds: 

'Agriculture  is  not  practised  in  this  island  beyond  what  is  required  for  the  consump- 
tion of  the  people;  because,  were  they  to  plough  and  sow  all  the  land  that  was  capabU'  of 
cultivation,  they  might  sell  a  quantity  of  grain  to  the  surrounding  countries." 

Capital  seems  to  have  been  more  advantageously  applied  to  tin- 
growth  of  sheep.  By  a  statute  of  1495,  every  laborer  from  mid 
March  to  mid  September  is  to  be  at  his  work  before  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  nor  leave  it  till  between  seven  and  eiglit  in  the 
evening,  with  a  half  hour  for  breakfast  and  an  hour  for  dinner. 
Modern  labor  would  not  appear,  in  comparison,  to  be  overtasked. 
Tt  was  still  a  military  community,  with  ;in  excess  oC  vigor  and 
readiness  to  fight.  The  iron  helmet  hung  upon  the  wtill  of  the 
castle;  and  the  long  bows  were  at  hand  for  thi'  deadly  flight  of 
the  iiiTow,  or  the  practice  of  arcliery  on  Sundays  antl  tVstival 
days.  Parliaments,  eai'lv  in  the  century,  were  like  armed  camps. 
That  of  142G  was  called  the  '('liib  Parlitiment,'  I'roin  tlie  circuin- 
stance  tlitit,  when  arms  were  prohil)it(Ml,  thi'  retainers  of  the 
barons  a[)pear(Hl  with  clubs  on  tlieir  shouI(lei"s.  \\  hen  chilis 
were  forbidden,  stcjiics  and  btills  of  lead  were  conci'alcd  in  the 
clothing.  Later  tlitM'e  is  the  storv  of  a  street-sculHe  betwct'ti  two 
noblemen,  in  which  several  retaincis  were  killed.  A  statute  ot 
re.str;iint  was  enacted  against  ()\rof(l  scliolafs  who  Ininted  with 
dogs  in  parks  and  forests,  threatened  the  lives  of  keejieis,  and 
liberated  clerks  convicte(l  of  felonv.  The  harvest  of  liigliway 
robberv   was   abundtint.      'If   (bid,'   said   ti    Krencli    licneial,    "had 


236  RETROGRESSIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

been  a  captain  now-a-days,  he  would  have  turned  marauder.' 
Says  Fortescue,  Chancellor  under  Henry  VI: 

'It  is  cowardise  and  lack  of  hartes  and  corage  that  kepeth  the  Frenchmen  from  rys<yng, 
and  not  i)ovcrtye;  which  corage  no  Frenche  man  hatli  like  to  the  English  man.  It  liath 
been  often  seen  in  England  that  iij  or  iv  thefes,  for  povertie,  hath  sett  upon  vij  or  viij  true 
men,  and  robbyd  them  al.  But  it  hath  not  ben  seen  in  Fraunce,  that  vij  or  viij  thefes  have 
ben  hardy  to  robbe  iij  or  iv  trne  men.  Wherefor  it  is  right  seld  that  Frenchmen  be  hangyd 
for  robberye,  for  that  they  have  no  hertys  to  do  so  terryble  an  acte.  There  be  therfor  mo 
men  hangid  in  Englond,  in  a  yere,  for  robberye  and  manslaughter,  than  ther  be  hangid  in 
Fraunce  for  such  cause  of  crime  in  vij  yers." 

It  was  natural  that  the  discharged  retainer  of  a  decayed  house 
should  rather  incline  to  take  a  purse  than  wield  a  spade.  Ballad 
story  relates  how  King  Edward  ]Von  a  hunt  meets  a  bold  tanner, 
and  inquires  the  '  readyest  waye  to  Drayton  Basset, — 

'  To  Drayton  Basset  woldst  thou  goe, 
Fro  the  place  where  thou  dost  stand? 
The  next  payre  of  galloweg  thou  comest  unto, 
Turne  in  upon  thy  right  hand.' 

Violence  and  cruelty  went  hand  in  hand.  In  the  reign  of  Henry 
IV,  it  was  made  felony  to  cut  out  any  person's  tongue,  or  put  out 
his  eves, —  crimes  which,  the  act  says,  were  very  frequent.  The 
Earl  of  Rutland  carrying  on  a  pole  the  severed  head  of  his  broth- 
er-in-law, presented  it  to  this  monarch  in  testimony  of  his  loyalty. 
Two  princes  were  smothered  in  the  tower.  Men  were  beheaded 
without  appeal  to  law  or  ju.stice.  The  gory  head  of  a  Lollard 
Avas  welcomed  into  London,  with  j)salms  of  thanksgiving,  by  a 
procession  of  abbots  and  bishops,  who  went  out  to  meet  it.  The 
head  of  a  Royalist,  crowned  in  mockery  with  a  diadem  of  pa})cr, 
was  impaled  on  the  walls  of  York. 

Now  that  the  battlo-axe  and  sword  had  destroyed  the  petty 
royalty  of  the  feudal  l)aro:i,  the  loi'ds  Cjuitted  their  sombre  cas- 
tles—  strong  fortresses,  l)ut  dreary  abodes  —  and  flocked  into 
others  uniting  convenience  and  beauty  with  some  power  of  de- 
fence. Vaulted  roofs  and  turrets,  the  decorated  gable  and  tlie 
spacious  window,  su])crs(Mled  in  most  instances  the  protecting 
])arap('t  and  the  frowning  embrasure.  Th(>  distinguishing  feature 
ol'  the  domestic  arrangement  was  still  the  great  hall  with  its 
central  fir(\  In  t'nvns  tli(>  uj)per  .stories  j)r()jected  over  the  lower, 
so  tliat  in  nai'row  streets  the  op])osite  fronts  were  only  a  few  feet 
apart.  A  Pastoii  letter  giv(>s  a  curious  insiglit  into  the  construc- 
tion of   till'  ordinarv  manor-liouse: 


SOCIAL  STATE — HOUSES — NEWS  —  SPORTS.  237 

'Patrick  and  his  fellowship  are  sore  afraid  that  ye  would  enter  again  iiiH)n  them;  and 
tliey  have  made  great  ordinance  within  the  house;  and  it  is  told  me  they  have  made  barn  to 
bar  the  doors  crosswise ;  and  tiiey  have  made  wiclcets  in  every  quarter  of  the  house  to  sIkxji 
out  at,  both  with  bows  and  with  hand-guns;  and  the  holes  that  be  made  for  hand-guns  they 
be  scarce  knee-higli  from  the  plancher  (floor) ;  and  of  such  holes  be  made  five;  there  can 
no  man  shoot  out  at  them  with  no  hand- bows." 

Sleeping  apartments  were  small.  Mrs.  Paston  is  puzzled  to  know 
how  she  can  put  her  husband's  writing-board  and  his  coffer  beside 
the  bed,  so  that  he  may  have  space  to  sit.  Beds  were  rarely  used 
except  by  the  most  wealthy.  It  is  poetry  and  history  combined 
that  presents  the  affecting  spectacle  of  a  care-worn  and  sleepless 
king  asking, — 

'Why,  rather,  Sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs. 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretcliing  thee. 
And  hush'd  with  buzzing  niglit-flies  to  thy  slumber; 
Than  in  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great. 
Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state, 
And  lull'd  witli  sounds  of  sweetest  melody?'' 

Common  utensils  were  transmitted  in  wills  from  generation  to 
generation, —  tongs,  bellows,  pans,  pewter  dishes,  'a  great  earth- 
en pot  that  was  my  mother's.' 

From  the  scarcity  of  books,  reading  could  be  no  coiiunon 
acquirement.  From  the  deariiess  of  parchment  and  the  slowness 
of  scribes,  manuscripts  were  things  purcliasable  only  by  princely 
munificence.  News  travelled  slowly,  borne  for  the  most  part,  by 
traders  and  pilgrims.  The  result  of  the  great  battle  of  Towton 
was  six  days  in  reaching  London.  Posts  —  horsemen  placed 
twenty  miles  apart  —  were  now  first  used  on  the  road  from  Lon- 
don to  Scotlartd.  No  modern  net-work  of  wires  and  rails  broke 
the  narrow  circle  of  local  infiuence  in  which  men  usually  abode 
from  childhood  to  age. 

Amid  monotonous  cares  and  the  endless  inconv<>nience  of 
climate,  while  kings  are  dethroned  and  princes  assassinated,  the 
spirit  of  enjoyment  abides,  reflected  in  the  perilous  coiuhats  of 
the  lists,  the  masks  and  disguisings  f)f  the  jialace,  the  aiiti(|ue 
pageantry  of  Christinas,  the  iiicrrinients  of  Easter  and  May-ilay. 
Wrestlers  contended  before  the  mayor  and  aldenncMi,  as  their 
fathcjrs  had  done;  and  the  arcJK'rs  went  out,  as  of  old,  into  i''iiis- 
burv  Fields.  Vaulters  came  tuii)l)ling  about,  jugglers  bcwitriicd 
the  eye,  and  the  ambulatory  minstrel  with  his  harj)  borne  bd'orc 
him  by  his  smiling  page,  who  — 

'  Shakesiicaic's  Ikiiry  IV. 


238  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'Walken  for  and  wyde, 
Hur  and  thcr,  in  every  syde. 
In  many  a  diverse  londc.' 

From  the  days  of  Henry  III,  the  burning  crests  of  the  marching 
watch'  had  sent  up  their  triumphant  fires.  The  twilight  hours 
of  June  and  July  witnessed  the  simple  hospitalities  of  primitive 
London: 

'On  the  vigils  of  festival  days,  and  on  the  same  festival  days  after  the  sun  setting, 
there  were  usually  made  bonfires  m  the  streets,  every  man  bestowing  wood  and  labor 
toward  them;  the  wealthier  sort  also,  before  their  doors  near  to  the  said  bonfire,  would 
set  out  tables  on  the  vigils,  furnished  with  swuet  bread  and  good  drink,  and  on  the  fes- 
tival days  witli  meats  and  drinks  plentifully,  whereunto  they  would  invite  their  neighbors 
and  passengers  also  to  sit  and  be  merry  with  them  in  great  familiarity,  praising  God  for 
the  benefits  bestowed  on  them.' 

Mr)st  beautiful  of  all  —  in  its  original  simplicity  so  associated 
with  the  love  of  nature  —  was  the  custom  of  rising  at  dawn  in 
the  month  of  May/  and  going  forth,  rich  and  poor,  with  one  im- 
pulse, to  the  woods  for  boughs  of  hawthorn  and  laurel  to  deck 
the  doorways  of  the  street,  as  a  joyful  welcoming,  amid  feasting 
and  dancing,  of  the  sweet  spring-time.  Spontaneous  and  uncon- 
scious acknowledgment  of  the  beauty  of  the  Universe,  as  by 
men  reared  in  the  pathless  forests,  knowing  Nature  as  a  house- 
hold friend  that  has  entwined  itself  with  their  first  affections;  a 
thing  of  the  nerves  and  animal  spirits,  yet  impossible,  alas  !  to 
our  present  analytic  and  jaded  civilization.  We,  all  utilitarian 
and  prosaic,  mourn  in  \ain  the  loss  of  that  direct  and  unreflecting 
pleasure  which  the  untutored  imag-ination  felt  in  habitual  con- 
verse with  earth  and  sky,  talking  to  the  wayside  flowers  of  its 
love,  and  to  the  fading  clouds  of  its  ambition;  or  tiiat  earlier  fresh- 
ness of  eye,  which,  in  the  first  pencillings  of  dawn  that  struck 
some  lonely  peak  or  fell  into  some  sequestered  dell,  saw  the 
Fairies  retiring  from  their  mooidight  dances  into  the  green  knolls 
where  they  made  their  homes. 

Religion. — It  may  be  doubtful  whether  the  belief  in  fairies 
had  passed  away.  At  li-ast  they  lurked  in  the  by-corners  of  our 
poets,  and  existe<l  elsewhere  under  a  new  character,  degraded  by 
tlie  church  into  imps  o{  darkness,  to  inspire  no  doubt  a  horror  of 
relapse  into  heatlirni.sh  rites.  Su])erstition  was  wide  and  dense, 
and  riveted  with  theology.  Christianity  in  its  struggle  with  th(! 
barbarian  world  had  Iji^en  profoundlv  modified.      The  tendency  to 

'The  men  of  the  w.-ilcli  were  the  \oIimtary  ixdicc  of  tlic  city. 

'May  Ixgan  twehe  days  later  than  now,  and  ended  in  ihe  midst  of  June. 


THE   CHURCH  —  HER    DEBASEMENT.  239 

a  material,  sensuous  faith  was  fatally  strengthened,  first  by  the 
infusion  of  the  pagan  element,  then  by  the  debasement  and 
avarice  of  the  clergy.  To  the  idols  of  Paganism  succeeded 
shrines,  relics,  masses,  holy  wells,  awful  exorcisms,  saintly  vigils, 
festivals,  images  of  miraculous  power,  pilgrimages  afar  and  pen- 
ances at  home.  At  Canterbury  were  skulls,  chins,  teeth,  hands, 
fingers,  arms,  feet,  shoes,  legs,  hair,  rags,  splinters  from  the 
crown  of  thorns,  etccetei'a,  to  be  adored  and  kissed  by  the  innu- 
merable pilgrims  —  for  money.  Each  shrine  had  certificates 
written  by  the  Virgin  or  by  angels,  to  support  the  lucrative 
impostures.  Winking  statues  were  rife  ;  bleeding  wafers  were 
exhibited;  boys  wrapped  in  gold  foil  were  introduced  as  heavenly 
visions.     Says  a  contemporary: 

'The  Ignorant  masses  worsliip  the  images  of  stone,  or  of  wood,  or  marble,  or  brass,  or 
painted  on  the  walls  of  churclies, —  not  as  statues  or  mere  figures,  but  as  if  they  were 
living,  and  trust  more  in  them  than  in  eitlier  Christ  or  the  saints.  Hence  they  offer  them 
gold,  silver,  rings,  and  jewels  of  all  kinds,  and  that  the  more  may  be  wheedled  into  doing 
so,  those  who  drive  this  trade  hang  medals  from  the  neck  or  arms  of  llic  image,  to  sell,  and 
gather  the  gifts  they  receive  into  heaps  in  conspicuous  places,  putting  labels  on  them  by 
which  the  names  of  the  donors  may  be  [jroclaimed.  By  all  this  a  great  part  of  the  world  is 
put  past  itself  about  these  images,  and  led  to  make  often  distant  i)ilgrimages,  that  they 
may  visit  some  little  figure  and  leave  their  gifts  to  it;  and  all  piety,  charity  and  duty  is 
neglected  to  do  this,  in  the  belief  that  they  have  given  and  repented  enough  if  they  have 
put  gold  into  the  bag  at  the  shrine." 

Cliarms  and  amulets  were  a  sure  guarantee  against  every  form  of 
disaster.  The  mystical  virtues  of  the  cross  were  the  incessant 
theme  of  the  monk.  No  happy  issue  of  an  adventure  could  be 
expected  without  its  frequent  sign.  In  peril  or  in  ph^asure,  in 
sorrow  and  in  sin,  they  diagrammed  it  by  the  motion  of  their 
hands.  It  stood  as  the  hallowed  witness  wliicli  marked  the 
boundaries  between  parishes.  It  stood  at  the  beginning  and  at 
the  end  of  private  letters,  as  of  public  documents.  It  became 
the  mark  which  served  as  the  convenient  signature  of  some 
unlettered  baron.  They  knelt  to  it,  kissc^l  it  —  kissed  it  as  a 
palpable  and  visible  deity.  Waxen  images  were  potent  to  pro- 
cure health  and  weal.  An  anxious  wife  writes  U)  her  husband, 
sick  in  Lonilon: 

'  My  mother  vowed  another  image  of  wax  of  the  weight  of  yon,  to  our  Lady  of  Walsiug- 
ham;  and  she  sent  four  nol)l(s  to  the  four  r)rders  of  friars  at  Norwich  lo  pray  for  you  ;  and 
1  have  vowed  to  go  on  pilLrriinaije  to  Walsingham  and  St.  Leonards.' 

In  the  last  human  trial,  these  vain  ceremonials  were  etlicaeioiis  to 
comfort  and  to  cheer.      Testaments  jirovided  for  requiems  to  bt; 


240  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

said,  in  rich  vestments  especially  furnished  for  the  purpose; 
newly-painted  images  of  'our  Lady'  to  be  set  up,  with  tapers 
ever  burning;  the  chimes  in  the  steeple  to  be  repaired;  the  priest 
to  have  a  yearly  reward,  or  a  residence,  and  at  each  meal  to 
repeat  the  name  of  the  testator,  that  they  who  hear  may  say, 
'God  have  mercy  on  his  soul';  a  Latin  sentence  to  be  written  'on 
the  fore  part  of  the  iron  about  my  grave,'  and  therewith  'the 
pardon  which  I  purchased ' ;  ten  pounds  '  to  a  priest  for  to  go  to 
Rome,  and  I  will  that  the  said  priest  go  to  the  stations  and  say 
masses  as  is  according  to  a  pilgrim.'  Henry  VII  engaged  two 
thousand  masses,  at  sixpence  (!)  each,  to  be  said  for  the  repose 
of  his  soul. 

It  was  universally  taught  that  innumerable  evil  spirits  were 
ranging  over  the  world,  seeking  the  present  misery  and  future 
ruin  of  mankind, —  fallen  spirits  that  retained  the  angelic  capaci- 
ties, and  directed  against  men  the  energies  of  superhuman  malice. 
The  brave  \'eomen,  who  fronted  danger  in  the  field,  quailed  before 
the  gentle  Maid  as  a  sorceress.  A  proclamation  was  issued  to 
the  soldiery  to  reassure  them  against  the  incantations  of  the 
girl.     The  Duke  of  Bedford  wrote  to  the  king: 

'All  things  here  prospered  for  you  till  the  time  of  the  siege  of  Orleans,  undertaken  of 
whose  advice  God  only  knows.  Since  the  death  of  my  cousin  of  Salisbury,  whom  God 
absolve,  who  fell  by  the  hand  of  God,  as  it  seemeth,  your  people,  who  were  assembled  in 
greaf  number  at  this  siege,  have  received  a  terrible  check.  This  has  been  caused  in  part, 
as  we  trow,  by  the  confidence  our  enemies  have  in  a  disciple  and  limb  of  the  Devil,  called 
Piicelle,  that  used  false  enchantments  and  sorcery.  The  which  stroke  and  discomflture  ha.s 
not  only  lessened  the  Tiuml)er  of  your  peojile  hero,  but  also  sunk  the  courage  of  the  remain- 
der in  a  wonderful  manner,  and  encouraged  your  enemies  to  assemble  themselves  forthwitli 
in  great  numbers.' 

The  shrivelled  arm  of  Richard  III  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 
A  duchess,  convicted  of  practicing  magic  against  the  king's  life, 
was  compelled  to  do  penance  in  the  streets,  while  two  of  her  ser- 
vants were  executed.  Satan  with  his  feudatories  and  vassals  — 
cast  out  from  Olympus  and  Asgard,  outlawed  by  the  new  dynasty  — 
lurked  in  forest  and  mountain,  and  issuing  forth  only  after  night- 
fall, raised  the  desolating  tempest,  sent  the  pestilential  blast, 
and  kept  body  and  stnil  together  by  an  illicit  traffic  between  this 
world  and  the  other.  The  fancy  that  once  lay  warm  about  the 
heart,  iiow  sends  a  chill  among  the  roots  of  the  hair. 

So  flourished,  outwardly,  the  empire  of  Rome,  while  ideas 
became  the  occasions  of  superstition,  and  forms  of  ritualism  dis- 


THE   CHURCH  —  HER    EXCESSES.  241 

placed  a  living  consciousness.  Religious  discourses,  without 
judgment  or  spirit,  were  a  motley  mixture  of  gross  fiction  and 
extravagant  invention.  Practical  religion  was  a  verv  simple 
affair.  The  one  thing  needful  for  a  sinner,  however  scandalous 
his  moral  life,  was  to  confess  regularly,  to  receive  the  sacrament, 
to  be  absolved.  If  sick,  or  ill  at  ease,  he  might  be  recommended 
to  some  wonder-working  image,  which  would  bow  when  it  was 
pleased,  and  avert  its  head  if  the  present  was  unsatisfactorv. 
For  every  mass  —  usually  bought  by  the  dozen  —  so  many  years 
were  struck  off  from  the  penal  period.  The  rulers  of  the  (.'hureh, 
who  once  tamed  the  fiery  Northern  warriors  by  the  magic  of 
their  sanctity,  were  sunk  into  luxurious  indolence  and  vice.  The 
popes,  who  once  lived  t'o  remind  men  of  the  eternal  laws  which 
they  ought  to  obey,  were,  almost  without  exception,  worldly, 
intriguing,  and  immoral.  Several  were  murderers,  most  were 
plunderers,  one  was  poisoned  b}^  his  successor,  another  was  elect- 
ed by  menaces  and  bribes,  the  last  died  by  the  poison  lie  had 
mingled  for  others  who  stood  in  the  way  of  his  greed  and  ambi- 
tion. Prelates,  cardinals,  and  abbots  were  occupied  chiefly  in 
maintaining  their  splendor.  The  friars  and  the  secular  clergy 
who  were  to  live  for  others,  not  for  themselves,  turned  their 
spiritual  powers  to  account  to  obtain  from  the  laity  the  means 
for  their  self-indulgence.  The  monks,  who  once  lived  in  an 
enchanted  atmosphere  of  piety  and  beneficence,  were  so  many 
herds  of  lazy,  illiterate,  and  licentious  Epicureans,  dividing  their 
hours  between  tlie  cliapel,  the  tavern,  and  the  brothel, —  all 
scheming  or  dreaming  on  tlie  eve  of  the  judgment  ilay!  The 
priesthood,  amenable  only  to  spiritual  judges,  extend  the  privi- 
leges of  their  order  till  clerk  was  construed  to  mean  any  one  who 
could  write  his  name  or  read  a  sentence.  A  robber  or  an  nssassiu 
had  only  to  show  that  he  could  do  either,  and  he  was  allowed 
what  was  called  the  'benefit  of  clergy.' 

Now  consid(M'  tliat  such  men  owned  a  tliini  or  a  half  ot  tlie 
land  in  everv  country  of  Europe,  while  tliey  confined  their  views 
in  life  to  opulence,  idleness,  aiid  feasting.  At  th(>  iiistalhitiou  ot 
the  Archbishop  of  York,  l)rother  of  the  King-Maker,  there  were 
present  3,. 500  ]iersons,  who  consuniecl,  104  oxen  and  l!  wild  Imlls, 
1,000  sheep,  .304  calves,  as  many  hogs.  -2,000  ^wine,  .")0O  sta-s, 
bucks,  and  does,  204  kids,  :>2,S0-i  wild  or  tame  fowls,  300  (fuar- 
IG 


242  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

ters  of  corn,  300  tuns  of  ale,  100  of  wine,  a  pipe  of  hippocras,  12 
porpoises  and  seals.  The  Commons  declared  that  with  the  rev- 
enues of  the  English  Church  the  king  would  be  able  to  maintain 
15  earls,  1,500  knights,  6,200  squires,  and  100  hospitals;  each 
earl  receiving  annually  300  marks,  each  knight  100  marks,  and 
the  produce  of  four  ploughed  lands;  each  squire  40  marks,  and 
the  produce  of  two  ploughed  lands. 

Was  not  a  reformation  of  some  sort  an  overwhelming  neces- 
sity? So  felt  the  people,  who,  if  unable  to  comprehend  an  argu- 
ment, were  anxious  for  a  correction  of  abuses.  So  felt  the  higher 
natures  who  led  them,  believing  in  justice,  in  righteousness, 
above  all  in  truth,  and  caring  not  to  live  unless  they  lived  nobly. 
So  felt  the  Church  —  which  repressed  them,  by  entreaty,  by  re- 
monstrance, by  bribery,  by  force.  The  king  and  the  peers  allied 
themselves  with  the  ecclesiastics,  in  1400  the  Statute  of  Here- 
tics was  passed;  and  William  Santre,  a  priest,  became  the  first 
English  martyr.  A  tailor,  who  denied  transubstantiation  —  ac- 
cused of  having  said  that,  if  it  were  true,  there  were  twenty 
thousand  gods  in  every  cornfield  in  England  —  was  next  commit- 
ted to  the  flames.  A  nobleman,  hung  on  the  gallows  with  a  fire 
blazing  at  his  feet,  suffered  the  double  penalty  for  heresy  and 
treason.  Lollardisni  was  crushed  by  the  weight  of  the  establish- 
ment above,  but  its  principles,  infecting  all  classes,  from  the  low- 
est to  the  highest,  were  working  a  silent  revolution.  The  soft 
spring  green  withered  away,  but  its  roots  wei'e  quick  in  the  soil. 
The  clergy  did  not  dream  that  the  storm  would  gather  again. 
For  a  moment  they  were  .startled  by  a  statute  of  Henry  VH 
'for  the  more  sure  and  likely  reformation  of  priests,  clerks,  and 
religious  men';  but  again  the  cloud  disappeared,  and  again  they 
forgot  the  warning.  At  this  moment  the  Church,  ever  richer  and 
more  glittering,  dazzled  the  eyes  to  the  decay  of  its  substance, 
like  some  majestic  iceberg  drifting-  southward  out  of  the  frozen 
North,  seemingly  stable  as  the  eternal  rocks,  while  down  in  tii(» 
far  deeps  the  base  is  dissolving  and  the  centre  of  gravity  is 
changing. 

Lieariling. — Intellectual  life  disappeared  with  religious  lib- 
erty. Learning  declined,  especially  at  Oxford.  Her  scholars 
became  travelling  mendicants,  whose  academical  credentials  were 
at    times  turned  into  ridicule  and  mockery  by  the  insolence  of 


LEARNING — THE    PRINTING    PRESS.  243 

rank  and  wealth.  The  monasteries  were  no  longer  seats  of  cult- 
ure. Twenty  years  after  Cliaucer's  death,  an  Italian  traveller 
said: 

'I  found  in  them  men  given  up  to  sensuality  in  abundance,  but  very  few  lovers  of 
learning,  and  those  of  a  barbarous  sort,  skilled  more  in  ([uibbles  and  sophisms  than  in 
literalure." 

Knowledge  was  a  stagnant  morass  or  an  impenetrable  jungle. 
Literary  production  was  nearly  at  an  end.  Puerile  chroniclers, 
scribblers  of  prosaic  commonplaces,  translators  from  the  worn- 
out  Held  of  French  romance,  give  some  distention  to  a  period 
that  would  else  collapse.  An  occasional  gleam  of  genius  faintly 
illuminates  a  date,  like  the  last  flicker  of  the  dying  day,  or  the 
pulse  of  the  early  dawn, — 

'As  if  the  morn  had  waked,  and  then 
Shut  close  her  lids  of  light  again." 

In  the  nobler  elements  of  national  life,  a  dreary  one-hundred 
years,  whose  chief  consolation  is,  that  the  downward  touches  the 
upward  movement;  that  everywhere  in  the  common  soil  —  the 
unconsidered  people,  sustained  by  the  surviving  Saxon  charac- 
ter—  lay  the  forces  of  which  fruit  should  come.  The  popular 
cast  of  authorship  shows  the  stir  of  a  new  interest  among  the 
masses.  With  a  paucity  of  writers,  in  no  former  age  were  so 
many  books  transcribed.  It  is  proof  of  an  increased  demand, 
that  the  process  of  copying  was  transferred  from  the  monastic  to 
the  secular  class.  And  it  was  this  transfer  that  led  to  the  intro- 
duction of  printing.  At  first  a  secret  and  occult  art.  The 
monopolizers  dreaded  discovery,  and  the  workmen  were  bound 
to  secrecy  by  the  solemnity  of  an  oath.  After  their  opera- 
tions, the  four  sides  of  their  forms  were  cautiously  unscrewed, 
and  the  scattered  type  thrown  beneath,  for  'when  the  coniponenl 
parts  of  the  press  are  in  jiieces,  no  one  will  understand  what  tliey 
mean.'  In  a  mystical  style,  tlioy  imjtressed  u])on  the  wondering 
reader  that  the  volume  he  held  was  of  su]iernatural  ongm,  an- 
nouncing merelv  that  it  was  'neither  drawn,  nor  written  with  a 
pen  and  ink,  as  all  books  before  had  lieen.'  ]5ut  the  freemasonry 
was  lost,  the  jirinters  were  dis])ersed;  and  at  Cologne  a  ]>lani 
English  trader  —  Caxton  —  was  initiat(>d  into  tli<'  'nolile  mystery 
and  craft.'  \'erv  ]M-oud  of  the  marvellous  freight  with  which  lie 
returns  after  an   absence  of  five-and-thirtv  vears:   verv  eau'er  in 


244  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

his  zeal  when  lie  remembers  the  tedious,  weary  method  of  the 
Scriptorium,  hardly  equal  to  the  production  of  a  hundred  Bibles 
in  seven  thousand  days;  almost  professing,  in  his  first  printed 
work,  to  have  performed  a  miracle: 

'I  have  practiced  and  learned,  at  my  great  charge,  to  put  in  order  this  said  book  in 
print  after  the  manner  and  form  as  ye  may  here  see:  and  is  not  written  with  pen  and  ink 
as  other  books  be,  to  the  end  that  every  muh  may  have  them  at  once:  for  all  the  books  of 
this  story,  thus  imprinted  as  ye  see,  were  begun  in  one  day,  and  uho  finished  in  one  day.' 

Not  unwilling-  to  keep  up  the  wonder  and  mystery  of  the  new 
implement  which  men  did  not  yet  comprehend.' 

In  1453,  the  Crescent  advanced  upon  the  city  of  Constantine, 
the  Greek  Empire  fell,  Greek  scholars  were  driven  westward, 
Greek  literature  and  art  were  forced  into  Italy;  and  Plato  lived 
again,  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  reformers.  His  mild  and  divine 
wisdom  was  at  war  with  the  sensuality  that  had  become  the  scan- 
dal of  the  Church  of  Rome.  'Beware  of  the  Greek,'  ran  the  cler- 
ical proverb,  'lest  you  be  made  a  heretic'  Italy  that  already,  in 
the  preceding  age,  liad  appropriated  whatever  Latin  letters  con- 
tained of  strength  or  splendor  to  arouse  the  thought  and  fancy, 
became  the  school  of  Cliristendom.  Thither  repaired  the  men 
of  taste  or  genius  wlio  desired  to  share  the  newly-discovered 
privileges  of  antiquity;  and,  quickened  by  the  magnetic  touch, 
returned  with  a  generous  ambition  to  vie  with  the  noble  ancients. 
Thetice  the  stream  of  civilization  was  to  flow  as  from  its  fount. 
With  a  Muctuating  movement,  the  life  current  extended  through- 
out Western  P^urope,  England  being  among  the  latest  to  feel  it. 
When  gh-aiiis  of  tlie  revival  had  long  struggled  with  the  scholas- 
tic cloud,  tiie  GriM'k  language  Ix'gan  to  be  taught  at  Oxford,  and 
about  14!M)  they  began  to  read  the  classics.  Thence  was  to  come 
every  science  and  everv  elegance. 

Lianguage. — The   ('mancipation   of  the  national  tongue   was 

now   conlii'nie(l   hv  another  monarch.      Ilenrv  V,  in  a  missive  to 

the  craft  of  brewers,  declarecl: 

'Tlie  KnL'li>h  tonu'iU'  halli  in  ni(«lcrn  d:iys  hcL'tm  to  be  honorably  enlarired  and 
;;dnrnc<l:  and  for  llic  hclti-r  midcr-liinilinL,'  of  ilie  people,  tlie  coniuion  idiom  should  bo 
fXirci-cd  in  wriliiiL'.' 

'Who  tir-t  tauLTlil  to  c-irM-  the  lctliT<  on  wooden  block- —wlio  iniMirined  to  cast  Ilie 
tiieial  uith  fii-il  type- di-tiiict  one  I'roni  tlie  (.ther.— '//'/'  i>.  tor  Kurope,  a  (iernian  romance 
Willi  tlie  openin'i  paL'e>  for<-\(T  waiiliiiL'.  Faii-t,  ScliiitTer,  ( Hiteiilieri.',  C'ostar,  have  their 
jealoii-  \oIaiie-.  Tlie  (iriiriii  of  >onie  of  the  iiio-t  iiite|-e-liiii;  invent  loll*  i<  lo'^t  ill  ob-^cure 
tradition-.  Perhaps  the  Chine-e.  wlio  had  inactiicd  the  art  of  lilock-priiitiiiL.'  for  nearly  I  wo 
thou-aiid  year-,  -ntfered  it  to  -teal  awa.\-  over  their  'irreat  wall."  l'.iil  the  same  e.Mraordi- 
nary  iiiveniion  may  occur  at  di<tinct  p'TJod-.  Kr'ar  ll.acon  indicated  the  iiiL'redieiit-'  of 
L'lmpowder  a  linndred  ycar>  before  the  monk  Seiiwart/.,  alioul  i;j;50,  acltially  ?lruck  out  the 
t;ery  e\|iio-i(in. 


POETRY  —  OCCLEVE   AND   LYDGATE.  245 

We  further  learn  that  now  *the  Lords  and  the  Commons  began 
to  have  their  proceedings  noted  down  in  the  mother-tongue.' 
Both  this  prince  and  his  father  left  their  wills  in  the  native 
speech. 

Religious  diction,  always  in  a  more  advanced  stage  of  culture 
than  was  the  secular,  made,  in  the  hands  of  Pecock,  considerable 
progress  in  vocabulary,  and  more  especially  in  logical  struc- 
ture. In  Fortescue  and  the  Nut-broiot  3Iaid,  there  is  not  only 
a  diminution  of  obsolete  English,  but  a  modern  cast  of  phrase 
and  arrangement  which  denotes  the  commencement  of  a  new 
era.  There  was  little  occasion  for  decided  improvement  until 
new  conditions  of  society  should  create  a  necessity  for  it. 

Poetry.  —  In  the  mutability  of  taste,  the  ancient  romances 
were  turned  from  verse  into  prose.  They  had  pleased  as  pictures 
of  manners  still  existing,  but  the  correspondence  was  fading, 
while  there  was  yet  no  antiquarian  interest  to  preserve  their  hold 
on  the  public  mind  that  had  outgrown  them.  Indeed,  after  this 
literature  —  prose  or  metrical  —  had  entranced  for  three  centuries 
the  few  who  read  and  the  many  who  listened,  its  enchantment 
Avas  on  the  wane:  another  taste  —  where  taste  existed  —  was  now 
on  the  ascendant. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  the  impoverished  romance,  imitated  the 
hundredth  time,  compiled,  abridged,  even  modernized,  that 
chiefly  occupied  the  dull  rhymesters  of  the  fifteenth  centur\-. 
After  the  heavy  platitudes  of  Gower  came  the  didactic  puerili- 
ties of  Occleve,  a  lawyer,  who  says  truly  that  Chaucer,  whom  he 
strove  to  copy,  would  willingly  have  taught  him,  '^  I>i(t  I  teas  (lull, 
and  learned  little  or  nothlni/.''  ^^'hen  a  man's  only  merit  is  a 
fond  idolatry  of  his  master,  let  him  be  forgotten.  Then  Lydgate, 
a  monk,  a  long-winded  and  third-rate  poet,  who  manut'aetures 
verses  to  order,  for  the  king  and  his  subjects;  paraphrases  or 
translates,  as  others  have  done  with  more  grace  and  ])()wer,  77/«- 
Juill  of  Pruices,  The  JJeMnc-tinti  of  Troi/,  and  Tli<  Sii</<  <>/' 
Tlnhes.  Here  and  there  is  a  sul)liuie  trutii,  strongly  expresseil, 
as  in  tlie  remarkable  lines: 

'God  hath  a  tlioii-andc  haiuh"^  to  clia<ty>"i\ 
A  tliotisaiKle  dartes  of  piiiiirioii, 
A  thDiisandc  bDwes  made  in  dyinr-  uvso. 
A  thou^raiide  arrowbhi^tc-  bout  in  liis  dongeoii.'  \i\\ftW 


246  liETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Or  a  descriptive  gem,  with  much  of  the  brilliancy  of  the  Italian: 

'Tyli  at  the  last  amonge  the  bowes  glade 
Of  aduenture  I  caught  a  plei-aunt  shade; 
Ful  smothe  and  plaj'ii  and  lusty  for  to  sene 
And  soft  as  veliiet  was  the  yonge  grene: 
Where  fro  my  hors  I  did  aliiiht  as  fast, 
And  on  a  bowe  aloft  his  reyne  cast. 

So  faynte  and  mate  of  werynesse  I  was,  [fatigued 

That  I  me  layde  adowne  upon  the  gras, 
UiH)n  a  bryncke,  shortly  for  to  tell, 
Besyde  the  ryuer  of  a  cristall  welle; 
And  the  water,  as  1  reherse  can, 
Like  quicke  sihier  in  his  streams  ran 
Of  whych  the  grauell  and  the  bryght  stone 
As  any  golde  agayne  the  sonue  shone." 

Or  a  golden  couplet,  suggestive  of  the  coloring  and  melody  of 
later  times: 

'Serpentes  and  adders,  scaled  sylucr-bright. 
Were  ouer  Rome  sene  tlyeng  all  the  iiyght.' 

There  is  an  accent  of  originality  in  The  Dance  of  Death,  whose 
mocking  and  grotesque  figures  dance  on  their  tomb  to  the  sound 
of  a  fiddle  played  by  a  grinning  skeleton;  or  a  free  vein  of 
humor  in  The  Lack-penny,  which  opens  the  street  scenery  of 
London: 

'To  London  once  my  stepps  I  bent, 
Where  troulh  in  no  wysc  should  be  faynt. 
To  Westmynster-ward  I  forthwitli  went, 
To  a  man  of  law  to  make  complaynt : 
I  sayd,   "for  Mary"s  love,  that  holy  saint! 
Pity  the  poore  that  wold  proceede"; 
But  for  lack  of  mouy  I  cold  not  spede. 

Then  unto  London  I  dyd  me  hye. 

Of  all  the  land  it  beareth  the  pryse. 

"  Hot  pescodes,"  one  began  to  crye, 

"Strabery  rype,  and  cherryes  in  the  ryse"; 

One  bad  nie  come  nere  and  l)y  >^ome  spyce, 

Peper  and  salToriie  gan  me  l)e(le,  [began  to  offer  me 

But  for  lack  of  niony  I  myght  not  spede. 

Then  to  the  C'hcpe  I  began  me  drawne. 

Where  mulch  i)eople  I  saw  for  tr)  stand; 

One  ofred  inc  velvet,  sylke,  and  lawne, 

.■\ii  other  lie  taketli  me  by  the  hande, 

"lI<Tc  i-  I'aiys  tlireail,  the  fynest  in  the  land"; 

]   ncvir  Wii-  u<e(l   to  >u<-li  thyugs  iiidede. 

And  wanliiii:  iiiouy.   I   uii'_'lit   not  sjji'de. 

Then  went    I   forth  liy  London  -tone, 
ThrouL'hout  all  Caiiwyke  -treetc: 
Drapers  mutch  clotli  m<-  otfred  anone; 
Then  cnme'^  me  one,  cryed  "Hot   sliepes   feete '" 
One  cryde  "  makerill,"  "ry^hes,""  "grene."  an  other  [rushes 

gan  greete :  [cry 


POETRY  —  BALLAD-SINGERS — NUT   BROWN   MAID.  247 

On  bad  me  by  a  hood  to  cover  my  head, 
But  for  want  of  mony  I  myght  not  be  sped. 

Then  I  hyed  me  into  Est-Chope; 

One  cryes  rybbs  of  befe,  and  many  a  pye: 

Pewter  pottes  they  clattered  on  a  heape; 

There  was  harpe,  pype,  and  mynstralsye. 

"Yea,  by  cock!   nay,  by  cock  I"   some  began  crye; 

Some  songe  of  Jeuken  and  Julyan  for  there  mede; 

But  for  hick  of  mony  I  might  not  spede.  .  .  . 

The  taverner  tooke  me  by  the  sieve, 

"Sir,"'  sayth  he,  "wyll  you  our  wyne  assay?" 

I  answered,  "That  can  not  mutch  me  greve: 

A  peny  can  do  no  more  harm  than  it  may ; " 

I  drank  a  pynt,  and  for  it  did  paye. 

Yet  some  a  hungerd  from  thence  I  yede,  [went 

And  wantying  money,  I  cold  not  spede.' 

As  for  the  rest, —  tedious,  languid,  halting,  desolate.  There  are 
others.  You  may  find  them  by  the  dozen  in  Warton  or  Ritson, 
a  crowd  of  worthless  and  forgotten  versifiers.  We  look  patiently 
for  something  to  exalt,  to  instruct,  or  to  please;  find  at  last  in 
the  royal  James,  of  Scotland, — 

'Be  not  ouir  proudc  in  thy  prosperitie. 
For  us  it  cumnii-;,  sa  will  it  pass  away.' 

and  in  Dunbar, — 

'What  is  this  life  but  aue  straucht  way  to  deid, 
Whilk  has  a  time  to  pass  and  nane  to  dwell?' 

then  we  yawn,  and  go  away,  oppressed  with  the  surfeit  of  drean's 
and  abstractions,  used  up  and  barren. 

As  the  romances  declined,  the  lyric  which  sung  of  the  outlaw 
and  the  forest,  the  joys  and  woes  of  love,  and  later  of  the  wild 
l)order  life,  gradually  took  form.  The  ballad-singers  outlived  the 
troubadours,  but  their  songs,  long  stored  in  tlie  n\em()ries  of  the 
])eople,  reach  us  only  in  a  late  edition  of  the  iifteenth  century. 
After  the  gloom  of  the  castle  and  the  conventioiialisni  of  flic 
court,  it  is  refreshing  to  find  ourselves  in  the  open  air,  undtM'  a 
blue  sky,  surrounded  })y  persons  who  have  human  hearts  in  tlx-ir 
bosoms.  Listen.  Thev  are  engaged  in  a  liattie  of  the  sexes,  in 
which  attacks  on  the  fair  are  jiarried  by  their  eulogies.  One  <if 
the  heaviest  charges  is  the  imputed  fickleness  of  woman, — 

'How  that  it  is 
A  l:il)()iir  s]n'iit  in  vayne, 
To  love  tlicMi  wclc." 

As  between  lif)el  and  panegyric,  you  are  rcHjuested  to  rendi  r  a 
verdict  in  accordance  with  the  evitlence: 


248 


RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 


'JVoir  /  begyn 
So  that  ye  me  aiijiwcre; 
Wherefore,  all  ye  that  present  be, 
I  pray  you,  gyve  an  ere.' 

In  order  to  try  the  maid's  affection,  the  lover  tells  her  that  he  is 
condemned  to  a  shameful  death,  and  must  withdraw  as  an  outlaw: 

'Wherefore,  adue,  my  owne  hart  true! 
None  other  rede  I  can; 
For  I  must  to  the  grene  wode  go. 
Alone,  a  banyshed  man.' 


She. 
*0  Lord  what  is  thys  worldys  blysse. 
That  changctli  as  the  mone ! 
My  somors  day  in  lusty  May 
Is  derked  before  the  none. 
I  here  you  say,  Farewell:   Xay,  nay, 
Wc  depart  nat  so  sone. 
Why  say  ye  so?  wheder  wyll  ye  go? 
Alas!  what  have  ye  done? 
All  my  welfare  to  sorrowe  and  care 
Sholdc  chaunge,  yf  ye  were  gone; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

I  can  beleve,  it  shall  you  greve, 

And  somewhat  you  dystrayne ; 

But  aftyrwarde,  your  jiaynes  harde 

Within  a  day  or  twayne 

Shall  soon  aslake;  and  ye  shall  take 

Comfort  to  you  agaync. 

Why  sholde  ye  ouglit  ?  for,  to  make  thought, 

Your  labour  were  in  vayno. 

And  thus  I  do:  and  pray  you  to 

As  hartely,  as  I  can; 

For  I  must  to  the  grene  wode  go. 

Alone,  a  banyslied  man. 

She. 
Now,  syth  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me 
The  secret  of  your  mynde, 
I  shall  be  playne  to  you  agayne, 
Lyke  as  yu  sluill  nie  lyiiiU-. 
Syth  it  so,  tliat  ye  wyll  go, 
I  wolle  not  kve  l)ehyn(le: 
Shall  never  be  saved,  tlie  Not-brownc  Mayd 
Was  to  her  love  tnikynile: 
Make  you  redy,  for  so  am  I, 
AUtliouL'h  it  Were  anone: 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  lo\('  but   vou  alone. 


He. 

I  counceyle  you,  remember  howe. 

It  is  no  maydens  lawe, 

Nothynge  to  dout,  but  to  renne  out 

To  wode  with  an  outlawe: 

For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  here 

A  bowe,  redy  to  drawe ; 

And,  as  a  thefe,  thus  must  you  lyve 

Ever  in  drede  and  awe; 

Whereby  to  you  grete  harm  rayght  growe ; 

Yet  tiad  I  lever  than, 

Tliat  I  had  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man. 

She. 

I  thinke  nat  nay,  but  as  ye  say. 

It  is  no  maydens  lore: 

But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake, 

As  I  have  sayed  before 

To  come  on  fote,  to  hunt,  and  shote 

To  gete  us  mete  in  store; 

For  so  that  I  your  company 

May  have,  I  ask  no  more; 

From  which  to  part,  it  maketh  my  hart 

As  colde  as  any  stone: 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

1  love  but  you  alone. 

He. 
Yet  take  good  hedc;  for  ever  I  drede 
That  ye  coude  nat  sustayne 
Tile  thornie  wayes,  the  depe  valleies. 
The  snowe,  the  frost,  the  rayne, 
The  cold,  the  hete:    for  dry  or  wete. 
We  must  lodge  on  the  playne; 
And,  ns  al)ove,  none  other  rofe 
But  a  brake  l)ush,  or  twayne: 
Which  soon  sholde  greve  you,  I  beleve; 
And  ye  wolde  gladly  than 
That  I  had  to  tlie  grene  wode  go, 
Alone,  a  banyshed  man." 


Ho  urges  that  she  will  have  no  wine  or  ale,  no  shelter  but   the 
trees,  no  society  but  their  enemies,  finally  that  another  already 


POETRY  —  ROBIN   HOOD.  249 

awaits  him  in  the  forest  whom  he  loves  better;  still  her  constancy 
is  unshaken,  and  in  noble  admiration  he  confesses: 

'Myne  owne  dcre  love,  I  se  the  prove 

That  ye  be  kynde,  and  true: 

Of  mayde,  and  wyfe,  in  all  my  lyfe, 

The  best  that  ever  I  knewe.  .  .  . 

Be  nat  di:*niaye(l:   whatsoever  I  sayd 

To  you,  whan  I  began ; 

I  wyll  nat  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

I  am  no  banyshed  man.' 
She.  iig_ 

'These  tydings  be  more  gladd  to  me  Ye  shall  not  nede  further  to  drcde; 

Than  to  be  made  a  quone,  I  wyll  not  dysparage 

Yf  1  were  sure  they  sholde  endure:  You  iGod  defend!)  syth  ye  descend 

But  It  is  often  sene.  Of  <„  grete  a  lynage. 

Whan  men  wyll  breke  promyse,  they  speke     >'ow  undyrstande:  to  Westmarlande, 
The  wordes  on  the  splene.  Which  is  myne  herytage, 

Ye  shape  some  wyle  me  to  begyle,  I  wyll  you  brynge,  and  witii  a  rynge 

And  stele  from  me,  I  wene:  By  way  of  maryage 

Than  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was,  I  wyll  you  take,  and  lady  make. 

And  I  more  wo-bcgone:  As  shortely  as  I  can: 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde  Thus  have  you  now  an  erlys  son 

I  love  but  you  alone.  And  not  a  banyshed  man.' 

Wherefore  pay  your  tribute  to  the  beautiful,  notwithstanding  the 
free  insinuations  of  the  cynic,  for, — 

Here  may  ye  se,  that  women  be 
In  love,  meke,  kynde,  and  stable: 
Late  never  man  reprove  them  then. 
Or  call  them  varial)le: 
But,  rather,  pray  (iod,  that  we  may 
To  them  be  comfortable." 

^Ve  all  need  soniothiiig  to  idealize.  Science,  literature,  art, 
music,  all  work  that  way,  this  for  one,  that  for  anc)th<M-.  In  the 
poj)ular  ideal,  you  will  discover  the  national  character.  Hen'  it 
is  Rohin  Ilood,  living-  in  the  g-reen  forest  free  and  bold,  ready  to 
draw  his  bow  in  the  sheriff's  face;  gfenerous,  C()m]iassi()iiat(\ 
giving-  to  the  poor  the  spoils  of  the  rich;  religious,  after  the 
fashion, — 

'A  good  inaner  then  had  Hobyn 
In  land  wliere  that  he  were. 
Every  daye  ere  he  wolde  dine 
Three  masses  wolde  he  hear;" 

chivalrous  withal,  for  the  wor.ship  of  tli(>  ^'irgin  softens  the  tem- 
per of  the  outlaw, — 

'Robyn  loved  our  ilrre  lady; 
For  dome  of  dcdcly  -ynnc 
Wo\ild  lie  ii.'ver  do  company  harnie 
That  onv  woman  was  vnue.' 


250  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Before  all,  fearless  and  valiant,  and  joyously  so,  the  champion  of 

the  commons  against  oppression,  civil  and  ecclesiastical.      'It  is 

he,'  says  an  old    historian,   'whom   the  common   people  love  so 

dearly  to  celebrate  in  games  and  comedies,  and  whose  history, 

sung  by  fiddlers,   interests  them   more  than  any  other.'     Robin 

dreams,  'in  the  greenwood  where  he  lay,'  that  two  yeomen  are 

thrashing    him,  and    he  wants    to  go  and    find    them,  repulsing 

Little  John,  who  offers  to  lead  the  way: 

'"Ah!  John,  bj'  inc  thou  settest  noe  store, 
And  tliat  I  farlcy  finde; 
How  offt  send  I  my  men  beflfore, 
And  tarry  my  selfe  behinde?'''' 

He  goes  alone,  and  meets  the  brave  Guy  of  Gisborne: 

'"Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  said  Robin  so  fair, 
"Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  quoth  he, 
"Melhinks  by  the  bow  thou  bearest  in  thy  hand, 
A  good  archer  thou  shouldst  be." 

"I  am  wandering  from  my  way,"  qiioth  the  yeoman, 
"And  of  my  morning  tide." 
"I'll  lead  thee  thro'  the  wood,"  said  Robin, 
"Good  fellow,  ril  be  thy  guide." 

"I  seek  an  outlaw,"  the  stranger  said, 
"Men  call  him  Robin  Hood, 
Rather  I'd  meet  witli  that  proud  outlaw 
Than  forty  poun<I  so  good." 

"Now  come  with  me,  thou  lusty  yeoman. 
And  Robin  thou  soon  shall  see: 
But  first,  let  us  some  pastime  find. 
Under  the  greenwood  tree." 

"Now  tell  me  thy  name,  good  fellow,"  quoth  he, 

"Under  tlic  leaves  of  lime." 

"Nay,  by  n)y  faitli,"  (juotli  bold  Robin, 

"Till  thou  liast  told  me  thine." 

"1  dwell  by  dale  and  down,"  (jiioth  he, 
"And  Kobin  to  take  Urn  sworn, 
And  when  Um  called  by  my  right  name, 
I'm  (iuy  of  good  Gisborne." 

"My  dwelling  is  in  this  wood,"  says  Robin, 
"I5y  I  lice  I  <ct  ritrht  nought: 
1  am  Koliiii   Hood  of  Harnesdale, 
Wlidiii   tliou   so  loMi;   lia^I  souL'lit." 

He  tliat   to  iifith'-r  were  killi  or  kin 
Might   lia\f  seen  a  full  fair  sight. 
To  Mc  liow  loL'itliir  thi'se  yeomen  went. 
With  blades  l>olli  l)rown  !in<i  bright. 

To  si>e  liou    these  yeomen  together  tliey   fouglit. 

Two  hours  of  a  summer's  day; 

Yet  neither  Sii   (;iiy  nor  Robin  Hood 

Tliem  settled  to  lly  away.' 


POETRY — THE    POPULAR    IDEAL.  251 

These  redoubtable  archers  fight  very  amicably,  jovially,  hating 
only  traitors  and  tyrants.  Bold  Robin  is  the  representative  of  a 
class  who  revel  in  fighting  as  a  pastime.  An  honest  exchange  of 
blows,  whoever  is  worsted,  always  prepares  the  way  for  fellowship 
and  respect: 

'"I  pass  not  for  length,""  bold  Arthur  rcplyd, 
"My  staff  is  of  oke  so  free; 
Eight  fool  aud  a  half,  it  will  knock  down  a  calf. 
And  I  hope  it  will  knock  down  thee." 

Then  Robin  could  no  longer  forbear, 
lie  gave  hi  in  such  a  knock, 
Quickly  and  soon  the  blood  came  down 
Before  it  was  ten  a  clock. 

Then  Arthur  he  soon  recovered  himself 
Anil  gave  him  such  a  knock  on  the  crown. 
That  from  every  side  of  bold  Robin  Hood's  head 
The  blood  came  trickling  down. 

Then  Rol)in  raged  like  a  wild  boar. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  his  own  blood: 

Then  Bland  was  in  hast,  he  laid  on  so  fast. 

As  though  he  had  been  cleaving  of  wood. 

And  about  and  about  and  about  they  went. 

Like  two  wild  bores  in  a  chase, 

Striving  to  aim  each  other  to  maim. 

Leg,  arm,  or  any  other  i)lace.  , 

And  knock  for  knock  they  lustily  dealt. 
Which  held  for  two  hours  and  more. 
Till  all  the  wood  rang  at  every  bang. 
They  plyed  their  work  so  sore. 

"Hold  thy  hand,  hold  thy  hand,"  said  Robiu  Hood, 
"And  let  thy  quarrel  fall; 

For  here  we  may  thrash  our  bones  all  to  mesh. 
And  get  no  ((lyii  at  all. 

And  in  the  forest  of  merry  Sherwood, 
Hereafter  thou  shalt  be  free." 
"God  a  mercy  for  nought,  my  freedom  I  boutrht, 
1  may  thank  my  staff,  and  not  thee."" 

Whoii  the  bandit  and  his  aiitagoiii.st.s  liave  fought  to  the  dofoat 
of  one  or  the  sati.sfactionc)f  all,  they  einlirare,  or  shake  Iiaiids, 
then  dance  togetlier  on  tlie  green  grass: 

'Tlun  Rdbiii  took   thc'Ui   bolli  by  the  hands. 
And  danc'd  round  alioiil   the  oke  tree. 
"For  three  merry  nun,  and  three  merry  men. 
And  three  merry  men  we  lie.'"" 

Will  the  disootitciit  oC  such  lucu  be  overlooked  ?  Tlu'V  ('on(|Uer 
and  maintain  liberty  l)y  their  native  roughness.  I'lioii  the  haugh- 
tiest prince  they  impose  a  restraint  stronger  than  any  which  mere 


252  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

laws  can  impose.  He  may  overstep  the  constitutional  line;  but 
they  will  exercise  the  li-ke  privilege  whenever  his  encroachments 
are  so  serious  as  to  excite  alarm. 

Prose. — No  expansion  of  prose  is  possible,  until  the  realities 
of  life,  political,  social,  and  ecclesiastical,  can  be  safely  discussed. 
Thought  was  restrained  in  too  many  ways  to  allow  much  range 
of  exercise  beyond  the  unsubstantial  realm  of  poetry.  Hence  the 
prose  writers  of  the  period  are  not  numerous,  and,  wuth  few  ex- 
ceptions, are  unimportant.  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  however,  that 
they  exhibit  three  new  kinds  of  composition, —  epistolary,  politi- 
cal, and  aesthetic. 

The  Paston  Letters,  written  chiefly  by  persons  of  rank  and 
condition,  contain  many  curious  specimens  of  correspondence 
belonging  to  this  and  the  preceding  century.  They  are  unique, 
and  give  an  interesting  picture  of  social  life.  In  one,  for  exam- 
ple, we  have  a  glimpse  of  the  state  of  the  Norfolk  coast: 

'On  Saturday  lai?t  past,  Dravall,  half-brother  to  Warren  Harmaii,  was  taken  with 
enemies  walking  by  the  sea- side;  and  they  have  him  forth  with  them,  and  they  took 
two  pilgrims,  a  man  and  a  woman.  .  .  .  God  give  grace  that  tlic  sea  may  be  better  kept 
than  it  is  now,  or  else  it  shall  be  a  perilons  dwelling  by  the  seacoast." 

One  of  tlie  remarkable  features  of  the  age  was  the  incessant  liti- 
gation.    Agnes  Paston  writes  to  one  of  her  sons: 

'  I  irrect  you  well,  and  advise  yon  to  think  once  of  the  day  of  yonr  father's  counsel  to 
learn  ihe  law,  for  he  said  many  times  that  whosoever  should  dwell  at  Paston  should  have 
need  to  con  to  defend  himself." 

One  of  the  Pastons  is  reproved  for  his  extravagance  in  dress  and 
servants: 

'It  is  the  gui~e  of  your  countrymen  to  spend  all  the  goods  they  have  on  men  and 
livery  i:owns,  and  horse  and  harness,  and  so  bear  it  out  for  a  while,  and  at  the  last  they 

are  but  beggars.' 

It  would  appear  that  in  what  least  concerns  others,  others  most 
assiduously,  then  as  now,  intermeddled, — 

'The  rpieen  came  into  this  town  on  Tuesday  last  past,  afternoon,  and  abode  here  till 
it  was  Thursday  afternoon  :  and  she  sent  after  my  cousin  Elizabeth  Clere,  to  come  to  her; 
and  slie  durst  not  disobey  her  comniandment,  and  came  to  her.  And  when  she  came  in 
the  (piren's  presence,  the  queen  made  riirht  much  of  her,  and  desired  her  to  have  an  hus- 
band, ilic  which  ye  shall  know  of  hereafter.  But  as  for  thai  lif  it  iterer  nearer  llinn  lie 
iru.<  hft'nre.' 

It  seems  to  liavo  l)oen  dangerous  to  write  freely;  and  an  ojMuion 
ujioii  i)assiMg  events  or  the  characters  of  men  was  usually  supi)le- 
mented  by  some  such  sentence  as, — 


PROSE — FORTESCUE — MALORY.  253 

'After  this  is  read  and  understood,  I  pray  you  burn  or  break  it,  for  I  am  loth  to  write 
anything  of  any  lord." 

The  profuse  liberality  of  parliament  in  voting  supplies  to  Edward 
IV  is  rebuked, — 

'The  king  goeth  so  near  us  in  this  country,  both  to  poor  and  rich,  that  I  wot  not  how 
we  shall  live,  unless  the  world  amend.' 

The  first  to  weigh  and  explain  the  constitution  of  his  country 
was  Fortescue,  who  wrote,  in  exile,  a  discourse  of  real  and  last- 
ing value  on  The  iJlfference  beticeen  an  xibsolute  and  a  Limited 
Monarchy,  in  which  the  state  of  France  under  a  despot  is  con- 
trasted with  that  of  England.  He  says  to  the  young  prince 
whom  he  is  instructing: 

'The  same  Commons  be  so  impoverished  and  disiroyed,  that  they  may  unnethi  lyve. 
Thay  drink  water,  thay  eate  api)les,  with  bred  right  brown  made  of  rye.  They  eate  no 
fleshe,  but  if  it  be  selden,  a  litill  larde,  or  of  the  entrails  or  beds  of  bests  sclayne  for  the 
nobles  and  merchants  of  the  land.  They  weryn  no  wollyn,  but  if  it  be  a  pore  cote  under 
their  uttermost  garment,  made  of  grete  canvass,  and  cal  it  a  frok.  Their  hosyn  be  of  like 
canvas,  and  passeii  not  iheir  knee,  wherfor  they  be  gartrid  and  their  thyghs  bare.  Their 
wifs  and  children  gone  bare  fote.  .  .  .  For  sum  of  them,  that  was  wonie  to  [lay  to  his 
lord  for  his  tenement  which  he  hyrith  by  the  year  a  scute-  payth  now  to  the  kyng,  over 
that  scute,  fyve  skuts.  Wlier  thnigh  they  l)e  artyd'  by  necessity  so  to  waich,  labour 
and  grub  in  the  ground  for  their  sustenance,  thai  their  nature  is  much  wasted,  and  the 
kynd  of  them  brought  to  nowght.  Thay  gone  ctokyd  and  ar  feeble,  not  able  to  fight  nor 
to  defend  the  realm;  nor  they  have  weiwn,  nor  monye  to  buy  them  wepon  withal.  .  .  . 
This  is  the  friite  first  of  byre  Jus  regale.  .  .  .  But  blessed  be  God,  this  land  ys  rulid 
tmder  a  better  lawe,  and  therfor  the  people  therof  be  not  in  such  penurye,  nor  tlierby 
hurt  in  their  persons,  but  they  be  wealthie  and  have  all  tilings  necessarie  to  the  suste- 
nance of  nature.  Wherefore  they  be  myghty  and  able  to  resyste  the  adversaries  of  the 
realms  that  do  or  will  do  them  wrong.  Loo,  this  is  the  frut  of  Jus  politicum  et  regale, 
under  which  we  lyve.' 

In  the  decline  of  romantic  literature,  one  last  and  famous 
effort  was  made,  about  14T0,  l)y  Sir  ThomaS  Malory,  ill  that 
tessellated  compilernent  of  Morte  d'' Arthur,  whose  mottled  pieces, 
struck  from  the  vast  quarry  of  the  Round  Table,  are  sciuared 
together  by  no  unskilful  hand.  Its  style,  always  tinimated  and 
flowing,  mounts  occasionally  into  the  region  of  eloquence: 

'Oh!  ye  mighty  and  pompous  lords,  winning  in  the  L'lorios  transitory  of  thi-:  unstable 
life,  as  in  reigning  over  trreat  realms  and  miLrhty  irreat  countries,  fortified  willi  strong 
castles  and  towers,  edified  willi  nuiny  a  rich  city;  yea  also,  ye  fierci"  and  iniL'hiy  l<niL:lits, 
so  valiant  in  adventurous  deeds  of  arms,  behold  '.  beliold  !  see  hmv  lliis  miL:hl>  ccincpieror. 
King  Artliur,  whom  in  his  human  life  all  the  world  dreaded,  yea  also  tin-  uolile  (Jueeii 
Guenever,  which  sometime  sat  in  her  cliair  adorned  with  gold,  i)earls,  and  )>ri-ci<pu-i 
stones,  now  lie  full  low  in  obscure  foss,  or  pit,  covered  with  clods  of  earth  and  cljy: 
Behold  also  this  mighty  champion.  Sir  Lancelot,  peerless  of  all  kiiiL'hIliood  :  >ee  now  liow 
he  lieth  grovelling  ui)on  the  cold  mould:  now  beini:  so  ferlile  and  faint.  Iliat  Minirtiine 
was  so  terrible:  how,  and  in  what  manner,  ought  ye  to  lie  so  desirous  of  uoiidlv  lioimur 

'Scarcely.        iAbout  three  shillings  and  fourpence.        =  (^■,j„j|,,^.iii;ii. 


254  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

so  dangerous?  Therefore,  me  thinkcth  this  present  book  is  right  necessary  often  to  bo 
read;  for  in  all  ye  lind  the  most  gracious,  knightly,  and  virtuous  war,  of  the  most  noble 
knights  of  the  world,  whereby  they  got  praising  continually;  also  me  seemeth,  Ijy  the  oft 
reading  thereof,  ye  shall  greatly  desire  to  accustom  yourself  in  following  of  those  gra- 
cious knightly  deeds;  that  is  to  say,  to  dread  (5 od  and  to  love  righteousness,  faithfully 
and  courageously  to  serve  your  sovereign  prince;  and,  the  more  that  God  hath  given  you 
the  triuTnphal  honour,  the  meeker  ought  ye  to  l)e,  ever  fearing  the  unstableness  of  this 
deceitful  world.' 

History. — The  science  of  true  history  had  yet  no  existence. 
All  facts  appeared  of  equal  worth,  for  all  alike  cost  the  same 
toil;  and,  still  dispersed  in  their  insulated  state,  still  refused 
combination.  But  the  day  had  now  arrived,  in  the  progress  of 
society,  when  chronicles  were  written  by  laymen.  The  first  in 
our  vernacular  prose  was  the  labor  of  a  citizen  and  alderman, 
and  sometime  sheriff  of  London, —  Robert  Fabyan;  and  was 
designed  for  'the  unlettered  who  understand  no  Latin.'  In  the 
accustomed  mode,  he  fixes  the  historic  periods  by  dates  from 
Adam  or  from  Brut,  and  composing  in  the  spirit  of  the  day, 
mentions  the  revolutions  of  government  with  the  same  brevity 
as  he  speaks  of  the  price  of  wheat  and  poultry;  passes  unnoticed 
his  friend  Caxton,  to  speak  of  'a  new  weathercock  placed  on  the 
cross  of  St.  Paul's  steeple';  tells  us  that  of  the  French  monarch's 
dress  '/  might  make  a  long  rehear saV ;  finds  the  level  of  his 
faculties  in  recording  'flying  dragons  in  the  air,'  or  describing 
the  two  castles  in  space,  whence  issued  two  armies  black  and 
white,  combating  in  the  skies  till  the  white  vanished.  Of  Cabot's 
voyage  of  discovery,  under  tlie  patronage  of  Henry  VII,  he  says 
curiouslv: 

'There  were  brought  King  Henry  three  men,  taken  in  the  new  found  island:  tliey 
were  clothed  in  beast's  skins,  and  did  eat  raw  flesh,  and  spake  such  speech  as  tliat  no 
man  could  underslantl  them:  and  in  their  demeanor  were  like  brute  beasts;  whom  the 
King  kept  a  time  after.  Of  the  which  about  two  years  after,  I  saw  two,  apparelled  after 
the  manner  of  Englishmen,  in  Westminster  iialace,  which  at  that  time  I  could  not  discern 
from  Englishmen,  till  I  was  learned  w^hat  they  were.  But  as  for  speech  I  heard  none  of 
them  utter  one  word.' 

Superstition  has  always  attached  to  numbers.  Seven,  or  the 
heptad,  is  very  jiowerful  for  good  or  for  evil,  and  belongs  esi)e- 
cially  to  sacred  tliing.s.  The  good  man's  chronicle  opens  with 
an  invocation  for  help,  is  in  seven  unequal  divisions,  and  ends 
with  seven  clieering  epilogues  in  unmetrical  mctn^  entitled  The 
Sev  n  Jiigx  of  tJw  Virgin. 

Theology. — All  knowledge  was  claimed  as  a  part  of  theol- 
ogy, and  all   <}uestions  were  decided  by  scholastic   rules.      What- 


SCHOLASTIC   THEOLOGY-  255 

ever  was  old,  was  divine  ;  whatever  was  new,  was  suspected. 
Never  had  the  schools  of  divinity  made  a  more  miserable  figure. 
Teachers  and  students  loaded  their  memories  with  unintelligible 
distinctions  and  unmeaning  sounds,  that  they  might  discourse 
and  dispute,  with  the  semblance  of  method,  upon  matters 
which  they  did  not  understand.  They  still  discussed  whether 
God  could  have  taken  any  form  but  that  of  man, —  as,  for  in- 
stance, that  of  a  woman,  of  the  devil,  of  an  ass,  of  a  cucumber, 
of  a  flint.  If  of  a  cucumber,  how  could  He  have  preached, 
wrought  miracles,  or  been  crucified?  Whether  Christ  could  be 
called  a  man  while  on  the  cross;  whether  the  pope  shared  both 
natures  with  Christ;  whether  the  Father  could  in  any  case  hate 
the  Son;  whether  the  pope  was  greater  than  Peter,  and  a  tliou- 
sand  other  niceties  more  subtle.  There  now  remained  few  of 
those  who  proved  and  illustrated  doctrine  by  the  positive  dec- 
larations of  Scripture;  but  upon  them  as  upon  the  pedants,  the 
mechanical  manner  of  arguing  and  replying  imposes  its  servitude. 
The  moment  they  begin  to  reflect,  Aristotle  and  the  army  of  the 
ancients,  flanked  by  the  definition  and  the  syllogism,  enter  their 
brains,  and  construct  monstrous,  sleep-inspiring  books.  Hear  the 
worthy  Pecock,  on  whose  unconscious  shoulders  had  fallen  the 
mantle  of  Wycliffe.  Thirtei^n  propositions  are  to  be  demon- 
strated in  the  approved  style: 

•  An  argument  if  he  be  fnl  and  foormal,  which  is  clepid  a  sillo^i^me,  is  mad  of  twey 
proposicioiins  drynin?  out  of  lieni  and  bi  stren?tlie  of  horn  tlie  tliridde  propo-icioun.  Of 
tlie  whichc  thre  proposiciouns  the  ij.  first  l)en  clepid  premissis,  and  tlie  iij.  folewiny  out  of 
hem  is  clepid  the  conclusioiin  of  hem.  And  the  tirste  of  Iho  ij.  premissis  is  clepid  the  tirst 
prcmisse,  and  the  ij.  of  hem  is  clepid  the  ij.  premisse.  And  ech  sudi  argument  is  of  tliis 
kinde,  that  if  the  bothe  premis-ii-i  1)en  trewe,  the  conclusioun  concludid  out  and  bi  Iumu  i> 
also  trewe;  and  but  if  euereithcr  of  tho  premissis  be  trewe,  the  conclusioun  is  not  Irewe. 
Ensample  her  of  is  this.  "Ech  man  is  at  Koine,  the  Pope  is  a  man,  eive  the  I'o|)e  is  at 
Rome.""  Lo  here  hen  sett  forth  ij.  proposiciouns,  which  ben  these,  "  Kch  man  i?-  at 
Rome;"  and  "The  Pope  is  a  man:"'  and  these  ben  the  ij.  preniys>:is  in  thi-*  arirument, 
and  thei  dryuen  out  the  iij.  ])r'>posicioun.  which  i~  this,  "The  Pope  i-;  at  FJome,"  and  it  is 
the  conclusioun  of  the  ij.  premissis.  \Vhereror<'  cirlis  if  cny  man  can  be  sikir  for  eny 
tyme  thai  these  ij.  premyssis  tie  trewe,  he  may  be  sikir  that  the  conclusion  is  trewe; 
though  alle  the  aungelis  in  heuen  woMm  M-ic  and  holde  tiiat  tliilk  conclusioun  were  not 
trewe.  .And  this  is  a  genera!  reiile,  in  eucry  irood  and  formal  and  ful  arL'uini'nt,  that  if 
his  premissis  be  knowe  for  trewe,  the  conclu-ioun  onghte  lo  be  avowid  for  trewe,  what 
euer  creature  wole  seie  tlie  contrarie. 

But  as  for  now  thus  miche  in  tlii<  wise  ther  of  hi're  t.ilkid,  Ili.it  y  he  0\r  better 
vndirstonde  in  al  what  y  schal  ar'jrue  thoriiirh  this  present  book,  y  wob-  come  (hum  inio 
the  .\iij.  conclusiouns,  of  whiche  the  tirste  is  this:  It  loii:.nth  not  to  Iloli  Serii)ture. 
neither  it  is  his  oltice  into  which  (Joil  hath  him  onleyned,  neither  it  is  his  ])art  forto 
grovnde  env  gouernaunci'  or  deede  or  seruice  of  (iod,  or  env  l.iwe  of  (iod,  or  eiiv  troiitlie 


256  RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

which  niaiiiiis  resoun  bi  nature  may  fyndc,  Icerne,  and  knowc.    That  this  conclusioiin  is 
trewe,  y  proue  thus:  Whateuer  thing  is  ordeyned,  &c.' 

Enough.  You  are  spared  the  dreary  length,  the  wandering 
mazes,  of  the  remainder.  With  all  this  display  of  logical  tools, 
he  was  unable  to  see  in  what  direction  he  was  marching;  for 
while  he  assailed  the  heretical  opinions  of  the  Lollards,  he  ad- 
mitted that  general  councils  were  not  infallible,  that  the  Bible 
was  the  true  rule  of  faith,  that  religious  dogmas  were  to  be  sup- 
ported by  argument,  not  by  the  bare  decree  of  authority.  His 
well-meant  defence  of  the  Church  was,  in  reality,  a  formidable 
attack  upon  its  foundations.  His  Repressor  was  burnt,  he  was 
degraded,  compelled  to  recant,  and  confined  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  in  a  conventual  prison. 

As  long  as  visible  images  form  the  channels  of  religious  devo- 
tion, the  true  history  of  theology,  or  at  least  of  its  emotional  and 
realizing  parts,  may  be  found  in  the  history  of  art.  The  steady 
tendency  of  European  art  in  the  fifteenth  century  was  to  give  an 
ever-increasing  preeminence  to  the  Father,  to  dilate  upon  the 
vengeance  of  the  Day  of  Judgment,  to  present  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  faithful,  in  new  and  horrible  conceptions,  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  martyrs  on  earth  or  of  the  lost  in  hell. 

lEitllics. — As  in  the  dearth  of  genius,  tliere  were  no  philoso- 
phers, so  there  were  no  philosophic  expositions  of  duty,  and 
hence  no  definite  ethical  system  distinct  from  theological  teach- 
ing. Moral  culture  was,  of  course,  the  main  function  of  the 
clergy,  from  the  state  of  whose  discipline  at  this  titne  we  may 
fairly  estimate  the  fidelity  and  efficiency  of  their  instruction. 
The  ideal  of  life  and  character  was  yet  ecclesiastical.  It  was 
too  early  for  a  purely  moral  faith,  appealing  to  a  disinterested 
sense  of  virtue  and  perception  of  excellence,  to  be  efficacious, 
liites  and  ceremonies,  ;in  elaborate  creed  and  a  copious  legen- 
dary, were  the  apj^ointed  means  for  developing  the  emotional 
side  of  human  nature  and  securing  a  rectitude  of  conduct.  The 
lV)niiatic)n  of  a  moral  pliilosopliy  is  usually  the  first  step  in  the 
(It'cadcnce   of  dogmatic    religions. 

Science. — Those  who  turned  their  attention  to  mathematics 
or  ]ihvsics,  still  pursued  tin;  Itewildering  dreams  of  astrology 
and  alchemv.      An  Act   of    l-io^i,  for  exaMii)le,  in  favor  of   three 


DREAMS   OF   SCIENCE  —  FAILURE    OF    PHILOSOPHY.  257 

alchemists,  describes  the  object  of  these  'famous  men'  to  be  *a 
certain  most  precious  medicine,  called  by  some  the  mother  and 
queen  of  medicines;  by  some  the  inestimable  glory;  by  others 
the  quintessence;  by  others  the  philosopher's  stone;  by  others 
the  elixir  of  life;  which  cures  all  curable  diseases  with  ease,  pro- 
longs human  life  in  perfect  health  and  vigor  of  faculty  to  its 
utmost  term,  heals  all  healable  wounds,  is  a  most  sovereign  anti- 
dote against  all  poisons,  and  is  capable  of  preserving  to  us,  and 
our  kingdom,  other  great  advantages,  such  as  the  transmutation 
of  other  metals  into  real  and  fine  gold  and  silver.' 

The  art  of  medicine  appears  to  have  made  little  or  no  prog- 
ress. It  was  still,  to  some  extent,  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy. 
The  priests,  because  they  were  able  to  read  the  Greek  and 
Roman  authors  on  medicine,  had,  all  through  the  dark  ages, 
been  the  principal  physicians.  They  became  intimate  with  the 
barbers  by  frequently  employing  them  to  shave  their  heads, 
according  to  the  uniform  of  the  clerical  order.  The  barbers  wore 
also  employed  to  shave  the  heads  of  patients,  when  washes  were 
prescribed  to  cool  the  fevered  brain,  or  blisters  were  applied  to 
draw  the  peccant  humors  from  the  surface.  Found  expert  and 
handy  with  edged  tools,  the  priests  taught  them  to  bleed,  and  to 
perform  such  minor  operations  as  they  were  competent  to  direct, 
as  well  as  to  make  salves  and  poultices,  and  dress  wounds  and 
sores.  Edward  IV,  in  14G1,  granted  a  charter  of  incorporation 
and  privilege  to  barber-surgeons;  nor,  though  the  distinct  nature 
of  the  two  became  gradually  more  apparent,  was  the  tonsorial 
art  severed  completely  from  the  surgical  till  nearly  three  centu- 
ries had  elapsed.  'Would  heart  of  n)an  e'er  think  it,  but  you'll 
be  silent.' 

Philosopliy.  —  The  race  of  great  Schoolmen  iuid  died  out, 
and  the  schools  only  repeated  and  maintained,  with  ever-increas- 
ing emptiness,  what  tlieir  founders  had  taught.  The  whole 
science  of  dialectic  was  degraded  into  an  elaborate  and  ingenious 
word-quibbling.  Like  religion,  it  had  no  other  sul)staiice  l)ut 
one  of  words.  Syllogisms  were  sold  like  fish,  by  the  string,  and 
descended,  like  silver  shoe-buckles,  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion. Scholasticism  was  seU"-extinguish(>d  in  a  i>eriod  of  har- 
l)arity  into  whose  darkness  the  light  of  the  Henaissance  was 
destined  soon  to  shine  with  regenerating"  effect.  What  had  the 
17 


258  RETROGRESSIVE   PERIOD — FEATURES. 

laborers  accomplished?  —  If  from  heart  or  brain  they  educed  no 
great  original  creed,  they  produced  a  ferment  of  intellectual 
activity  such  as  Europe  had  never  seen.  Through  the  long, 
terrible  night  which  threatened  the  extinction  of  scholarship, 
they  kept  alive  the  spirit  of  culture  in  the  whirlwind  of  energy. 
Disputation,  if  it  adds  no  single  idea  to  the  human  mind,  is 
better  than  indolence.  In  action,  rather  than  in  cognition,  lie 
life  and  acquirement.  The  highest  value  of  truth  is  less  in  the 
possession  than  in  the  pursuit  of  it.  Could  you  ever  establish  a 
theory  of  the  universe,  that  were  entire  and  final,  man  were  then 
spiritually  defunct.  The  one  justifying  service  of  metaphysics, 
in  whosesoever  hands,  is  subjective, — the  upward  aspirations  it 
may  kindle,  and  the  habits  of  close,  patient,  vigorous  thought  it 
may  form.  As  for  its  efforts  to  lift  the  veil  from  the  myster\'  of 
being,  they  are  the  labor  of  the  struggling  and  baffled  Sisyplius, 
who  rolls  up  the  heavy  stone  which  no  sooner  reaches  a  certain 
point  than  down  it  rolls  to  the  bottom,  and  all  the  labor  is  to 
begin  again.  There  is  scarcely  anything  which  modern  philos- 
ophers have  proudly  brought  forward  as  their  own  that  may  not 
be  found  in  some  one  or  other  of  the  mighty  tomes  of  the 
hooded  Scholastics.  Why  not?  Were  they  not  the  posterity 
of  Plato  and  Aristotle,  out  of  whom  come  all  things  yet  debated 
among  men  of  reflection  ? 

'In  coniuless  upward-striving  waves 
Tile  moon-drawn  tide-wave  strives: 
In  ilioiisand  far-tran;ii)lanted  grafts 
The  parent  fruit  survives.' 

Resume. — The  throb  of  hope  and  glory  which  jKilsed  at 
the  outset,  died  into  inaction  or  despair.  Disputed  successions, 
cruel  factions,  family  fouds,  convulsed  the  land,  till  tlie  political 
crisis  was  terniinated  by  Henry  ^11,  who,  as  the  authority  of 
the  potent  aristocracy  declined,  estal)lished  that  despotic  regality 
whicli  remained  as  the  inheritance  of  the  dynasty  of  tlie  Tudors. 

Commerce  wideiKvl,  material  life  went  on,  darkly,  without  the 
diviner  elements  of  national  progress.  The  intellect,  uiial)le  to 
])roc('eil  in  tlie  jiath  of  creative  literature,  fell  hack  into  lethargy. 
IiK|uirv  was  repressed;  originality  was  replaced  by  submission; 
the  reformation  was  trodden  out;  in  the  clash  of  arms  the  voice 
of  gonitis  sank  to  feel)l('ness  or  was  hushed  to  silence;  and  tlie 
n^actionary  iiitliience  of  vice,  ignorance,  and  su{)erstition,  was  in 


OUR   FIRST   PRINTER.  259 

the  ascendant.  The  Church  shrivelled  into  a  self-seeking^  secular 
priesthood;  practical  religion  was  reduced  to  the  accomplishment 
of  ceremonies;  and  mankind,  slothful  and  crouching,  resigned 
their  conscience  and  their  conduct  into  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
and  they  into  the  hands  of  the  pope. 

The  century,  however,  was  not  lost.  It  was  an  age  of  accu- 
mulation and  preparation,  as  indeed  it  was  in  every  country  of 
Europe.  The  commoners  maintained  thoir  liberties,  without 
going  beyond,  and  waited  for  a  better  day.  The  Reformation, 
like  a  forest  conflagration,  smouldered.  America  was  added  to 
the  map;  and  while  thought  was  startled  by  the  sudden  rarity 
of  a  New  World,  with  its  fresh  hopes  and  romantic  realms,  tlie 
Renaissance  was  restoring  an  old  one,  with  its  eternal  promoters 
of  freedom  and  beauty.  In  that  twilight  time  was  dawning  the 
great  Invention  that  should  give  to  Letters  and  Science  the  pre- 
cision and  durability  of  the  printed  page.  Nor  was  the  press 
to  be  more  fatal  to  the  dominion  of  the  priestly  bigot  than  the 
bullet  to  the  sway  of  the  mailed  knight.  In  the  upheaval  of 
tlie  old  feudal  order,  an  arrogant  nobility  was  sinking  to  a  level 
more  consistent  witli  national  unity.  Separate  centres  of  in- 
trigue were  breaking  up,  society  was  pulverizing  afresh;  })oetry, 
like  the  ballad,  was  returning  to  the  human  interests  of  the 
present,  and  the  night  of  medi;evalism  was  drawing  to  a  close 
amid  the  chaos  whicli  precedes  the  resurrection  morn. 


C  A  X  T  O  X . 


O  Albion!   still  tliy  ijiatitudo  confess 

To  Cuxton,  fotindtr  of  tliu  IJritisli  Press: 

Since  first  thy  mountains  rose,  or  rivers  tlowM, 

Who  on  thy  isles  so  ricli  a  hoon  hestowM?— .VT'ri'vry. 

Biography. — A  native  of  Kent,  born  in  14ii;  apiircnticod 
at  an  early  dav  to  a  London  silk  dealer:  after  liis  master's  (l(^atli 
lie  lived  —  perhaps  as  consul  or  agent  for  the  Knglish  iiiercli;iiits 
—  in  Holland  and  Flanders;  wliil(>  tlier(%  was  ai)poiiite(l.  by  liis 
sovereign,  envov  to  tli(»  court  of  Hurgiuidy  to  neg()tiate  a  treaty 
of  commerce;   entered  the  service  of  an  English  princess  as  copy- 


260       RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHOR. 

ist;  threw  aside  the  tedious  process  of  the  pen  for  the  newly- 
discovered  art,  and  became  a  printer,  because  — 

'My  pen  is  worn,  my  hand  weary  and  not  steadfast,  mine  eyes  dimmed  with  over- 
much looking  on  the  white  paper,  and  my  courage  not  so  prone  and  ready  to  labor  as 
it  hath  bfcn,  and  that  age  creepeth  on  me  daily  and  feebleth  all  tlie  body,  and  also 
because  I  have  promised  to  divers  gentlemen  and  to  my  friends  to  address  to  them  as 
hastily  as  I  might  the  said  book.' 

Absent  more  than  thirty  years,  lie  returned  to  England  with  the 
precious  freight  of  the  printing-press;  and  at  an  age  when  other 
men  seek  ease  and  retirement,  plunged  with  characteristic  energy 
into  his  new  occupation,  until  his  decease  in  1493. 

"Writings.  —  Sixty-five  works,  edited  or  translated,  are  as- 
signed to  the  pen  and  the  press  of  Caxton:  in  French,  two;  in 
Latin,  seven;  the  remainder  in  English.  He  published  all  the 
native  poetry  of  any  moment  then  in  existence, —  the  poems  of 
Chaucer,  Lydgate,  and  Gower;  two  chronicles,  revising  both,  and 
continuing  one  up  to  his  own  time;  a  version  of  the  JEixeid,  or 
a  tract  of  Cicero,  as  the  stray  first-fruits  of  classic  antiquity;  and, 
with  an  eye  to  business,  manuals  for  ecclesiastics,  sermons  or 
Golden  Lef/eyuls, —  Tales  of  Troy,  or  Moi'te  d^ Arthur,  for  the 
baron  and  the  knight, — ^Esoj/s  Fahlea  and  Reynard  the  FoXy 
for  the  populace. 

His  Game  of  Chess,  a  translation  from  the  French,  'fynj'sshid 
the  last  day  of  Marche,  1474,'  is  assumed  to  be  the  first  book 
printed  on  English  ground;  and  a  second  edition,  the  first  illus- 
trated with  wood-cuts.  As  the  aged  Saxon  expired  dictating  the 
last  words  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John, — 

'In  the  liour  of  death, 
The  last  dear  service  of  his  i)artiiig  breath," — 

SO  did  the  old  jirinter  carry  forward  his  last  labor,  on  a  volume  of 
sacred  lore,  to  tin?  setting  sun  of  a  life  that  bore  its  burden  of 
four-scor(.'.  He  dippeil,  'half  desperate,'  into  that  vast  and  sin- 
gular mythology  which  for  fourteen  centuries  grew  and  shadowed 
over  the  religious  mind  of  Christendom  as  its  form  of  hero-wor- 
ship, always  simple,  oftiMi  childish,  but  always  good,  and  there- 
fore suited  to  the  taste  and  information  which  it  measured  and  to 
which  it  was  addressed.  In  this  manner  was  the  unquiet  world 
once  cliarnu'd  to  rest,  saintlv  enmlation,  and  remembrance  of 
God: 

'Francis,  servant  and  friend  of  Almiizhty  CJod,  was  born  in  the  city  of  .\ssysc,  and 
was  made  a  merchant  unto  the  tweiity-llfth  year  of  his  age,  and  wasted  his  time  by  living 


OUR    FIRST    PRINTER.  261 

vainly,  whom  our  Lord  corrected  by  the  scoiirge  of  sickness,  and  suddenly  changed  him 
into  another  man,  so  that  he  began  to  shine  by  the  spirit  of  prophecy.  On  a  time  as  this 
holy  man  was  in  prayer,  the  devil  called  him  thrice  by  his  own  name.  And  when  the 
holy  man  had  answered  him,  he  said:  "None  in  this  world  is  so  great  a  sinner,  but  if  he 
convert  him,  our  Lord  would  pardon  him;  but  who  that  sleeth  himself  with  hard  penance, 
shall  never  find  mercy."  And  anon,  this  holy  man  knew  by  revelation  the  fallacy  and 
deceit  of  tlie  fiend,  how  he  would  have  withdrawn  him  fro  to  do  well.  And  when  the 
devil  saw  that  he  might  not  prevail  against  him,  he  tempted  him  by  grievous  temptation 
of  the  flesh.  And  when  this  lioly  servant  of  God  felt  that,  he  despoiled  his  clothes,  and 
beat  himself  right  hard  with  an  hard  cord,  saying:  "Thus,  brother  ass,  it  behoveth  thee 
to  remain  and  to  be  beaten."  And  when  the  temptation  departed  not,  he  went  out  and 
plunged  himself  in  the  snow,  all  naked,  and  made  seven  great  balls  of  snow,  and  purposed 
to  have  taken  them  into  his  body,  and  said:  "This  greatest  is  thy  wife;  and  these  four, 
two  ben  thy  daughters,  and  two  thy  sons;  and  the  other  twain,  that  one  thy  chambrerc, 
and  that  other  thy  varlet  or  yeman;  haste  and  clothe  ttiem;  for  they  all  die  for  cold.  And 
if  thy  business  that  thou  hast  about  them,  grieve  ye  sore,  then  serve  our  Lord  perfectly." 
And  anon,  the  devil  departed  from  him  all  confused;  and  St.  Francis  returned  again  unto 
his  cell  glorifying  God.  .  .  .  lie  was  ennobled  in  his  life  by  many  miracles:  and  the  very 
death,  which  is  to  all  men  horrible  and  hateful,  he  admonished  them  to  praise  it.  .\nd 
also  he  warned  and  admonished  death  to  come  to  him,  and  said:  "  Death,  my  sister,  wel- 
come be  you."  And  when  he  came  at  the  last  hour,  he  slept  in  our  Lord;  of  whom  a 
friar  saw  the  soul,  in  manner  of  a  star,  like  to  the  moon  in  quantity,  and  the  sun  in  clear- 
ness.' 

Style. — His  diction,  never  the  purest,  could  scarcely  have 
been  improved  by  absence.  A  man  destitute  of  a  literary  educa- 
tion could  hardly  attain  to  any  felicity  or  skill  in  an  idiom  to 
which  he  was  almost  a  foreigner.  Plain  and  verbose,  his  manner 
is  that  of  one  who  with  no  brilliancy  of  talent,  tries  faithfully 
to  make  himself  understood.  It  is  full  of  Gallicisms,  however,  in 
vocabulary  and  phrase.  We  learn  by  the  preface  to  his  ^Kncid 
that  there  were  'gentlemen  who  of  late  have  blamed  me,  that  in 
my  translations  I  had  over-curious  terms  which  could  not  be 
understood  by  common  people.'  Critics,  no  doul>t,  were  abun- 
dant, when  as  yet  there  was  no  generally  recognized  standard; 
and  he  himself  had  neitlier  the  judgment  nor  the  force  to  har- 
monize the  heterogeneous  elements.  It  is  curious  to  see  in  his 
own  words  the  unsettled  state  of  the  language,  the  affectation 
of  some  and  the  pedantry  of  others.  'Some  honest  and  gn»at 
clerks,'  he  tells  us,  'have  Ix'cn  with  me,  and  desired  me  to  write 
the  most  curious  terms  I  could  iind.'  Others,  again,  'dt'sired  me 
to  use  old  and  homelv  terms  in  my  translations.'  But  '1  tonk  an 
old  book  and  read  therein,  and  C(>rtainly  the  Eng-li.sh  was  so  mile 
and  broad  I  could  not  well  understand  it.'  'Fain  would  I  please 
every  man,'  is  his  helpless  l)ut  good-natured  conunent.  <)!'  the 
rapid  flux  of  even  common  speech:  'Our  language  now  used 
varieth    far   from   that   which    was   used   and   spoken    when    1   was 


262     RETROGRESSlVf:    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHOR. 

born.'     Not  only  so,  but  the  tongue  of  each  shire  had  marked 
peculiarities: 

'  In  my  days  happened  that  certain  marchauntes  were  in  a  shippe  in  Tamyse  for  to 
bane  sayled  over  the  see  into  Zelande,  and  fra  laclie  of  wynde  thei  taryed  at  Forland,  and 
went  to  landc  for  to  refreshe  them.  And  one  of  theym,  named  Sheffelde,  a  mercer,  came 
into  an  hows  and  axyed  for  mele,  and  specyally  lie  asyed  after  eggys-;  and  the  good  wyf 
answcrde  that  slic  coude  spelie  no  Frenshe,  and  the  marchaunt  was  angry,  for  he  also 
conde  spcke  no  Frenshe,  but  wolde  have  hud  eggys,  and  she  understood  hym  not.  And 
then,  at  lastc,  another  sayd  hat  he  would  have  eyren.  Then  the  good  wyf  sayd  that  she 
understood  hym  wel.  Loo,  what  sholde  a  man  in  theyse  days  now  wryle,  egges  or  eijren! 
Ceriaynly,  it  is  hard  to  i)laysc  every  man,  because  of  diversite  and  chaunge  of  langage.' 

Hank. — That  he  was  a  man  of  some  eminence  is  shown  by 
his  royal  connections  in  service.  To  the  historian  of  the  human 
mind,  he  appears  as  an  indifferent  translator,  and  a  printer  with- 
out erudition.  That  he  should  have  been  acquainted  with  French 
and  German  was  inevitable  from  his  continental  residence.  That 
he  was  unacquainted  with  classic  Latin  is  evident  from  a  refer- 
ence to  Skclton,  whom  he  mentions  as  'one  that  had  read  Virgil, 
Ovid,  Tally,  and  all  the  other  noble  poets  and  orators  to  hie  u)i- 
knovm.''  With  the  industry  to  keej:)  pace  with  his  age,  he  had 
not  the  genius  to  create  a  national  ta.ste  by  his  novel  and  mighty 
instrimient  of  thought.  At  a  loss  what  author  to  select,  his 
choice  might  seem  to  have  been  frequently  accidental.  With 
simple-hearted  entliusiasm,  ho  says  of  his  version  of  Virgil: 

'  Having  no  work  in  hand,  1  sitting  in  my  study  where  as  lay  many  divers  pamphlets 
and  honks,  liappened  that  to  my  hand  came  a  little  book  in  French,  which  late  was 
iran>hued  out  of  Latin  by  son\e  noble  clerk  of  France — which  book  is  named  "  Eney- 
dos,""  and  made  in  Latin  by  llie  noble  pnet  and  great  clerk  Vcrgyl— in  which  book  I  had 
great  i)leasure  by  reason  of  the  faire  and  honest  termes  and  wordcs  in  French  which  I 
never  saw  to-fore-likc,  none  so  pleasant  nor  so  well  ordered,  which  book  as  me  seemed 
should  be  much  requisite  for  noble  men  to  see,  as  well  for  tlie  eloquence  as  ilie  histo- 
ries: and  wlien  I  had  advised  nie  to  this  said  book  I  deliberated  and  conchided  to  trans, 
late  it  into  Knglisli,  and  forthwith  took  a  pen  and  ink  and  wrote  a  leaf  or  twain." 

His  siniplic-ity  far  exceeded  his  learning.  Pie  solemnly 
vouched  for  the  verity  of  Jason  and  the  Golden  Fleece,  The 
Life  of  ILrcidis,  and  all  'the  Merveilles  of  Virgil's  Necro- 
mancy'I  For  a  moment,  'the  noble  history  of  King  Arthur' 
})uz/.]cd    him,  Ix-cause  — 

'Hyiurs  men  lioldc  opyiiyoii,  tliat  tliere  was  no  suche  .\rthur,  and  that  alle  suche 
booko  as  liccn  inaad  of  byni,  ben  lint  fayned  and  fables,  by  cause  that  somme  cronycles 
make  of  him  no  mencyou  ne  remembre  hym  noo  thynge  ne  of  his  knyghtes.' 

But    his   sudden   scrujiles   were   relieved   when   assured  — 

'That  in  hym  that  slujld  say  or  tbynke  that  there  was  netier  suche  a  kyiiL'  callyd 
Arthur,   niyght  wel    be   arutted   grete   folyc   and    blyii<leness.  .  .   Fyrst  ye  may  see  his 


OUR  FIRST   PRINTER.  263 

sepulture  in  the  monasterye  of  Glastyngbnrgc.  .  .  At  Wynchester  the  roundc  table,  in 
other  places  Launcelottcs  swerde  and  many  other  thynge?.' 

Character. —  Our  central  impression  of  him  is  that  of  an 
honest  business  man,  resolved  to  get  a  living  from  his  trade. 
His  'red  pole'  at  the  disused  Scriptorium,  where  monks  once 
distributed  alms  to  the  poor,  modestly  invited  all  who  desired, 
to  come  and  buy  his  wares  or  give  orders  for  printing.  Ran  his 
advertisement : 

'  If  it  please  any  man,  spiritual  or  temporal,  to  buy  any  pyes  of  two  or  three  com- 
memorations of  Salisbury  all  emprynted  after  the  form  of  the  present  letter,  which 
be  well  and  truly  correct,  let  him  come  to  Westminster  into  the  Almonry  at  the  red 
pole  and  he  shall  have  them  good  chepe.' 

Styling  himself  'simple  William  Caxton,'  he  united  great  mod- 
esty of  character  to  indefatigable  industry.  Over  four  thousand 
printed  pages  are  of  his  own  rendering.  He  speaks  as  a  devout 
man,  careful  of  happiness  as  of  fabrics,  who,  while  he  constructs 
a  book,  studies  the  art  of  constructing  human  blessedness.  His 
introduction  to  Morte  cV Arthur  concludes: 

'And  for  to  passe  the  tyme  this  book  shal  be  plesaunte  to  rede  in,  but  for  to  giue 
fayth  and  byleue  that  al  is  trewe  that  is  conteyned  heriu,  ye  be  at  your  lyberte,  but  al 
is  wryton  for  our  doctryne.  and  for  to  beware  that  we  falle  not  to  vyce  ne  synne,  but 
to  excercyse  and  folowe  vcrtu,  by  whyche  we  may  come  and  atteyne  to  good  fauie  and 
renomme  in  thys  lyf,  and  after  this  shorte  and  trausytorye  lyf  to  come  vnto  euerlastyng 
blyssc  in  heuen,  the  whyche  he  grauut  vs  that  reygneth  in  heuen  the  blessyd  Tryuyle. 
Amen.' 

It  is  not  the  exceptional  things  in  life  which  are  the  noblest, — 
not  the  high  lift  nor  the  sudden  spring  of  rare  and  exceptional 
persons,  but  the  faithful  every-day  nuirch  of  men. 

Influence. — The  press  unfolded  its  vast  resources  tardily. 
In  all  Europe,  between  14T0  and  1500,  ten  thousand  books  were 
printed,  and  of  them  a  majority  in  Italy;  only  a  hinidred  and 
forty-one  in  England.  In  the  next  fifty  year.s,  l)ut  seven  works 
liad  been  ];)rinted  in  Scotland,  and  among  them  not  a  single  elas- 
sic.  A  triumph,  if  we  consider  that  formerly  a  hundred  Hil)les 
could  not  be  procured  inuler  an  expense  of  twenty  years'  labor; 
but  an  inglorious  advancement,  if  we  consider  the  stupendous 
results  since  attained.  Very  slowly  was  this  new  appliani-e  for 
the  dissemination  of  knowledge  to  change  the  cotidition  of  sm  i- 
ety,  but  thf:)t('('fort1t  n',  can  )/>  rt  r  speak  of  that  cniiiJit!i>ii  n-'itli- 
otit  rejjard  to  the  printiiKj-jrress.  No  retiiuMl  eonsideratioii.  no 
expansive  views  of  his  art,  seem  to  have   inspired  our  jirinieval 


264     RETROGRESSIVE   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHOR. 

printer;  but  of  what  momentous  consequences  was  he  the  initial 
agent!  Unconsciously^  he  came  to  form  a  new  intellectual  era, 
to  scatter  the  messengers  of  reform,  to  render  Bibles  and  other 
books  the  common  property  of  the  great  and  the  mean,  to  create 
a  democracy  and  make  a  grave  for  tyrants;  to  subordinate  oral 
and  scenic  to  written  instruction,  and  thus  to  deprive  the  pulpit 
of  that  supremacy  which  was  founded  on  the  condition  of  a  non- 
reading  public;  to  make  possible  a  direct  communication  between 
the  government  and  the  governed,  without  priestly  mediation, 
which  was  the  first  step  in  the  separation  of  Church  and  State. 
Patriarch  of  the  English  press !  stranger  to  the  powers  that 
slumber  in  thy  craft,  insensible  to  those  elevated  conceptions 
that  guide  the  world's  helm,  yet  thy  honest  toil  for  the  day  and 
honest  hope  for  the  morrow  shall  accrue  to  the  advantage  of 
mankind  continually,  for  ever.  Lad  —  apprentice  —  mercer  — 
retainer  —  hoary  learner  —  venerable  printer  —  thou,  simple  man, 
by  the  accident  of  time  and  the  grace  of  fortune,  shalt  live  in 
immortal  memory! 


FIRST    CREATIVE    PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  VL 

FEATURES. 

Under  whatever  point  of  view  we  consider  this  era,  we  find  its  political,  ecclesias- 
tical, and  literary  events  more  numerous,  varied,  and  important  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding  ages.— Guizof. 

To  observe  the  connection  between  the  successive  stages  of  a  progressive  move- 
ment of  the  human  spirit,  and  to  recognize  that  the  forces  at  work  are  still  active,  is 
the  true  philosophy  of  history.— 5y;«o/it/s. 

Politics. — The  sombre  and  sinister  wisdom  of  Italian  policy 
— a  policy  of  refined  stratagem — of  ruthless  l)Ut  secret  violence — 
achieved  in  this  age  the  tranquillity  of  a  settled  state  and  the 
establishment  of  a  civilized  but  imperious  despotism.  The  title 
of  Henry  VIII  was  undisputed — the  first  such  in  a  hundred  years 
— his  temper  hot,  his  spirit  high,  and  his  will  supreme.  Every 
public  officer  was  his  crouching  menial.  Wolsey,  his  minister, 
devoted  his  learning  and  abilities  to  the  personal  pleasure  of  the 
master  who  might  destroy  him  by  a  breath.  Under  the  adminis- 
tration of  Cromwell,  an  organized  reign  of  terror  held  the  nation 
panic-stricken  at  Henry's  feet.  Judges  and  juries  were  coerced. 
Parliament  was  degraded  into  the  mere  engine  of  absolutism. 
His  faithful  Commons,  hesitating  to  pass  the  bill  for  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  monasteries,  were  summoned  into  his  presence.  '  I 
hear,' said  the  magnificent  despot,  'that  my  bill  will  not  pass; 
but  1  will  have  it  pass,  or  I  will  have  some  of  your  heads.'  It 
passed!  The  imagination  of  liis  subjects — to  whom  his  reign, 
on  the  whole,  was  decidedly  beneficial — was  overawed.  To  thom 
he  was  something  high  above  the  laws  which  govtM-n  ordinary 
men.  In  the  midst  of  his  f)arbarous  c'ru(>lti<\'^  he  appi^ired  the 
avenging  minister  of  heaven,  who,  in  renouiicing  the  papacy, 
liad  burst  asunder  the  prison-gatc^s  of  Rom(\ 

The   counsellors   of    Edward  VT,  with   less  of    the    sanguinary 

205 


266  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

spirit  of  his  father,  were  as  unscrupulous  in  bending  the  rules  of 
law  and  justice  to  their  purpose  in  cases  of  treason.  They  were 
a  designing  oligarchy,  from  whom  no  measure  conducive  to 
liberty  and  justice  could  be  expected  to  spring.  They  had  not,, 
however,  the  sinews  to  wield  the  iron  sceptre  of  Henry,  and  the 
increased  weight  of  the  Commons  appears  in  the  repeal  of  for- 
mer statutes  that  had  terrified  and  exasperated  the  people;  in 
the  rejection  of  bills  sent  down  from  the  Upper  House;  in  the 
anxiety  of  the  court,  by  the  creation  of  new  boroughs,'  to  obtain 
favorable  elections. 

The  reign  of  Mary  is  memorable  as  a  period  of  bloody  perse- 
cution. Popery  was  restored,  Protestants  were  imprisoned  and 
burned  for  no  other  crime  than  their  religion;  stretches  of  pre- 
rogative in  matters  tem])oral  were  more  violent  and  alarming; 
torture  was  more  frequent  than  in  all  former  ages  combined,  and 
a  commission  issued  in  1557  has  the  appearance  of  a  preliminary 
step  to  the  Inquisition.  A  proclamation,  after  denouncing  the 
importation  of  books  filled  with  heresy  and  treason,  declared  that 
whoever  should  be  found  to  have  such  books  in  his  possession, 
should  be  considered  a  rebel  and  executed  according  to  martial 
law.  Yet  not  even  she  could  preserve  the  absolute  dominion  of 
her  father  Henry.  While  in  his  reign  the  Lower  House  only 
once  rejected  a  measure  recommended  by  the  Crown,  in  hers  the 
first  two  Parliaments  were  dissolved  on  this  account,  and  the 
third,  refusing  to  pass  several  of  her  favorite  bills,  was  far  from 
obsequious.  Still  less  was  the  English  spirit,  which  had  con- 
trolled princes  in  the  fulness  of  their  i)ride,  broken.  The 
reproach  of  servility  under  usurped  powers  Vjelojigs  less  to  the 
people  than  to  their  natural  leaders — the  compliant  noV)ility. 
The  reign  of  eaeli  of  the  Tudors  was  disturbed  by  formidal)le 
discontents.  Each  had  the  discretion  never  to  carry  oppression 
to  a  fatal  point. 

The  ton(!  and  temjior  of  Elizabeth's  administration  were  dis- 
jilayod  in  a  vigilant  execution  of  severe  statutes,  especially  upon 
the  Ikonianists,  and  in  occasional  stretches  of  ])ower  beyond 
the  law,  wliil(>  the  superior  wisdom  of  her  counsellors  led  them 
generally  to  shun  the  more  violent  measures  of  tiie  late  reigns. 
To  high  assumptions  of  prerogative,  the  resistance  of  Parliament 

'  Twenty-two  wtrc  ci(.iitcd  or  rustorcd  in  tins  short  reign. 


POLITICS  —  SOCIETY.  267 

became  insensibly  more  vigorous.  If,  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
many  were  creatures  of  the  Royal  Council,  grasping  at  prefer- 
ment, others  with  inflexible  aim  recurred  in  every  session  to  an 
important  guarantee  of  civil  liberty, —  the  right  to  inquire  into 
public  grievances  and  obtain  redress,  Now  it  was,  perhaps  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  Commons  asserted  the  privilege  of  deter- 
mining contested  elections.  The  finger  of  this  sovereign  was 
ever  on  the  public  pulse,  and  she  knew  exactly  when  she  could 
resist  and  when  she  must  retreat. 

The  same  jealousy  of  the  aristocracy  turned  the  genius  of  the 
maiden  queen  to  a  new  source  of  influence,  unknown  to  her 
ancestors, —  the  people,  a  people  divided  by  creeds  and  dogtnas, 
but  made  compliant  and  coherent  by  the  firmness  and  the  in- 
dulgence of  the  wisest  policy.  While  she  ruled  them  with  a 
potent  hand,  she  couitod  their  eyes  and  hearts.  She  it  was  who, 
studying  their  wants  and  wishes,  first  gave  the  people  a  theatre 
'for  the  recreation  of  our  loving  subjects  as  for  our  solace  and 
pleasure.'  She  subdued  by  yielding.  Her  sex  and  graciousness 
inspired  a  reign  of  love,  and  her  energies  contributed  to  make  it 
one  of  enterprise  and  emulation  —  a  new  era  of  adventure  and 
glory.  Elizabeth,  living  in  the  hearts  of  her  people,  survived  in 
their  memories.  Her  birthday  was  long  observed  as  a  festival 
day.  Every  sign  of  the  growing  prosperity  told  in  her  favor, 
and  her  worst  acts  failed  to  dim  the  lustre  of  the  national   ideal. 

Society. — The  monarchy  establishetl  peace,  and  witli  peace 
came  the  useful  arts  and  domestic  comfort.  The  development  of 
manufactures  was  gradually  aljsorbing  the  unemployed.  I  nder 
Elizabeth  commerce  began  that  rapid  career  whicli  has  made 
Englishmen  the  carriers  of  the  world.  The  l)urst  of  national 
vigor  found  new  outlets  in  the  marts  of  tlie  Mediterranean  and 
Baltic.  In  1553  was  founded  a  company  to  trade  with  Russia.  In 
15T8  Drake  circumnavigated  the  globe.  In  ICOO  the  East  India 
Company  Avas  founded.  Henry  VIII  at  the  l)eginniiig  of  liis 
reign  had  l)ut  one  sliip  of  war.  Elizal)eth  sent  out  one  liundrcil 
and  fifty  against  tlic  Armada.  Agriculture  was  so  improved 
that  the  produce  of  an  acre  was  doui)le(l.  Dwellings  of  luirk 
and  stone  were  sujx'rscding  the  straw-thatelied  eottages.  plastered 
with    coarsest    clav   and    often    fui    fire.      AVitli    open    admiration. 


268  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Harrison  notes,  1580,  three  important  changes  in  the  farm-houses 
of  his  time: 

'One  is  the  multitude  of  chimnies  lately  erected,  whereas  in  their  yoong  dales  were 
not  above  two  or  three,  if  so  manie,  in  most  uplandishe  townes  of  the  realme.  .  .  .  The 
second  is  the  great  amendment  of  lodging,  although  not  generajl,  for  our  fathers,  (yea 
and  we  ourselves  also)  have  lien  full  oft  upon  straw  pallets,  on  rough  mats  covered  onlie 
with  a  sheet,  under  coverlets  made  of  dogswain,  or  hopharlots,  and  a  good  round  log 
under  their  heads,  instead  of  a  bolster  or  pillow.  If  it  were  so  that  the  good  man  of  the 
house  had  within  seven  years  after  his  marriage  purchased  a  matteres  or  tlockebed,  and 
thereto  a  sackc  of  chaffe  to  rest  his  head  upon,  he  thought  himselfc  to  be  as  well  lodged 
as  the  lord  of  the  towne.  .  .  .  Pillowes  (said  tliey)  were  thought  meet  onelie  for  women 
in  childbed.  .  .  .  The  third  thing  is  the  exchange  of  vcssell,  as  of  treene  platters  into 
pewter,  and  wodden  spoons  into  silver  or  tin;  for  so  common  was  all  sorts  of  treene  stuflf 
in  olden  time,  that  a  man  sliould  hardlie  And  four  peeces  of  pewter  (of  which  one  was 
peradventure  a  salt)  in  a  good  farmers  house." 

Looking-glasses  imported  from  France  began  to  displace  the 
small  mirrors  of  polished  steel.  Carpets  were  used  rather  for 
covering  tables  than  floors,  which  latter  were  generally  strewn 
with  rushes.  Forks  were  as  yet  unheard  of,  but  knives  —  first 
made  in  England  in  1503  —  and  spoons  were  ornamented  with 
some  care.  Gloomy  walls  and  serried  battlements  disappeared 
from  the  palaces  of  the  noblesse,  half  Gothic,  half  Italian,  cov- 
ered with  picturesque  gables,  fretted  fronts,  gilded  turrets,  and 
adorned  with  terraces  and  vast  staircases,  with  gardens,  foun- 
tains, vases,  and  statues.  The  prodigal  use  of  glass  was  a  marked 
feature  —  one  whose  sanitary  value  can  hardly  be  overestimated. 
*  You  shall  have,'  grumbles  one,  'your  houses  so  full  of  glass  that 
w^e  can  not  tell  where  to  come  to  be  out  of  the  sun  or  the  cold.' 
The  master  no  longer  rode  at  the  head  of  his  servants,  but  sat 
apart  in  his  'coach.'  "^I'he  first  carriage,  15G4,  caused  much  aston- 
ishment; some  calling  it  'a  great  sea-shell  from  China,'  others  'a 
temple  in  which  cannibals  worshippc^d  the  devil.'  GentlonuMi 
placed  their  glory  h'.ss  in  the  conquests  of  the  battle-a.\e  and 
sword  than  in  the  elegance  and  singularity  of  their  dress.  'Do 
not,'  says  a  bitter  Puritan,  'lioth  men  and  women,  for  the  most 
])art,  every  one,  in  general,  go  attired  in  silk.s,  velvets,  damasks, 
satins,  ami  what  not,  which  are  attire  only  for  the  nobility  and 
gentry,  and  not  for  the  others  at  any  hand?'  They  wore  hats 
'perking  up  like  the  spear  or  shaft  of  a  tenii)le,'  or  hats  'flat  and 
liroad  on  the  crown  like  tiie  I)attlenients  of  a  housi'';  hats  of 
silk,  \clvet,  and  of  Mine  liair,  which  thev  call  beaver,  fetched 
fnjni  l)eyonil  the  seas,  from  wiience  a  great  sort  of  otln^r  vani- 
ties do  C(nne   besides';   cloaks  of  sable,  ornamented   shirts;   coats 


SOCIAL  STATE.  269 

diversified  with  oxen  and  goats;  velvet  shoes,  covered  with 
rosettes  and  ribbons;  boots  with  falling  tops,  hung  with  lace, 
and  embroidered  with  figures  of  birds,  animals,  flowers  of  silver 
and  gold.  When  Elizabeth  died,  three  thousand  dresses  were 
found  iti  her  wardrobe.  Feasts  were  carnivals  of  splendor.  En- 
tertainments were  like  fairy  scenes.  Sober  thrift  was  forgotten 
in  the  universal  expanse.  Gallants  gambled  a  fortune  at  a  sit- 
ting, then  sailed  for  the  New  World,  in  quest  of  a  fresh  one. 
Dreams  of  El  Dorados  lured  the  imagination  of  the  meanest 
seaman.  The  advance  of  corporal  well-being  disclosed  itself  in 
the  manners  and  tastes,  of  all  ranks  —  at  the  base  as  well  as 
on  the  summit.  The  growth  of  the  humanities  is  seen  in  the 
establishment  of  hospitals  or  retreats  for  the  infirm  and  needy, 
and  houses  of  correction   for  the  vagrant  and  vicious. 

Not  modern  England  yet.  Herds  of  deer  strayed  in  vast 
and  trackless  forests.  Fens  forty  or  fifty  miles  in  length  reeked 
with  miasm  and  fever.  The  population  —  barely  five  millions 
—  was  perpetually  thinned  by  pestilence  and  want,  whose  tri- 
umphs were  numbered  by  the  death-crier  in  the  streets  or  the 
knell  for  the  passing  soul.  The  peasants  shivered  in  their 
mud-built  hovels,  where  chimneys  still  were  rare.  For  the  poor 
there  was  no  physician;  for  the  dying  —  till  the  monasteries 
were  suppressed  —  the  monk  and  his  crucifix.  For  a  hundred 
years,  agrarian  changes  had  been  leading  to  the  mergence  of 
smaller  holdings  and  the  introduction  of  sheep-fanning  on  an 
enormous  scale.  Merchants,  too,  were  investing  heavily  in  land, 
and  these  'farming  gentlemen'  were  under  little  restraint  in 
the  eviction  of  the  smaller  tenants.  The  farmers,  according  to 
More,  were  'got  rid  of  either  by  fraud  or  force,  or  tired  out 
with  repeated  wrongs  into  parting  with  their  property.'  He 
adds: 

'III  thiii  way  it  come?  to  pass  that  tlioso  poor  wretches,  men,  women,  husbands, 
ori)haiis,  widows,  parents  with  little  children,  householders  greater  in  numher  than  in 
wealtli  (for  arable  fanning  requires  many  hands,  while  one  shepherd  and  herdMuan  uiil 
suftice  for  a  i)asturi' farm  I,  all  these  emigrate  from  their  native  fudds  without  Unouing 
where  to  go.' 

Homeless  wanderers,  they  joini'd  the  army  of  h(>ggars,  maraud- 
ers, vagabonds, —  a  vast  mass  of  disortlcr  on  which  every  rebellidii 
might  count  for  su])|)ort.  The  poor  man,  if  iineiii])Ioyeil.  prefer- 
rinof  to  be  idle,  niiirht    be  demanded   for  si'rvice  bv  anv  master  ut' 


270  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

his  vocation,  and  compelled  to  work.  If  caught  begging  once, 
and  neither  aged  nor  infirm,  he  was  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail. 
For  a  second  offence,  his  ear  was  slit,  or  bored  through  with  a 
hot  iron.  For  a  third, —  proved  thereby  to  be  useless  to  himself 
and  hurtful  to  others, —  he  suffered  death  as  a  felon.  This  law, 
enacted  in  1536,  and  subsisting  for  sixty  years,  expressed  the 
English  conviction  that  it  is  better  for  a  man  not  to  live  at  all 
than  to  live  a  profitless  and  worthless  life, —  so  reaching,  per- 
haps, the  heart  of  the  whole  matter.  Hogue,  mendicant,  thief, 
were  practically  synonymous  terms,  embracing, — 

'All  persons  calling  themselves  scholars,  going  aljout  begging;  all  seafaring  men 
pretending  losses  of  their  ships  and  goods  on  the  sea:  all  idle  persons  going  about  either 
begging,  or  using  any  subtle  craft  or  unlawful  games  and  plays,  or  feigning  to  have 
knowledge  in  physiognomy,  palmistry,  or  other  like  crafty  science,  or  pretending  that 
they  can  tell  destinies,  fortunes,  or  such  other  fastastical  Imaginations,  all  fencers, 
bear-wards,  common  players  and  minstrels;  all  jugglers.' 

Travelling  required  strong  nerves.  Some  one  petitions  that 
'parties  of  liorse  be  stationed  all  along  the  avenues  of  the  city 
of  London,  so  that  if  a  coach  or  wagon  wanted  a  convoy,  two 
or  three  or  more  may  be  detached.'  Sometimes,  says  More, 
you  might  see  a  score  of  thieves  hung  on  the  same  gibbet.  In 
the  county  of  Somerset  alone,  we  find  the  magistrates  capturing 
a  hundred  at  a  stroke,  hanging  fifty  at  once,  and  impatient  to 
swing  the  rest.  On  the  byways,  as  on  all  the  highways,  stand 
the  gallows.  Beneath  the  idea  of  order  is  the  idea  of  tlie  scaf- 
fold. Savage  energy  remains.  The  living  are  cut  down,  disem- 
bowelled, quartered.  'When  his  heart  was  cut  out,  he  uttered  a 
deep  groan.'  London  Avitnesses  the  fearful  spectacle  of  a  living 
human  being  —  a  poisoner  —  boiled  to  death,  'to  the  terrible  ex- 
ample of  all  others.'  Judge  of  the  moral  tone  by  the  utter 
absence  of  personal  feeling.  With  business-like  brevity,  as  if 
the  thing  were  ])erfcctly  natural,  Cromwell  ticks  off  human  lives: 

'Item,  the  .\bbot  of  lieadiiig  to  Ix^  sent  down  to  l)e  tried  and  executed  at  Reading.' 
'Item,  when  .Master  Fislier  shall  go  to  his  e.Kecutiou,  and  the  other." 

Honor,  beauty,  youth,  and  genius  went  quietly  to  the  block,  as  if 
bloodshed  were  an  acce])ted  system.  With  the  utmost  equanim- 
ity, as  if  no  murder  could  be  extraordinary,  Holinshed  relates: 

'The  five  and  twentitli  duie  of  Maie  (l.'j.'tti  wa>;  in  saint  Paulcs  church  at  London 
examined  nineteen  men  and  six  wiimcii  born  in  Holland,  whose  opinions  were  (lieretical). 
Fnuriemc  of  'hrni  were  condemned,  a  man  and  a  woman  of  them  were  burned  in  Smith 
field,  the  other  twelve  were  sent  to  other  towne^,  tliere  to  be  burnt.     On  the  nineteenth 


SOCIAL   STATE.  271 

of  June  were  three  moonkes  of  the  Charterhouse  hanged,  ilrawne,  and  quartered  at 
Tiburne,  and  their  heads  and  quarters  i^et  up  about  London,  for  denieng  the  king  to  be 
supreme  head  of  the  church.  Also  the  one  and  twentitli  of  the  same  moneth,  and  for  the 
same  cause,  doctor  John  Fisher,  bishop  of  Rochester,  was  beheaded  for  denieng  of  the 
supremacie,  and  his  head  set  upon  London  bridge,  but  liis  bodie  buried  within  Barking 
churchyard.  The  pope  had  elected  him  a  cardinall,  and  sent  his  hat  as  far  as  Calais,  but 
his  head  was  off  before  his  hat  was  on:  s(j  that  they  met  not.  ()n  tlie  sixtli  of  Julie  was 
Sir  Thomas  Moore  beheaded  for  the  like  crime,  that  is  to  wit,  for  denieng  the  king  to  be 
supreme  head.' 

In  such  a  state,  man  can  be  happy  —  like  swuie.  He  is  still  a 
primitive  animal,  too  heavy  for  refined  sensations,  too  vehement 
for  restraint;  a  hive  of  violent  and  uncurl^ed  instincts,  seeking 
only  expansion,  and,  to  that  end,  ready  to  appeal  at  once  to  arms. 
Says  a  correspondent: 

'On  Thursday  laste,  as  my  Lorde  Rytche  was  rydynge  in  the  streates,  there  was  one 
Wyndam  that  stode  in  a  dore,  and  shotte  a  daggc  at  him,  thynkynge  to  have  slayne  him. 
.  .  .  The  same  dayc,  also,  as  Sir  John  Conway  was  goynge  in  tlie  streetes,  Mr.  Lodovyke 
Grevell  came  sodenly  upon  him,  and  stroke  him  on  the  hedd  with  a  sworde.  ...  I  am 
forced  to  trouble  your  Honors  with  thes  tryflynge  matters,  for  I  know  no  greater." 

His  enjoyment,  if  lacking  decency,  is  heartfelt  —  the  overflowing 
of  a  coarse  animation.  Bear  and  bull  baitings  are  the  delight  of 
all  classes,  a  'charming  entertainment'  even  to  the  queen.  Cock- 
fighting  and  throwing  at  cocks  are  regularly  introduced  into  the 
public  schools.  They  feast  copiously,  furnishing  their  tables  as 
if  to  revictual  Noah's  ark.  They  drink  without  ceasing,  as  when 
tliey  crossed  the  sea  in  leather  boats;  as  now  in  Germany,  where 
to  drink  is  to  drink  for  ever.  Their  holidays,  with  which  tradition 
liad  filled  the  year,  are  the  incarnation  of  natural  life.  Stubl)es, 
whose  mind  is  burdened  with  the  pitiless  doctrines  of  Calvin, 
says,  with  morose  impatience: 

'First,  all  the  wikle  headcs  of  the  pari^he,  conventying  totrcthor.  clui-e  them  a 
groiind  capilaine  of  mi>clieef,  whan  tliey  innoble  with  the  title  of  my. Lorde  of  Misserule, 
and  liym  they  crown  witli  great  solemnitif,  and  adopt  for  their  kyiiir.  This  kynir 
anoynted,  cliuscth  for  the  Iwcntie,  fonrtie,  three  si-ore  or  a  luuidred  lustie  gutles  like  to 
hyniself  to  waite  iippon  his  lordely  niaiestie.  .  .  .  Then  ha\  e  they  their  liolihie  horses, 
dragons,  and  other  anti(iues  together  with  their  baudie  |)ipers  and  thundering  droniiiiers, 
to  strike  up  the  devilles  daunce  witliall:  then  iiiarche  these  heathen  conipanie  lowardes 
the  churche  and  eliiirche  yanle,  their  i>ipers  ))ii)yiig,  their  droininers  Ilionderyni:,  tlieir 
stumppcs  daiincynL',  their  Itelles  rynglyiii:,  their  liankerehefes  swyiiL'vng  alioiit  their 
heades  like  inadnieii,  their  hol)liie  horses  and  otlier  monsters  skirinishyni:  ainoiiL'i-t  the 
throng:  and  in  tliis  sorte  they  goe  to  the  churclie  (though  the  niini>ter  bee  at  iir:ii<T  or 
preachyuL't,  dauncyiigand  -wingyiig  their  hankereheefesovertheir  heads,  in  the  eliinilie, 
like  devilles  incarnate,  with  such  a  confused  noise,  that  no  man  can  heare  hi>  uu  ne  \.ii(e. 
Then  the  foolishe  people  they  looke,  they  stare,  they  laiiL'h,  tln'V  Ileere,  an<l  in.)ii!it  ui).in 
formes  and  pewes,  to  see  these  goodly  paireauntes,  solemnized  in  this  -ort.  i  hen  after 
this,  aboiite  the  churche  tliey  ltoc  ML'aine  and  aLraine,  anil  so  forihe  into  the  ehiirrhr  \  ard^'. 
where  they  have  commonly  their  sommer  haules,  their  bowtrs,  arbors  and  hainiuetiyiig 


272  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES, 

houses  set  up.  wherein  they  feaste,  hanquet,  and  daunce  all  that  dale,  and  preadventure 
all  that  night  too.    And  thus  these  terrestriall  furies  spend  the  Sabboath  dale." 

And, — 

'Against  Maie,  every  parishe,  towne  and  village  assemble  themselves  together,  bothe 
men,  women,  and  children,  olde  and  yong,  even  all  indifferently;  they  goe  to  the  woodes 
where  they  spende  all  the  night  in  pleasant  pastymes,  and  in  the  mornyng  they  returne, 
bringing  with  them  birch,  bowcs,  and  branches  of  trees,  to  deck  their  assemblies  with- 
all.  But  their  cheefest  iewell  they  bringe  from  thence  is  their  Maie  poole,  which  they 
bring  home  with  great  veneration,  as  thus:  They  have  twenty  or  fourtie  yoke  of  oxen, 
every  ox  havyng  a  sweete  nosegaie  of  flowers  tyed  on  the  tippe  of  his  homes,  and  these 
oxen  drawe  home  this  Maie  poole  (this  stinkyng  idoll  rather),  .  .  .  and  thus  beyng 
reared  up,  they  strawe  the  grounde  uboute,  binde  grecne  boughes  about  it,  sett  up 
sommer  haules,  bowers,  and  arbours  hard  by  it;  and  then  fall  they  to  banquet  and  feast, 
to  leape  and  dance  aboute  it,  as  the  heathen  people  did  at  the  dedication  of  their  idolles.' 

What  literature  will  this  life  create?  You  will  see  it  all 
there,  reflected  in  the  drama,  reproduced  on  the  stage, —  free  and 
liberal  living,  a  masquerade  of  splendor,  vice  raging  without 
shame,  a  prodigality  of  carnage, —  a  young  world,  natural,  un- 
shackled, and  tragic. 

The  Reformation. —  Society  is  not  possible  without  reli- 
gion, and  neitlier  society  nor  religion  can  be  founded  only  on  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure  and  of  power.  Recall  the  secular  irritations 
whose  momentum  liad  long  been  gathering  for  the  impending 
outbreak.  Imagine,  if  you  can,  the  secret  anger  which  the  cus- 
tom of  sanctuary  alone  must  have  excited.  Says  the  Venetian 
ambassador  at  the  English  court  in  1502: 

'The  clergy  are  they  who  have  the  supreme  sway  over  the  country,  both  in  peace 
and  war.  Among  other  things,  they  have  pro\ided  that  a  number  of  sacred  places  in  the 
kingdom  should  serve  for  the  refuge  and  escape  of  all  delinquents;  and  no  one,  were  he 
a  traitor  to  the  crown,  or  had  he  practised  against  the  king's  own  person,  can  be  taken 
out  of  these  by  force.  And  a  villain  of  this  kind,  who,  for  some  great  excess  that  he  has 
committed,  has  been  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  one  of  these  sacred  places,  often  goes  out 
of  it  to  brawl  in  tlie  public  streets,  and  then,  returning  to  it,  escajjes  with  impunity  for 
every  fresh  offence  lie  may  lun  e  been  guilty  of.  This  is  no  detriment  to  the  purses  of  the 
priests,  nor  to  the  other  perpetual  sanctuaries:  but  every  church  is  a  sanctuary  for  forty 
days:  and  if  a  thief  or  murderer,  who  has  taken  refuge  in  one,  cannot  leave  it  in  safety 
during  those  forty  days,  he  gives  notice  that  he  wishes  to  leave  England.  In  which  case, 
being  strijiped  to  the  shirt  by  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  place,  and  a  crucifix  placed  in 
his  hand,  he  is  conducted  along  the  road  to  the  sea,  where,  if  he  finds  a  passage,  he  may 
go  with  a  "  God  sjjeed  you."'  But  if  he  should  not  find  one,  he  walks  into  the  sea  up  to 
the  tliroat,  and  three  times  usks  for  a  [lassage:  and  this  is  repeated  till  a  sliij)  appears, 
wliicli  comes  for  him,  and  so  he  di>i)!irts  in  safety.  It  is  not  unamusing  to  hear  how  the 
women  and  children  lament  over  the  misfortune  of  these  exiles,  asking  "how  they  can 
live  so  destitute  out  of  England";  addini.',  moreover,  that  "they  had  better  have  died 
than  go  out  (if  tlie  world,'"  as  if  England  were  the  wliole  world.' 

Visible    acts   and    invisible    thoughts    were    environed    and    held 
down   by  an   ecclesiastical   code,  which,  only  a  vehicle  for  extor- 


THE   REFORMATION.  273 

tion,  changed  the  police  into  an  inquisition.  ' Heresy,'  ' witch- 
craft,'  '  impatient  words,'  '  absence  from  church,'  an  offence 
imputed  or  suspected,  resulted  in  heavy  lines,  imprisonment,  ab- 
juration, public  penance,  and  the  menace  or  sentence  of  the 
torture  and  the  stake.  A  Northman,  a  follower  of  Luther,  an 
artist,  grouped  and  portrayed  the  infamy  and  glory  of  his  age, 
—  Christ  bleeding  in  the  last  throes  of  a  dying  life,  angels  full 
of  anguish  catching  in  their  vessels  the  holy  blood,  the  stars 
veiling  their  face,  a  heretic  bound  to  a  tree  and  torn  with  the 
iron-pointed  lash  of  the  executioner,  another  praying  with 
clasped  hands  while  an  auger  is  screwed  into  his  eye,  men  and 
women  hurled  at  the  lance's  point  from  the  crest  of  a  hill  into 
the  abyss  below.  On  the  other  hand,  an  atrocious  crime,  the 
mortal  sin  of  a  priest,  could  be  expiated  by  an  indifferent  pen- 
ance or  the  payment  of  a  few  shillings.  But  the  crimes  of  the 
clergy  were  exceeded  by  their  licentiousness.  These  are  the 
most  moderate  lines  in  a  satire  of   1528: 

'What  are  the  bishops  divines?  .  .  . 
To  forge  excommunications, 
For  tythes  and  decimations 
Is  their  continual  exercise.  .  .  . 
Rather  than  to  make  a  sermon. 
To  follow  the  chase  of  wild  deer. 
Passing  the  time  with  jolly  cheer. 
Among  them  all  is  common 
To  play  at  the  cards  and  dice; 
Some  of  them  are  nothing  nice 
Both  at  hazard  and  momchance; 
They  drink  in  golden  bowls 
The  blood  of  poor  simple  souls 
Perishing  for  lack  of  sustenance. 
Their  hungry  cures  they  never  teach, 
Xor  will  sutler  none  other  to  preach. '» 

In  Latimer's  opinion,  only  one  Insliop  in  all  England  was  faithful: 

'I  would  ask  a  strange  question.  Who  is  the  most  diligent  bishop  and  prelate  i.i  all 
England,  that  passeth  all  the  rest  in  doinir  of  his  ofticc?  I  can  tell,  for  I  know  him  who 
it  is:  I  know  him  well.  Rut  now  T  tliiuk  I  see  you  listening  and  hearkeuinsr  that  I 
should  name  him.  There  i-^  one  tliut  passctli  all  the  other-^.  and  is  the  mo<t  diligent 
prelate  and  preacher  in  all  Kngland.  And  will  ye  know  who  it  is?  I  will  tell  you.  It  is 
the  devil.  Therefore,  ye  unpreachius:  prelates,  learn  of  the  devil  to  be  diliirent  in  your 
office.     If  ye  will  not  learn  of  God,  for  shame  learn  of  the  devil.' 

Tt  was  the  frightful  depravity  of  Rome  that  startled  LutlxT 
into  revolt.  He  went  ther(^  an  eager  pilgrim,  trudging  jienniless 
and  barefoot  across  the  Alps,  as  to  the  city  of   the  saints,  and 

1  Koy's  nunjiiifj  of  the  Maxs. 
18 


274  PIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

the  palace  of  the  Pope,  fragrant  with  the  odors  of  Paradise. 
'Blessed  Rome,'  he  .cried  as  he  entered  the  gate,  —  'Blessed 
Rome  sanctified  with  the  blood  of  martyrs  ! '  'Adieu  ! '  he  cried 
as  he  fled,  '  let  all  who  would  lead  a  holy  life  depart  from  Rome. 
Every  thing  is  permitted  in  Rome  except  to  be  an  honest  man.' 
Romanism  was  turned  into  a  carnival  of  vice  in  which  all  that 
is  high  and  pure  in  man  is  smothered  by  corruption,  and  a 
circus  of  ostentation  where  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  bought 
and  sold.  In  1517  a  new  cathedral'  was  in  progress,  that 
should  dwarf  the  proudest  monuments  of  art.  Agents  were  sent 
about  Europe  with  sacks  of  indulgences  and  dispensations  — 
letters  of  credit  on  heaven.  Archbishops  were  promised  half 
the  spoil  for  their  support.  Streets  were  hung  with  flags  to 
receive  them,  bells  were  rung  to  welcome  them;  nuns  and  monks 
walked  in  procession  before  and  after,  while  the  vender  himself 
sat  in  a  chariot,  with  the  Papal  Bull  on  a  velvet  cushion  in  front. 
The  sale-rooms  were  the  churches.  Amid  the  blazing  candles  of 
the  altar,  the  agent  explained  the  efficacy  of  his  medicines,  de- 
claring all  sins  blotted  out  'as  soon  as  the  money  chinks  in  the 
box.'  Acolytes  walked  through  the  crowds,  clinking  the  plates, 
and  crying,  '  Buy,  buy  ! ' 

Now  consider  the  national  temper  and  inclinations,  which 
long  before  the  great  outburst  were  muttering  ominously.  The 
words  of  the  consecration,  the  most  sacred  of  the  old  worship, 
Hoc  est  corp'ts,  were  travestied  into  a  nickname  for  jugglery — 
/ior//.s  pocus.  Priests  were  hooted  or  knocked  down  in  their 
Avalks.  Women  refused  the  sacrament  from  their  hands.  An 
apparitor,  sent  by  the  church  to  secure  her  dues,  was  driven  out 
with  insults:  'Go  thy  way,  thou  stynkyng  knave;  ye  are  but 
knaves  and  br^'bours,  everych  one  of  you.'  Another's  head  was 
broken.  A  waiter  fell  in  trouble  for  saying  that  'the  sight  of  a 
priest  did  make  him  sick,'  also,  'that  he  would  go  sixty  miles  to 
indict' one.  In  one  diocese  a  woman  was  summoned  and  tried 
for  turning  her  faf-e  from  the  cross;  several  for  not  saying  their 
prayers  in  church,  remaining  seated  'dumb  as  beasts';  three  for 
passing  a  night  together  reading  a  book  of  the  Scriptures;  a 
thresher  for  asserting,  as  he  ]iointed  to  his  work,  that  he  was 
going  to  make  God  come  out  of  his  straw.      Latimer  announced 

'  St.  Pfturs,  designed  by  Aiigelo. 


THE   REFORMATION.  275 

one  day  that  he  would  preach  in  a  certain  place.  On  the  morrow, 
proceeding  to  his  appointment,  he  found  the  doors  closed,  and 
waited  more  than  an  hour  for  the  key.  At  last  a  man  came,  and 
said:  'Syr,  thys  ys  a  busye  day  with  us;  we  cannot  heare  you: 
it  is  Robyn  Hoodes  Daye.'  Straws  on  the  stream.  The  thought- 
ful and  the  learned  had  come  to  smile  at  the  extent  of  human 
credulity,  Erasmus  visits  the  shrine  at  Walsingham.  An  at- 
tendant, like  a  modern  guide,  shows  him  the  wonders: 

'The  joint  of  a  inan"s  finger  is  exhibited  to  us,  the  largest  of  three.  I  kisi"  it; 
and  I  then  ask,  "Whose  relics  were  these?"  He  says,  "St.  Peter's."  "The  apos- 
tle?" He  said,  "Yes."  Then,  observing  the  size  of  the  joint,  which  might  have 
been  that  of  a  giant,  I  remarked,  "  Peter  must  have  been  a  man  of  very  large  size." 
At  this  one  of  my  companions  burst  into  a  laugh,  which  I  certainly  took  ill,  for  if  he 
had  been  quiet  the  attendant  would  have  shown  us  all  the  relics.' 

His  attention  is  called  to  the  milk  of  the  Virgin,  'what  looked 
like  ground  chalk  mixed  with  white  of  egg,^  and  he  inquires  as 
civilly  as  he  may  by  what  proofs  he  is  assured  of  its  genuineness: 

'  The  canon,  as  if  possessed  by  a  fury,  looking  aghast  ujjon  us,  and  apparently 
horrified  at  the  blasphemous  inquiry,  replied,  "What  need  to  ask  such  questions,  when 
you  have  the  authenticated  inscription?"' 

The  contagion  spreads,  reaches  even  men  in  office.  When  the 
enormities  of  the  English  monks  are  read  in  Parliament,  there  is 
nothing  but  the  cry  of  'Down  with  them!'  Henry  permits  the 
'  free  and  liberal  use '  of  the  Scriptures.  Never  were  they  so 
eagerly  and  artlessly  scrutinized.  Every  impression  made  a  fur- 
row. Girls  took  them  to  church,  and  studied  them  ostentatiously 
during  matins.  Grave  judges,  charging  the  jury,  prefaced  their 
charges  by  a  text.  P]verv  reader  became  an  expounder,  and  the 
nation  abounded  with  disputants.  They  reasoned  al)out  the 
sacred  volume  in  taverns  and  alehouses.  In  vain  tlu^  king,  irri- 
tated at  the  universal  di.straction  of  ojiinion,  orders  them  not  to 
rely  too  much  on  their  own  ideas,  and  restricts  the  privilege  to 
the  nability  and  gentry.  In  the  solitude  of  the  Hc^lds,  in  coii- 
ceahnent,  under  tiieir  smoky  liglits,  by  their  fires  of  turf,  they 
spell  out  the  Bible,  discuss  it,  ]>onder  it.  One  hides  it  in  a 
liollow  tree,  another  commits  a  chapter  to  memory,  so  as  to  l)e 
able  to  revolve  it  even  in  the  presence  of  his  accusers.  'I'li"'y 
see  a  companion  or  relative  bound  amid  the  sniok(\  encounigc 
liiin,  cry  out  to  him  that  his  cause  is  just,  heai-  his  last  apj)eals 
to  God,  and  meditate  on  them  darkly,  passionately. 

Twice   had  the   storm  gathered   and   jiassed.      Twice   had    tlic 


276  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

mind  of  Europe  risen  in  vain  against  the  domination  of  Rome; 
first  in  France,  then  in  England  and  Bohemia.  But  now  the  in- 
vention of  printing,  which  supplied  her  assailants  with  unwonted 
weapons,  the  study  of  the  classics,  the  vices  of  the  Roman  clerg}', 
— these  things  conspired  to  achieve  in  the  sixteenth  century  what 
was  impossible  in  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth.  More  powerful 
still,  because  more  general:  for  five  centuries  the  energies  of  the 
human  spirit  had  been  accumulating.  Never  had  it  greater 
activity,  never  so  imperious  a  desire  to  advance.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  Church,  which  governed  the  intellect  and  the  heart, 
had  fallen  into  a  state  of  imbecility  and  remained  stationary. 
Insurrection  was  the  result.  The  forward  impulse — ethical  and 
intellectual — resisted  by  the  moral  inertness,  but  accumulated  to 
excess,  burst  out,  and  produced  the  Reformation.  The  change 
was  essentially  moral.  Its  mainspring  was  the  awakened  con- 
science— not  the  revolutionary  desire  to  experimentalize  abstract 
truth,  but  the  indignation  of  righteousness,  the  fundamental 
anxiety  to  seize  upon  truth  and  justice.  It  is  the  genius  of  the 
Germanic  peoples — the  idea  of  duty  blooming  afresh  amid  the 
mighty  upgrowth  of  all  human  ideas,  the  sombre  Semitic  con- 
ception of  the  vast  and  solitary  Being,  whose  commands,  whose 
vengeance,  whose  promises  and  threats,  fill,  occupy,  and  direct 
their  thoughts.  They  ask,  with  Luther,  '  What  is  righteousness, 
and  how  shall  I  obtain  it?'  Troubled  and  anxious,  their  light 
failing,  themselves  groping,  they  cry  from  the  abyss: 

'  AliniL'lity  and  most  merciful  Fathor;  we  liave  erred,  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways 
like  lor-t  stieej).  We  have  followed  too  much  the  devices  and  desires  of  our  own  luail. 
We  have  offended  a^'ainst  Thy  holy  laws.  We  have  left  nndone  those  thinirs  which 
we  oiiLThl  to  liavc  done;  And  we  liave  done  those  things  which  we  on<:ht  not  to  have 
done;  And  then-  is  no  health  in  us.  But  Thon,  O  Lord,  have  nieicy  upon  us,  miser- 
able offenders.  S|)ari-  Thou  theui,  ()  (iod,  which  confess  their  faults.  Restore  Thou 
them  that  are  piiiitcnt;  Acfonlin^'  to  Thy  jiromises  declared  unto  mankind  in  Christ 
Jesus  our  Lord.  And  <:rant,  O  most  merciful  Father,  for  His  sake;  That  we  may 
hereafter  live  a  L'udly.  ri!.'hteoMs,  and   sober  life." 

'AlmiLfhty  ami  everlaslini:  (iod,  who  hatest  nothing  that  Thou  hast  made,  and  dost 
fortrive  the  sins  of  all  them  that  an-  ))enitent;  Create  and  make  in  us  new  and  con- 
trite hearts,  tliat  we  wortliily  lamenting.'  our  sins,  aiul  acknowledging  our  wretehed- 
n(<-,  may  obtain  of  'I'hee,  tiie  fJod  of  all  mercy,  perfect  remission  and  forgiveness."  ' 

It  {.■<  tliis  consciciifo  tliat  made  l)elievors  strong  against  all  tlie 
revulsions  of  nature  and  all  the  trembling  of  the  flesli.  Many 
went  to  tlie  stake  cheerfully,  and  all   bravely,  deeming  the  'cross 

^  Hook  of  ('ominoa  Prayer,  154S  ;  subsecjuently,  at  different  periods,  undergoing 
several  chau;.'es. 


THE   REFORMATION.  277 

of  persecution'  an  'inestimable  jewel.'  *Xo  one  will  be  crowned,' 
said  one  of  them,  '  but  they  who  fight  like  men,  and  he  who  en- 
dures to  the  end  shall  be  saved.'  Latimer  at  eighty,  refusing  to 
retract,  after  two  years  of  prison  and  waiting,  was  burned.  His 
companion,  ready  to  be  chained  to  the  post,  said  aloud:  'O 
heavenly  Father,  I  give  thee  most  hearty  thanks,  for  that  thou 
hast  called  me  to  be  a  professor  of  thee,  even  unto  death!'  Lati- 
mer in  his  turn,  when  they  brought  the  lighted  fagots,  uttered 
the  thrilling  Avords:  'Be  of  good  comfort.  Master  Ridley,  and 
play  the  man:  we  shall  this  day  light  such  a  candle,  by  God's 
grace,  in  England,  as  I  trust  shall  never  be  put  out.'  A  youth, 
an  apprentice  to  a  silk-weaver,  doomed  to  die  if  he  does  not 
recant,  is  exhorted  by  his  parents  to  stand  firm : 

'Then  William  said  to  his  mother,  "For  my  little  pain  which  I  shall  suffer,  which  is 
but  a  short  braid,  Christ  hath  promised  me,  mother  (said  he),  a  crown  of  joy:  may  you 
not  be  glad  of  that,  mother?"'  With  that  his  mother  kneeled  down  on  her  knees,  saying, 
"I  pray  God  strengthen  thee,  my  son,  to  the  end;  yea,  I  think  thee  as  well- bestowed  as 
any  child  that  ever  I  bare.''  .  .  .  Then  William  Hunter  plucked  up  his  gown,  and  siepiwd 
over  the  parlour  groundsel,  and  went  forward  cheerfully;  the  sheriffs  servant  taking 
him  by  one  arm,  and  1  his  brother  by  another.  And  thus  going  in  the  way,  he  met  with 
hi?  father  according  to  his  dream,  and  he  spake  to  his  son  weeping,  and  saying,  "God  be 
with  thee,  son  William";  and  William  said,  "God  be  with  you,  good  father,  and  be  of 
good  comfort;  for  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again,  when  we  shall  be  merry."  His  father  said, 
"I  hope  so,  William"';  and  so  departed.  So  William  went  to  the  place  where  the  stake 
stood,  even  according  to  his  dream,  where  all  things  were  very  unready.  Then  William 
took  a  wet  broom-faggot,  and  kneeled  down  thereon  and  read  the  tifty-lirst  Psalm,  till  he 
came  to  these  words,  "The  sacrifice  of  God  is  a  contrite  spirit;  a  contrite  and  a  broken 
heart,  O  God,  thou  wilt  not  despise."  .  .  .  Then  said  the  sheriff,  "Here  is  a  letter  from 
the  queen.  If  thou  wilt  recant  thou  shalt  live;  if  not  thou  slialt  be  burned.""  "No,"' 
quoth  William,  "I  will  not  recant,  God  willing."  Then  William  rose  and  went  to  the 
stake,  and  stood  u])riglit  to  it.  Then  came  one  Richard  Ponde,  a  baililT,  and  made  fast 
tlie  chain  about  William.  Then  said  master  Brown,  "  Here  is  not  wood  enoujih  to  burn  a 
leg  of  liim.""  Tlieu  said  William,  "Good  people  I  pray  for  me,  and  make  speed  and  des- 
patch quickly;  and  pray  for  me  while  you  see  me  alive,  good  people!  and  I  will  i)ray  for 
you  likewise.""  "How?"  (juoth  master  Brown,  "pray  for  thee!  I  will  (iray  no  more  for 
thee  than  I  will  pray  foradoL'.""  .  .  .  Tlicn  was  tliere  a  ireinleman  which  said,  "  I  pray 
God  have  mercy  upon  liis  soul.""  The  |)eoiilf  said,  •■Amen,  .\uieu.""  Ininn'diately  was 
fire  made.  Then  William  cast  liis  psalter  riirlit  into  his  brotlier's  lumd.  who  sai<l,  "Will- 
iam! think  on  tlie  holy  passion  of  Christ,  and  l)e  not  afraid  of  death."'  And  William 
answered,  "I  am  not  afraid."  ThiMi  lift  he  up  his  hands  to  heaven,  and  said,  "Lord, 
Lord,  Lord,  receive  my  spirit";  and.  ca-tini:  down  his  head  again  into  tlie  smotluring 
smoke,  he  yielded  up  his  life  for  tlie  truth,  sealing  it  with  his  blood  to  the  prai>e  of 
God."i 

The  same  sentiment,  alas,  made  tliem  tyrants  after  it  liad  iiiinl<^ 
them  martyrs.  Whilo  th<'  Koforniatioii  was  deiiiainliiiL;"  t'rt'tMlom 
of  thought  for  itself,  it  was  violating  tliat  riglit  towanls  others. 
Both  Reformers  and  Pajiists  hold  it  riglit  to  inflict  coercion  and 
'  Fox"s  nook  of  Martyrs. 


278  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

death  upon  those  who  denied  what  they  regarded  as  the  essential 
faith.  The  first  never  doubted  that  truth  was  on  their  side,  the 
second  were  no  h^ss  confident;  and  both  required  with  equal 
ardor  the  princes  of  their  party  to  wield  the  temporal  sword 
against  the  other.  The  innovators  were  not  emancipated  from 
the  corrupt  principles  of  the  age,  and  there  is  no  little  warrant 
for  the  taunt  that  they  were  against  burning  only  when  they 
were  in  fear  of  it  themselves.  Calvin  burned  Servetus  for  heresy. 
Speaking  to  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  he  expressly  says  of  the 
Papists  and  Dissenters,  'They  ought  to  be  repressed  by  the 
avenging  sword  which  the  Lord  has  put  into  your  hands.'  Cran- 
mer  caused  a  woman  to  be  burned  for  some  opinion  about  the 
Incarnation.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  the  story  of  martyr- 
doms convulsed  tlie  Catholic  world;  in  that  of  Mary,  nearly 
tliree  hundred  Protestants  let  themselves  be  burned  rather  than 
abjure;  in  that  of  Elizabeth,  a  hundred  and  sixty  Catholics  were 
put  to  death.  We  shall  do  well,  however,  to  bear  in  mind  the 
temper  of  the  men  with  whom  the  Reformers  had  to  deal.  They 
remembered  that  when  their  teaching  began  to  spread  in  the 
Netherlands,  an  edict  was  issued,  under  which  fifty  thousand  of 
them,  first  and  last,  were  deliberately  murdered. 

About  the  year  1520,  when  I^uther  publicly  Inirned  at  Witten- 
berg the  bull  of  Leo  X,  containing  his  condemnation,  the  move- 
ment definitely  began  which  was  to  raise  the  whole  of  Europe 
and  change  the  spiritual  history  of  mankind.  Slowly,  with  mis- 
trust, from  self-interest,  Henry  VIII  laid  the  axe  to  the  tree.  In 
1534,  Parliament  enacted  that  the  king  — 

'  sIkiII  1)('  taken,  accci)te(l,  and  r(']»ute(i  tho  only  sniircme  Head  in  cartli  of  the  Church 
of  EnL'land.  and  shall  have  and  enjoy  annexed  and  united  to  tlie  Imperial  Crown  of  this 
realm  as  well  the  title  and  style  thereof  as  all  the  honors,  jurisdictions,  aulliorities, 
immunities,  protlts.  and  eommodilies  to  tlie  said  diirnity  belonL'ing,  with  full  jjower  to 
visit,  repress,  redress,  rrforni,  and  amend  all  such  errors,  heresies,  abuses,  contempts, 
and  enormities,  wtiieh  by  any  manner  of  spiritual  authority  or  jurisdiction  mi<;ht  or 
may  lawfully  he  reformed.' 

Ocnial  was  treason,  and  treason  tleatli.  A  second  blow  was 
struck,  and  the  monastr-rics  were  lopped  off,  their  relics  cast  out, 
their  shrines  levelled,  their  estates  appropriated  by  the  court  and 
nobilitv,  the  monks  sent  wandering  into  the  world,  and  the  bish- 
o]»s  looked  hcljilesslv  on  while  their  dominion  was  tr(»dden  under 
foot.  Henrv  \'III,  In'  brute  force,  wrought  out  only  a  purified 
Catliolicistn  differing  in  theory  from  t!ie  Koman  Catholic  faith  on 


THE   REFORMATION.  279 

the  point  of  supremacy  and  on  that  point  alone.  Above  the  roar 
of  controversy,  he  told  the  people,  in  six  articles,'  how  to  worsliip 
and  what  to  believe.  Assailed  with  equal  fury  by  those  who 
were  zealous  for  either  the  new  or  the  old,  he  burned  as  heretics 
such  as  avowed  the  tenets  of  Luther,  and  hanged  as  traitors  such 
as  owned  the  authority  of  the  Pope.  His  system,  too  hazardous 
to  maintain,  died  with  him.  Under  the  Regency  of  his  infant 
son,  the  Six  Articles  were  repealed;  the  prohibitions  of  Lollardy 
were  removed ;  the  churches  were  emptied  of  pictures  and 
images;  priests,  descending  from  their  stone  altars  to  wooden 
tables,  were  once  more  equals,  and  married  like  the  rest;  the 
Book  of  Common  Prayer  was  restored,  to  knock  at  the  door  of 
every  soul  with  its  imposing  supplications;  old  customs  were 
broken.  Cranmer,  who  had  been  slowly  drifting,  set  the  exam- 
ple. 'This  year,'  says  a  contemporary,  'the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury did  eat  meat  openly  in  Lent  in  the  hall  of  Lambeth,  the 
like  of  which  was  never  seen  since  England  was  a  Christian  coun- 
try.' 

Mary  undid  all  that  had  been  done  by  her  father  and  t)rother. 
Not  only  were  the  old  doctrines  and  ceremonies  restored;  the 
supremacy  was  resigned  to  the  Pope.  But  the  new  worship 
became  popular  through  the  triumph  of  its  martyrs,  and  became 
national  on  the  accession  of  Elizal^eth  —  national  by  the  con- 
straint of  internal  sentiment  and  the  })ressure  of  foreign  hostility. 
England  is  henceforth  Protestant;  her  faith,  a  part  of  tiie  Consti- 
tution, an  alliance  of  the  worldly  and  religious  enemies  of  popery, 
a  union  of  the  court  and  the  cloister,  of  the  State  and  the  Churcli; 
linked  to  the  throne  by  the  two  Acts  of  headship  and  uniformity; 
in  its  doctrinal  structure,  tolerant;  in  its  political  structure,  per- 
secuting. For  a  governineiit  wliose  organic  ])rineii)l('  is  syiithotic 
and  monarchical  will  not  jiaticntly  submit  to  ilisst'usion  wliose 
tendency  is  analytic  and  republican. 

To  this  day,  the  Estal)lished  Churfh  bears  the  visible  ini])rint 
of  her  origin.  Like  her  inijierial  parent,  she  has  her  chief  magis- 
trate; she  retains  episcopacy,  without  dechiring  it  to  be  essential; 
she  copies  the  dailv  chant  of  the  monk,  though  translating  it  into 
the  vulgar  tongue  and  inviting  the  miiltituile  to  join  its  voice  to 
that   of  the   minister;   without  asking-  for  the  intercession   of   tlie 

'  Transiibstaiitiatif)ii,  ccMbacv,  vow-,  iiia><,  coiif('>>!oii.  withtioliliiiL'  Ilir  cup  fr>iii 
the  laitv. 


280  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

saints,  she  has  her  festival-days  for  her  great  benefactors;  dis- 
carding a  crowd  of  pantomimic  gestures,  she  marks  the  sprinkled 
infant  with  the  sign  of  the  cross;  condemning  the  idolatrous 
adoration  of  the  bread  and  wine,  she  requires  them  to  be  re- 
ceived in  a  meekl}'  kneeling  posture;  rejecting  many  rich  vest- 
ments, she  yet  keeps  the  robe  of  white;  without  tiie  gloomy 
monotony  of  the  middle-age  litany,  the  organ-led  music  now 
thunders  forth  glory  to  God,  now  whispers  to  the  broken  in 
spirit; — in  short,  a  flourishing  branch,  shooting  forth  in  the  open 
air,  amid  satin  doublets  and  stage  attitudes,  amid  youthful  blus- 
ter and  fashionable  prodigality;  friendly  to  the  beautiful,  which 
it  does  not  proscribe,  and  to  fancy,  which  it  does  not  attempt  to 
fetter. 

Only  by  a  very  slow  process-  does  the  human  mind  emerge 
from  a  system  of  error.  The  excesses  of  vice  had  been  repressed 
without  attacking  its  soui'ce.  Many  persons,  with  a  severer 
ideal,  thought  that  the  interests  of  pure  religion  required  a 
reform  far  more  searching  and  extensive.  They  would  have  a 
service  without  shred  or  fragment  of  Rome.  One  protests:  'I 
can't  consent  to  wear  tlie  surplice,  it  is  against  my  conscience; 
I  trust  l)y  the  help  of  God,  I  shall  never  put  on  that  sleeve, 
wliich  is  a  mark  of  the  beast.'  And  another:  'God  by  Isaiah 
commandeth  not  to  pollute  ourselves  with  the  garments  of  the 
image.'  As  they  could  not  be  convinced,  they  were  persecuted  — 
imprisoned,  fined,  pilloried,  their  noses  slit,  their  ears  cut  off. 
From  being  a  sect,  they  consequently  became  a  faction.  To 
hatred  of  the  authorized  church  was  added  hatred  of  the  i*oyal 
authority.  So,  underneath  tlic  established  Protestantism  is 
propagated  an  interdicted  Protestantism, — Pun'tanisr/i,  whose 
intprminglcMl  sentiments,  each  embittering  the  other,  will  pro- 
duce the  English   Revolution. 

If  now  we  inquire  what  were  the  ultimate  results  of  tlie 
Reformation,  it   can   hardlv  escape  observation: 

1.  That  it  liaTiished,  or  nearly  so,  religion  from  })olitics,  and 
secTilari/.od  government. 

2.  That,  leaving  the  mind  subject  to  the  variable  influence 
of  prilitical  institutions,  it  yet  ])rocured,  by  disarming  the  spir- 
itual power,  a  great  increase  of  liberty  —  a  liberty  which  re- 
doundcil   to  tlie  a<lvantage  of  nn^rality  and  of  science. 


THE   REFORMATION  —  EFFECTS.  281 

3,  That  rejecting  much  of  the  polity  and  ritual  of  the 
mystical  Babylon,  it  rendered  possible  that  steady  movement 
by  which  theology  has  since  been  gravitating  towards  the  moral 
faculty. 

•4.  That  it  introduced  religion  into  the  midst  of  the  laity, 
which  till  then  had  been  the  exclusive  domain  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical order. 

5.  That,  begetting  a  war  of  tracts  and  disputations,  whether 
conqueror  or  conquered,  it  effected  an  immense  progress  in 
mental  activity. 

6.  That,  by  arousing  Rome  to  impose  upon  herself  an  in- 
stant counter-reform,  it  gave  an  improved  tone  to  all  ecclesi- 
astical grades. 

Inestimable  as  are  these  blessings,  it  were  idle  to  denv  that 
the  Reformation  aggravated,  for  a  time,  unavoidably,  some  of 
the  evils  it  was  intended  to  correct.  It  was  the  culminatinjr 
fact  in  a  train  of  circumstances  tliat  had  diffused  throuofh 
Christendom  an  intense  and  vivid  sense  of  Satanic  agency. 
When  the  mind,  without  power  of  sound  judgment,  is  fallen 
upon  times  in  which  tendencies  and  passions  rage  with  tem- 
pestuous violence,  it  turns  readily  to  the  miraculous  as  the 
solution  of  all  phenomena,  and  phantoms  are  transfigured  into 
realities  through  the  mists  of  hope  and  fear.  Men,  supersti- 
tious and  terror-stricken,  listen  then  with  wide  ears  and  fan- 
tastic foreshadowings,  momentaril}'  expecting  the  thunderbolts 
of  God,  and  feeling  upon  them  the  claw  of  the  devil.  Cran- 
mer,  in  one  of  his  articles  of  visitation,  directs  his  clergy  to 
seek  for  'any  that  use  charms,  sorcery,  enchantments,  witch- 
craft, soothsaying,  or  any  like  craft  invented  Ixj  tJie  Devil.'* 
Under  Henry  ^'III,  there  were  a  few  executions  for  supposed 
dealings  with  the  Evil  One;  but  the  law  on  the  sulijeet  in  the 
following  reign  was  repealed,  nor  again  renewed  till  the  acces- 
sion of  Elizabeth,  when  other  laws  were  made,  and  executed 
with  severity.  A  preach(n-  before  the  queen,  adverting  to  tlie 
increase  of  witches,  expressed  a  hope  that  the  ])eiialties  might 
be   rigidly  enforced: 

'May  it  plonsc  your  irraco  to  undorstiuiil  tliat  \vitchc><  and  soniTcrs  within  lli.'-r  fi  'v 
years  an>  niarvfllou^ly  iiicreasod  witliin  your  irracc's  realm.  Vmir  Lrrace's  ^nlijii  i-  jiine 
away  even  unto  llie  deatli;  tlieir  eolor  fadeili,  tlieir  llesli  rottrlli,  their  sp.r.h  i-  lie- 
inuiil)ed.  their  senses  are  bereft:  ...  1  pray  (;o(l  lliey  never  jiraclice  furtlier  than  \\\,>n\ 
tlie  sul)ject.' 


282  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

It  must  have  made  the  teeth  chatter  with  fright  to  hear  the  min- 
isters assert: 

'That  they  have  had  in  their  parish  at  one  instant,  XVII  or  XVIII  witches;  mean- 
ing Hucli  as  could  worke  miracles  siipernaturallic;  .  .  .  that  instructed  by  the  devil, 
they  make  ointments  of  the  bowels  and  members  of  children,  whereby  they  ride  in  the 
aire,  and  accomplish  all  their  desires.  When  a  child  is  not  baptized,  or  defended  by  the 
Hign  of  the  cross,  then  the  witches  catch  them  from  their  mothers  sides  in  the  night 
.  .  .  kill  them  ...  or  after  buriall  steale  them  out  of  their  graves,  and  seeth  them  in  a 
caldron,  untill  their  flesh  be  made  potable.  ...  It  is  an  infallible  rule,  that  cverie  fort- 
night, or  at  the  least  everic  moneth,  each  witch  must  kill  one  child  at  the  least  for  hir 
part.' 

With  signal  success,  the  witch-finders  pricked  their  victims  all 
over  to  discover  the  insensible  spot,  threw  them  into  the  water  to 
ascertain  whether  they  would  sink  or  swim,  or  deprived  them  of 
sleep  during  successive  nights  to  compel  confession.  Under  a 
milder  judiciary  than  on  the  Continent,  witches  who  had  not 
destroyed  others  by  their  incantations,  were,  for  the  first  convic- 
tion, punished  only  by  the  pillory  and  imprisonment,  while  those 
condemned  to  die,  perished  by  the  gallows  instead  of  the  stake. 
The  cast  of  thought  engendered  by  the  Reformation  is  strikingly 
typified  in  Luther.  Oppressed  by  a  keen  sense  of  unworthiness, 
distracted  by  intellectual  doubt,  Satan  was  the  dominating  con- 
ception of  his  life,  the  efficient  cause  in  every  critical  event,  iit 
every  mental  perturbation.  In  tlie  seclusion  of  his  monastery  at 
Wittenberg,  he  constantly  heard  the  Devil  making  a  noise  in  the 
cloisters,  even  cracking  nuts  on  his  bed-post.  A  stain  on  the 
wall  of  his  chamber  still  marks  the  place  where  he  flung  an  ink- 
bottlo  at  the  Devil.  He  became  so  accustomed  to  the  presence 
thfit,  awakened  on  one  occasion  by  the  sound,  he  ])erceived  it  to 
be  onhj  the  Devil,  and  accordingly  went  to  sleep.  'Oh,  what 
horril)le  spectres  and  figures  I  used  to  see  ! '  None  of  the  infirm- 
ities to  wliicli  he  was  lial)le  were  natural;  but  his  ear-ache  was 
peculiarly  diabolical.  Physicians  who  attemj)ted  to  explain  dis- 
ease bv  natural  causes,  were  ignorant  men,  who  did  not  know  all 
the  power  of  Satan.  Indeed  suicides,  conunonly  supposed  to  have 
dcstrrived  themselves,  had  in  reality  been  seized  and  strangled  l)y 
tlie  Devil.  In  strict  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  his  age,  he 
cinpliaticallv  proclaimed  th(>  duty  of  burning  the  witches.  'I 
would  liavo  no  compassion  on  tliese  witches,'  he  exclaimed.  'I 
Wduld  burn  tliem  all!'  The  iininense  majority  of  the  accused 
were  women — a    fact   explained   not    l)V  tlicMr   nervous  sensibility 


THE   REFORMATION — EFFECTS.  283 

and  their  consequent  liability  to  religious  epidemics,  but  by  their 

inherent  wickedness.     As   long  as   celibacy   was   esteemed   the 

highest  of  virtues,  divines  exhausted  all  the  resources  of  their 

eloquence  in  describing  the  iniquity  of  the  fair.     By  a  natural 

process,  all  the  '  phenomena  of  love '  came  to  be  regarded  as  most 

especially  under    the    influence    of   the    Devil.     The   tragedy  of 

Macbeth  faithfully  reflects  the  popular  superstition  touching  the 

powers  of  darkness.     The  air  is  lurid  and  thick  with  things  weird 

and  fantastic.     Three  witches  meet  in  dark  communion  —  kinless 

—  nameless  —  and  fitly  consult: 

'First  W.    When  s^hall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain? 
Second  W.    When  the  hnrlyburly's  done, 

When  the  battle's  lost  and  won. 
Tfiird  W.    That  will  be  ere  set  of  sun. 
Firs:t  W.    Where  the  place? 
Second  W.  Upon  the  heath; 

TTiird  W.    There  to  meet  with  Macbeth.' 

With  wild  utterance,  all,  of  the  moral  confusion  and  murkiness 
of  their  demon's  heart,  tliey  vanish: 

'Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair: 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air.' 

Meeting  again  on  the  blasted  heath,  they  recount  to  each  other 

their  exploits: 

'■First  \V.    Where  hast  thou  been,  sister? 
Second  W.    Killing  swine. 
77urd  W.    Sister,  where  thou? 
First  W.    A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap. 

And  mounch'd,  and  niounch'd,  and  mounch'd: — 

"Give  me,"  quoth  I : 

"Aroint  thee,  witch:'   the  rump-fed  ronyon  cries. 

Her  husband's  to  .Meppo  irone,  master  o'  the  Tiger: 

But  in  a  sieve  I'll  thither  sail. 

And,  like  a  rat  witliout  a  tail, 

I'll  do.  111  do,  and  I'll  do. 
Second  W.    I'll  give  thee  a  wind. 
First  W.    Thou  art  kind. 
ndrd  W.     And  I  Mncther. 
First  W.     I  myself  have  all  the  other. 

.\nd  the  very  ports  they  blow. 

All  the  fpiarters  tliat  tlicy  know 

r  the  shipman's  card. 

I'll  drain  him  dry  as  hay: 

Sleep  shall  ni'itlier  uiL'ht  nor  day 

Hanir  upon  liis  innt-bouse  lid: 

He  shall  live  .-i  man  forliiil; 

Weary  M-v'ii-ni'_'lit--.  nine  tiiin's  nine. 

Shall  he  dwindle,   peak.  :ind  pine: 

TluuiL'h  his  bark  cannot  be  lost. 


284  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-tost. 
Look  what  I  have.— 
Second  W.     Show  me,  show  me. — 
First  W.    Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb, 

Wreck'd  as  homeward  he  did  come.' 

Distant  and  complex  objects  are  rendered  distorted  and  porten- 
tous in  the  morning  mists  which  the  rising  sun  has  not  yet  dis- 
pelled. 

The  Renaissance. —  In  the  moral,  as  in  the  physical  world, 
every  night  brightens  into  a  new  day.  xVges  of  sloth  are  suc- 
ceeded by  periods  of  energy.  First  the  seed  in  the  soil,  then  the 
harvest — in  endless  recurrence.  Nature  may  sleep,  but  she  will 
wake  again — forever.  It  is  with  man  as  with  the  planet, — change 
is  identified  with  existence,  never  by  leaps,  ever  by  steps;  revolu- 
tionary, periodic;  pulsating  to  the  rhythmic  law  of  the  universe, 
that  swings  to  and  fro  through  the  immeasurable  agitations,  like 
the  shuttle  of  a  loom,  and  weaves  a  definite  and  comprehensible 
pattern  into  the  otherwise  chaotic  fabric  of  things.  What  the 
Reformation  exhibits  in  the  sphere  of  religion  and  politics,  the 
Revival  of  Letters  displays  in  the  sphere  of  culture,  art,  and 
science, — the  recovered  energy  and  freedom  of  humanity.  Both 
are  effects  or  phases,  each  by  reaction  a  stimulant  and  a  cause; 
the  first  ethical,  the  second  intellectual;  the  one  Christian,  the 
other  classical  —  in  contrasted  language,  pagan;  either,  the  acme 
of  a  gradual  and  instinctive  process  of  hecominr/  •  neither,  as  we 
have  seen,  without  many  anticipations  and  foreshadowings.  The 
Renaissance,  however,  is  commonly  understood  to  be  the  renova- 
tion of  the  intellect  only  —  that  outburst  of  human  intelligence 
which,  abroad  in  the  fifteenth  century  and  at  home  in  the  six- 
teenth, marks  an  epoch  in  human  growth.  What  was  it  in  its 
elements  and  its  origin?  —  An  expansion  of  natural  existence, 
and  a  zeal  for  the  oivili/ations  of  Greece  and  Rome,  that  till  the 
fulness  of  tune  had  lain  essentially  inoperative  on  the  Dead-Sea 
shore  of  the  middl<>-age.  It  was  the  resuscitation  of  the  taste, 
the  eloquence,  and  the  song  of  antiquity;  of  the  gods  and  heroes 
of  Olympus,  of  the  eternal  art  and  thought  of  Athens.  It  was, 
after  a  long  oblivion,  tlu^  reappearance,  with  cjthers  high  and 
luminous,  of  the  'divine  Plato,'  who  alone  among  books  is  enti- 
tled to  Omar's  fanatical  complinient  to  the  Koran,  —  'Burn  the 
lil)raries,  for  their  value  is  in  this  volume.'      All  who  went  before 


THE   RENAISSANCE.  285 

were  his  teachers;  all  who  came  after  were  his  debtors.  Every 
thinker  of  grand  proportions  is  his.'  Whoever  has  given  a 
spiritual  expression  to  truth,  has  voiced  him.  Whoever  has  had 
vision  of  the  realities  of  being,  has  stood  in  liis  hallowed  light  — 
the  Elizabethans  not  less.  But  for  the  magnitude  of  his  proper 
genius,  Shakespeare  would  be  the  most  eminent  of  Platonists. 
Would  you  understand  the  lofty  insight,  the  celestial  ardor  of 
the  Fairy  Queen  —  first  great  ideal  poem  in  the  English  tongue, 
you  must  reascend  to  the  serene  solitudes  of  Plato,  and  watch  the 
lightnings  of  his  imagination  playing  in  the  illimitable.  His  sen- 
tences are  the  corner-stone  of  speculative  schools,  the  fountam- 
head  of  literatures,  the  culture  of  nations.  'To  his  doctrines  we 
may  hardly  allude — the  acutest  German,  the  fondest  disciple,  is 
at  fault.'  What  renders  him  immortally  noble,  and  irresistibly 
attractive  to  the  noble,  is  his  moral  aim,  his  sympathy  with  truth 
—  truth  arrayed  in  the  unsullied  white  of  heaven.  The  admirable 
earnest  is  the  central  sun: 

'I,  therefore,  Calliclei?,  am  persuaded  by  these  account*,  and  consider  how  I  may 
exhibit  my  soul  before  the  judge  in  a  healthy  condition.  Wherefore  disregarding  the 
honors  that  most  men  value,  and  looking  to  the  truth,  I  shall  endeavor  in  reality  to 
live  as  virtuously  as  I  can;  and,  when  I  die,  to  die  so.  And  I  invite  all  other  men,  to 
the  utmost  of  my  power.' 

Upon  this  dogma  let  the  pillared  firmament  rest: 

'  Let  us  declare  the  cause  which  led  the  Supreme  Ordainer  to  produce  and  com- 
pose the  universe.  He  was  good;  and  he  who  is  good  has  no  kind  of  envy.  Exempt 
from  envy,  he  wished  that  all  things  should  be  as  much  as  possible  like  himself. 
Whosoever,  taught  by  wise  men,  shall  admit  this  as  the  prime  cause  of  the  origin  and 
foundation  of  the  world,  will  be  in  the  truth.' 

And  human  faith  cleave  to  this,  and  by  it  interpret  the  world: 

'All  things  are  for  the  sake  of  the  good,  and  it  is  the  cause  of  everything  beautiful." 

Impute  no  ill  to  tlie  eternal  Radiance,  however  dark  the  prob- 
lem of   human   destiny: 

'That  which  is  good  is  beneficial;  is  the  cause  of  good.  .\x\<\,  therefore,  that  which 
is  good  is  not  the  cause  of  all  which  is  and  happens,  but  only  of  that  whicli  i>  as  it 
should  be.  .  .  The  good  things  we  ascribe  to  God,  whilst  we  must  seek  elsewhere,  and 
not  in  him,  the  causes  of  evil  things.' 

Towards  this  superlative  perfection,  the  holy,  the  beautiful,  the 
true,  let   reason   lift   itself: 

'Marvellous  beauty!  eternal,  uncreated,  imperishable  beauty,  free  from  increase 
and  diminution.  .  .  beauty  wliich  has  nothing  sensible,  noIhinLT  corporeal,  as  lunuN  or 
face:    which   does  not   reside  in  any  l)eing  different   from  itself,  in  the  fartli,  or  the 

lAristotle  was  his  pupil,  and  the  critic  of  his  system. 


286  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

heavens,  or  in  any  other  thing,  but  which  exists  eternally  and  absolutely  in  itself,  and  by 
itself;  beauty  of  which  every  other  beauty  partakes,  without  their  birth  or  destruction 
bringing  to  it  the  least  increase;  or  diminution." 

Alas !  when  we  would  rise,  we  feel  the  weight  of  clay.  Our 
life  is  double: 

'  The  Deity  himself  formed  the  divine,  and  he  delivered  over  to  his  celestial  off- 
spring the  task  of  forming  the  mortal.  These  subordinate  deities,  copying  the  example 
of  their  parent,  and  receiving  from  liis  hands  the  immortal  principle  of  the  human  soul, 
fashioned  subsequently  to  this  tlie  mortal  body,  which  they  consigned  to  the  soul  as  a 
vehicle,  and  in  which  they  placed  another  kind  of  soul,  mortal,  the  seat  of  violent  and 
fatal  affections." 

All  the  longing,  all  the  vanity,  all  the  doubt,  the  sorrow,  the 
travail,  of  the  world,  this  man  felt;  and  said  —  what  we  are  only 
now  beginning  to  discover  —  that  the  soul  had  two  motive  pow- 
ers. Two  winged  steeds,  he  calls  them,  one  princely,  the  other 
plebeian;  and  a  charioteer  Reason,  who  endeavors  to  guide  them 
to  the  realized  vision  of  the  ideal: 

'  Now  the  winged  horses,  and  the  charioteer  of  the  gods  are  all  of  them  noble,  and  of 
noble  breed,  while  ours  are  mixed;  and  we  have  a  charioteer  who  drives  them  in  a  pair, 
and  one  of  them  is  noble  and  of  noble  origin,  and  the  other  is  ignoble  and  of  ignoble 
origin;  and,  as  might  be  expected,  tliere  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  managing  them. 
.  .  ,  The  wing  is  intended  to  soar  aloft  and  carry  that  which  gravitates  downwards  into 
the  upper  region,  which  is  the  dwelling  of  the  gods;  and  tliis  is  that  element  of  the 
body  which  is  most  akin  to  the  divine.  Now  the  divine  is  beauty,  wisdom,  and  good- 
ness and  the  like;  and  l)y  tliese  tlie  wing  of  tlie  soul  is  nourished,  and  grows  apace; 
but  when  fed  upon  evil  and  foulness,  and  the  like,  wastes  and  falls  away.  Zeus,  the 
mighty  lord  holding  the  reins  of  a  winged  chariot,  leads  the  way  in  heaven,  ordering  all 
and  caring  for  all ;  and  there  follows  him  the  heavenly  array  of  gods  and  demigods, 
divided  into  eleven  bands;  for  only  Ilestia  is  left  at  home  in  the  house  of  heaven;  but 
the  rest  of  the  twelve  greater  deities  marcli  in  tlieir  appointed  order.  And  they  see  in 
tile  interior  of  hcavm  many  blessed  sights;  and  there  are  ways  to  and  fro,  along  which 
the  liappy  gods  are  jjassiiig,  each  one  fulfilling  his  own  work;  and  any  one  may  follow 
who  pleases,  for  jealousy  has  no  place  in  the  heavenly  clioir.  This  is  within  the  heaven. 
But  wiien  they  1:0  to  fea^t  and  festival,  then  they  move  right  up  the  steep  ascent,  and 
mount  th(i  top  of  the  dome  of  heaven.  Now  the  cliariots  of  the  gods,  self-balanced, 
upward  ^dide  in  olxdienee  to  the  rein;  but  tlie  others  Iiave  a  dilHeulty,  for  tile  steed 
who  lias  evil  in  him,  if  lie  has  not  been  properly  trained  liy  the  charioteer,  gravitates 
and  inclines  and  >iiiks  towards  the  earth:  and  this  is  the  hour  of  agony  and  extremest 
conllict  of  the  soul.  .  .  .  That  wliicli  follows  God  best  and  is  likest  to  him  lifts  the  head 
of  the  charioteer  into  thr  outer  world  and  is  carried  round  in  the  revolution,  troubled 
indeed  by  the  >-teeds,  and  iM-hoIdiiiL,'  tiiif  briuL',  but  hardly;  anotlier  rises  and  falls,  and 
see~.  and  again  fails  to  sec  by  reason  of  the  iinruliuess  of  the  steeds.  The  rest  of  the 
souls  are  also  Ioiilhulc  after  the  upjier  world  and  they  all  follow,  but  not  being  strong 
enoiiirh  they  sink  info  the  irulf  as  they  .are  carried  round,  iilunizing,  treading  on  one 
aiiothiT.  ~trivin_'  to  tie  lir-t:  ami  there  is  confusion  and  the  extremity  of  effort,  and 
many  of  them  are  lamed  or  lia\e  their  uiiii:s  liroken  by  the  ill  driving  of  the  chariot- 
eers: and  all  of  theiii  after  a  fruitless  toil  go  away  without  being  initiated  into  tlie 
mysteries  of  lieint:.  and  are  nursed  with  the  food  of  opinion.  'I'/ic  reason  of  their  qrent 
</f.<ir>'  til  tjeliolil  ilif-  phi'ih  of  truth  i-<  thitt  the  fooil  uhich  is  united  to  the  highest  part  of  the 
fO'it  roiiirs  out  of  that  meadoir;  and  the  h'ukj  on  which  the  soul  yours  is  jiourished  xvith 
this: 


THE   RENAISSANCE.  287 

No  wonder  Platonism  is  immortal  —  immortal  because  its  vitality 
is  not  that  of  one  or  another  blood  but  of  human  nature. 

But  the  recovered  consciousness  of  Europe  —  signalized  and 
quickened  by  the  admiration  for  the  antique  —  was  especially 
marked  by  a  general  efflorescence  of  the  beautiful.  Among 
the  Greeks,  the  central  conception  of  art  was  the  glory  of  the 
human  body.  As  their  mythology  passed  gradually  into  the 
realm  of  poetry,  statues  that  once  were  objects  of  earnest  prayer 
came  to  be  viewed  with  the  glance  of  the  artist  or  the  critic. 
Reverence  was  displaced  by  allegory  and  imagination;  worship 
of  the  object,  by  the  worship  of  form.  It  was  Greece,  arisen 
from  the  tomb,  that  in  this  unique  era  of  human  intelligence 
bequeathed  those  almost  passionate  models  which  have  been  the 
wonder  and  the  delight  of  all  succeeding  ages.  Man,  Ion"-  en- 
veloped  in  a  cowl,  awoke  to  beauty.  Painting  and  sculpture, 
from  being  a  frigid  reproduction  of  entranced  eyes  and  sunken 
chests,  became  instinct  with  strong  and  happy  life.  The  atten- 
uated Christ  was  transformed  into  'a  crucified  Jupiter,'  the  pale 
Virgin  into  a  lovely  girl,  the  dried-up  saint  into  a  ready  atlilete. 
Similar  was  the  transition  in  architecture.  The  Gothic  style, 
whose  sombre  and  solemn  images  had  awed  barbarian  energies  to 
rest,  was  supplanted  by  the  classic,  more  gorgeous,  gay,  and  fair, 
fashioned  from  the  temples  of  antiquity,  and  as})iring  to  an  ex- 
cellence purely  aesthetic.  With  the  erection  of  St.  Peter's,  the 
age  of  cathedrals  was  passed. 

Luxurious  Italy,  as  previously  observed,  led  the  way.  The 
fourteenth  century  was  her  period  of  high  and  original  invention 
—  the  age  of  the  sombre  Dante,  tlie  passionate  Petrarcli,  and  the 
joyous  Boccaccio.  The  fifteenth  was  the  age  of  rapturous  devo- 
tion to  classic  antiquity,  when  the  merchant  bartered  his  rich 
freights  for  a  few  worm-eaten  folios,  and  the  gift  of  manuscripts 
healed  the  dissensions  of  rival  states;  an  age  as  remarkable  tor 
the  dispersion  of  learning  as  the  other  had  b(M^n  for  tlie  conet'ii- 
tratioii  of  talent.  The  sixteentli  was  the  exhilarating  Augustan 
age  of  the  Italian  muse,  when  she  had  regained  hrv  freiMh^n  in 
the  court  of  Lorenzo  the  Magniticent,  and  was  ])ouring  forth  in 
spontaneous  jjU-ntv  evervthing  brilliant,  or  fragrant,  or  nourish- 
ingr;  the  ao'e  of  the  miyhtv  Aiiii-elo  —  of  the  social  Ariosto,  wlmse 
stanzas  were  sung  in  the  streets  and  fields  —  of  the  solitarv  Tasso, 


288  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

whose  Jenisaleni,  broken  up  into  ballads  and  sung  by  the  gondo- 
liers in  Venice,  made  the  air  vocal  on  a  tranquil  summer  evening. 
It  was  also,  as  well  as  the  preceding,  an  age  of  adolescence,  when 
men  were,  and  dared  to  be,  themselves  for  good  or  for  evil.  There 
was  no  limit  to  the  development  of  personality.  In  the  midst  of 
all  the  forms  of  loveliness  was  an  unbridled  laxity  in  literature 
and  morals.  'We  must  enjoy,' sang  Lorenzo:  'there  is  no  cer- 
tainty of  to-morrow,'  Fair  Florence,  in  Carnival,  rung  to  the 
thoughtless  refrain  of  '  Naught  ye  know  about  to-morrow ' : 

'Midas  treads  a  wearier  measure: 
All  he  touches  turns  to  gold: 
If  there  be  no  taste  of  pleasure, 
What's  the  use  of  wealth  untold?  .  .  . 

Listen  well  to  what  we're  saying; 
Of  to-morrow  have  no  care  1 
Young  and  old  together  playing 
Boys  and  girls  be  blithe  as  airl 
Every  sorry  thought  forswear! 
Keep  perpetual  holiday. — 
Youths  and  maids,  enjoy  to-day; 
Naught  ye  know  about  to-morrow.' 

'Some  people,'  said  Pulci,  glancing  towards  the  dark  Beyond, 
'think  they  will  there  discover  fig-peckers,  plucked  ortolans,  ex- 
cellent wine,  good  beds,  and  therefore  they  follow  the  monks, 
walking  behind  them.  As  for  us,  dear  friend,  we  shall  go  into 
the  black  valley,  where'  we  shall  hear  no  more  alleluias.'  Side  by 
side  with  the  infatuation  for  harmony  and  grace,  flourished  the 
passion  for  pleasure  and  voluptuousness;  and  the  reproach  even 
of  indecency  lies  heavily,  in  all  the  nakedness  of  detail,  upon 
most  of  the  Italian  novelists.  To  the  poets,  love  furnishes  the 
animating  impulse;  and  amid  the  clouds  of  amorous  incense  we 
rarely  discern,  with  a  few  honorable  exceptions,  an  ennobling 
sentiment  or  a  moral  purpose.  A  mistress  frowns,  and  the  Flor- 
entine lover  cries: 

'Fire,  fire  I   IIo,  water!   for  my  heart's  afire! 
Ho,  neighbors!   help  me,  or  by  God  I  die! 
See,  with  his  standard,  that  great  lord.  Desire! 
He  sets  my  luiirt  aflame:  in  vain  I  cry. 
Too  late,  alii^:     Tlie  flames  mount  high  and  higher. 
Alack,  goiid  friends!     I  faint.   I  fail,  I  die. 
Ho!    water,  niiL'hburs  mine!    no  more  delay! 
My  heart's  a  tinder  if  you  do  but  stay.' 

He  is  not  elevated, —  inflated  only  and  conventional.  He  desires 
to  give  play  to  his  imagination,  and  to  please  his  facile  fair  one 


THE    RENAISSANCE.  289 

with  the  fluency  of  his  vows.     You  may  see  it  in  tlie  levity  of 
his  love  declarations: 

'Wherefore,  O  lady,  break  the  ice  at  length; 
Make,  thou,  too,  trial  of  love's  fruits  and  flowers: 
When  in  thine  arms  thou  feelst  thy  lover's  strength. 
Thou  wilt  repent  of  all  these  wasted  hours: 
Husbands,  they  know  not  love,  its  breadth  and  length, 
Seeing  their  hearts  are  not  on  lire  like  ours: 
Things  longed  for  give  most  pleasure;  this  I  tell  thee; 
If  still  thou  doubtest  let  the  proof  compel  thee." 

You  may  see  it,  best  of  all,  in  his  fifteenth  century  code: 

'Honor,  pure  love,  and  perfect  gentleness. 
Weighed  in  the  scales  of  equity  refined. 
Are  but  one  thing:  beauty  is  naught  or  less. 
Placed  in  a  dame  of  proud  and  scornful  mind.  .  .  . 
I  ask  no  pardon  if  I  follow  Love; 
Since  every  gentle  heart  is  thrall  thereof. 

Let  him  rebuke  me  whose  hard  heart  of  stone 

Ne'er  felt  of  Love  the  summer  in  his  vein! 

I  pray  to  Love  that  who  hath  never  known 

Love's  powx-r  may  ne'er  be  blessed  with  Love's  great  gain; 

But  he  wlio  serves  our  lord  witli  might  and  main 

May  dwell  forever  in  the  fire  of  Love!' 

Three  paganisms  are  tiius  imported  from  the  Soutli  to  con- 
tribute to  the  taste  of  the  North, —  Greek,  Latin  and  Italian,  the 
last  circulating  fresh  sap  through  the  other  two.  Between  the 
ancient  world  and  the  modern  stands  the  genius  of  Italy  as  in- 
terpreter. England,  when  most  strenuous  in  severing  her  spirit- 
ual relations,  cultivates  most  clo.sely  her  intellectual.  The  new 
knowledge  came  like  a  fertilizing  flood  upon  the  'island  of  the 
silver  sea.'  Dean  Colet  from  his  Greek  studies  at  Florence  re- 
turned with  the  key  to  uidock  the  New  Testament,  and  to  dis- 
cover a  rational  and  practical  religion  in  the  Gosj)els  themselves. 
'I  have  given  u})  my  whole  soul  to  CJreek  learning,'  .says  the 
young  Erasmus,  with  chivalrous  enthusiasm;  'and  as  soon  as  I 
get  any  money,  I  shall  buy  Greek  books,  and  then  I  shall  buy 
some  clothes.'  Formerly  Italian  scliohirs  had  been  employed  to 
compose  the  pul)lie  orations,  but  now  he  coidd  write:  'I  have 
found  in  Oxford  so  much  polish  and  learning  that  ut>w  I  hai'dly 
care  about  going  to  Italy  at  all,  save  for  the  sake  of  having  been 
there.  When  I  listen  to  my  friend  Colet,  it  se(>ins  like  listening 
to  Plato  himself.'  ('olet,  beginning  the  work  of  educational 
reform,  established  a  jniblie  school,  in  which  the  scholastic  logic 
was  displaced,  the  steady  difl'usion  of  the  classics  enjoined,  and 
19 


290  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

the  old  methods  abolished.  The  spirit  of  the  founder  might  be 
seen  in  the  image  of  the  child  Jesus  over  the  gate,  with  the 
words  graven  beneath  it,  'Hear  ye  Him.'  'Lift  up  your  little 
white  hands  for  me,'  he  wrote,  'which  prayeth  for  you  to  God,' 
Vain  was  the  cry  of  alarm.  'No  wonder,'  wrote  More  to  the 
dean,  'your  school  raises  a  storm,  for  it  is  like  the  wooden  horse 
in  which  armed  Greeks  were  hidden  for  the  ruin  of  barbarous 
Troy.'  The  example  bred  a  crowd  of  imitators.  More  grammar 
schools  were  founded  in  the  later  years  of  Henry  than  in  three 
hundred  years  before.  Higher  education  passed  from  death  to 
life.  Of  Cambridge,  Erasmus,  invited  there  as  a  teacher  cf 
Greek,  says: 

'  Scarcely  thirty  years  ago  nothing  was  taught  here  but  the  Parva  Logicalia  of 
Alexander,  antiquated  exercises  from  Aristotle,  and  the  Quxstioneg  of  Scotus.  As 
time  went  on  better  studies  were  added — matliematics,  a  new,  or  at  any  rate  a  reno- 
vated, Aristotle,  and  a  knowledge  of  Greek  literature.  What  has  been  the  result? 
The  university  is  now  so  flourishing  that  it  can  compete  with  the  best  university  of 
the  age.' 

At  Oxford,  the  fierceness  of  the  opposition  evinces  the  strength 
of  the  revival.  The  contest  took  the  form  of  hostile  division  into 
Greeks  and  Trojans — the  former  the  advocates  of  the  New  Learn- 
ing, tlie  latter  its  oj^ponents.  But  even  here  the  battle  was  soon 
over.  'The  students,'  said  an  eye-witness,  'rush  to  the  Greek 
letters;  they  endure  watching,  fasting,  toil,  and  hunger,  in  the 
pursuit  of  them.'  The  movement,  however,  suddenly  received  a 
temporary  check.  The  impulse  given  by  the  reformers  was  pri- 
marily incidental,  for  to  them  the  Greek  Testament  was  the 
armory  from  which  they  drew  their  weapons  of  defence  and  of 
assault;  while  the  immediate  effects  of  the  Reformation,  both  by 
revolutionizing  the  ecclesiastical  system  and  by  withdrawing  aca- 
demic abilities  into  the  al)yss  of  controversy,  were  depressing. 
Latimer  calculated  that  the  tiuniber  of  students  at  the  two  uni- 
versities was  fewer  l)y  ten  thousand  after  the  alienation  of  abbey 
and  church  lands  had  left  no  mercenary  attractions  in  the  sacred 
offices.  Religion  lost  some  of  its  charms  when  the  golden  jiros- 
])('ct  was  gone.  About  the  same  time  (1550),  an  observer  says 
curiously: 

'Formerly  there  werr  in  tionsos  Itcloiisring  to  the  University  of  Cambridge,  two 
hundred  students  of  divinity,  many  viry  well  learned,  which  be  now  all  clean  gone 
home:  and  many  younsr  toward  scliolars,  and  old  fatherly  doctors,  not  one  of  them 
li'ft.  One  hundred  al>o,  of  another  sort,  that,  having  rich  friends,  or  being  beneficed 
men,  did   \i\v  of   themselves   in   hotels   and   inns,  be  either  gone  away  or  else  fain  to 


THE    RENAISSANCE.  291 

creep  into  colleges  and  put  poor  men  from  bare  livings.  These  both  be  all  gone,  and 
a  small  number  of  poor,  godly,  diligent  students,  now  remaining  only  in  colleges,  be 
not  able  to  tarry  and  continue  their  studies  for  lack  of  exhibition  and  help.' 

Of  the  poorer  and  more  diligent  students  he  adds  the  interesting 
picture: 

'There  be  divers  there  which  rise  daily  about  four  or  five  of  the  clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  from  five  till  six  of  the  clock  use  common  prayer,  with  an  exhortation  of  God's 
word  in  a  common  chapel;  and  from  six  until  ten  of  the  clock  use  ever  either  private 
study  or  common  lectures.  At  ten  of  the  clock  they  go  to  dinner,  whereas  they  be 
content  with  a  penny  piece  of  beef  among  four,  having  a  few  pottage  made  of  the 
broth  of  the  same  beef,  with  salt  and  oatmeal,  and  nothing  else.  After  this  slender 
diet,  they  be  either  leaching  or  learning  until  five  of  the  clock  in  the  evening; 
whenas  they  have  a  supper  not  much  better  than  their  dinner.  Immediately  after 
which  they  go  either  to  reasoning  in  problems,  or  to  some  other  study,  until  it  be 
nine  or  ten  of  the  clock;  and  then,  being  without  fires,  are  fain  to  walk  or  run  up 
and  down  half  an  hour,  to  get  a  heat  on  their  feet  when  they  go  to  bed." 

In  the  adverse  reign  of  Mary,  Trinity  College  was  endowed,  more 
especially  for  the  cultivation  of  classical  scholarship.  Its  founder 
states  in  a  letter: 

'My  Lord  Cardinal's  Grace  has  had  the  overseeing  of  my  statutes.  He  much 
likes  well  that  I  have  therein  ordered  the  Latin  tongue  to  be  read  to  my  scholars. 
But  he  advises  me  to  order  the  Greek  to  be  more  taught  there  than  I  have  provided. 
This  purpose  I  well  like;  but  I  fear  the  times  will  not  bear  it  now.  I  remember 
when  I  was  a  young  scholar  at  Eton,  the  Greek  tongue  was  growing  apace;  the  study 
of  which  is  now  alate  much  decayed.' 

The  languishing  culture  revived  towards  the  close  of  Elizabeth's 
reign,  when  the  'times' were  far  more  propitious.  Insensiblv, 
throvigh  the  shocks  and  convulsions  of  oi)inion,  the  inttuenees  of 
the  Renaissance  had  been  enricliing  tlie  soil  for  the  harvest. 
When  the  first  fanaticisms  of  misguided  zealots  liad  subsided,  the 
interest  in  letters  recovered  and  spread  with  unwonted  vigor. 
The  tone  of  the  universities  wholly  changed.  Scliolars  like 
Hooker  could  now  be  found  in  the  ranks  of  the  prit'sthood  — 
against  whom  it  had  Vjeen  a  common  note  in  the  official  visita- 
tions, 'Pie  knows  a  few  Latin  words,  but  no  sentences.'  The 
Court  was  distinguished  for  its  el(>gance.  Maids  of  honor  were 
readers  of  Plato.  The  Queen  could  quote  Pindar  and  Homer  in 
the  original,  and  read  every  morning  a  portion  of  Demosthenes. 
It  was  preeminently  tlu'  ag<>  of  h^anied  ladies.      Says  Harrison: 

'Truly  it  is  a  ran-  tliins  willi  us  now  to  hear  of  a  courtier  whirli  hath  but  his  own 
language.  And  to  say  how  many  uentlcwomcn  and  ladies  there  an'  that,  besides 
sound  knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  toiiu'iies,  are  tliereto  no  less  skilful  in  Sp;inisli, 
Italian,  and  French,  or  in  some  one  of  tliein,  it  resteth  not  in  ine.' 

The  abundance  of  printers  and  of  printed  books  is  evidence  that 
the  world  of  readers  and  writers  had  widened   much   l)evond  the 


292  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

circle  of  courtiers  and  of  prelates.  Yet  the  light  that  shone 
remarkably  upon  the  heights,  was  by  no  means  generally  dis- 
persed. Many  of  the  rank  were  illiterate,  the  majority  of  the 
middle-class  w^ere  uneducated,  while  the  lower  orders  were  in' 
comparative  darkness.  As  late  as  Edward  VI  there  were  peers 
of  Parliament  unable  to  read.  It  is  a  question  whether  Shake- 
speare's father,  an  alderman  of  Stratford,  could  write  his  name. 
The  educative  theory  was  based  upon  the  principle  that  varieties 
of  inapplicable  knowledge  might  be  good  where  accessible,  but 
were  not  essential.  Two  things  were  indispensable, —  ability  to 
labor  and  skill  in  arms.  Every  boy  between  seven  and  seventeen 
was  required  to  be  provided  with  a  long-bow  and  two  arrows; 
and  every  Englishman  older,  to  provide  himself  with  a  bow  and 
four  arrows.  It  was  the  spirit  of  this  law  which  Ascham,  the 
schoolmaster  of  the  period,  is  enforcing  when  he  says  of  his  own 
tutor: 

'This  worshipful  man  hath  ever  loved,  and  used  to  have  many  children  brought  up 
in  learning  in  his  house,  ainonges  whom  I  myself  was  one,  for  whom  at  term  times  ho 
would  bring  down  from  London  botii  bow  and  shafts.  And  when  they  should  i)lay  he 
would  go  with  them  himself  into  the  Held,  see  them  shoot,  and  he  that  shot  the  fairest 
should  liave  the  best  bow  and  shafts,  and  he  that  shot  ill-favoredly  should  be  mocked  of 
his  fellows  till  he  shot  better.  Would  to  God  all  England  had  used  or  would  use  to  lay 
the  foundation  of  youth  after  the  example  of  this  worshipful  man  in  bringing  up  children 
in  the  Book  and  the  Bow;  by  which  two  things  the  whole  commonwealth  both  in  peace 
and  war  is  chielly  valid  and  defended  withal.' 

I.utinier,  proacliing  before  the  king  in  1549,  draws  the  portrait  of 

a  yeoman: 

'In  my  time  my  jjoor  father  was  as  diligent  to  teach  me  to  shoot  as  to  learn  me  any 
other  thing;  and  so,  I  think,  other  men  did  their  children.  lie  taught  me  how  to  draw, 
how  tr)  lay  my  body  in  my  bow,  and  not  to  draw  with  strength  of  arms,  as  other  nations 
do,  but  witli  strength  of  the  body.  I  had  my  bows  bought  me  according  to  my  age  and 
streuL'ih;  as  I  increased  in  them,  so  my  bows  were  made  bigger  and  bigger;  for  men 
shall  never  slioot  well  except  they  be  brought  up  in  it.  It  is  a  goodly  art,  a  wholesome 
kind  r>f  exercise,  and  much  commended  in  j)liysic." 

lint  what  i.s  more  to  our  present  purpo.se  is,  that  the  true  sig- 
nificance of  the  Renais.sance  consists,  not  in  any  accidental  emi- 
gration of  Greek  scliolars  and  importation  of  ancient  manuscripts 
from  Constantinople,  nor  cliiefly  in  the  pa.ssion  for  classical  lore, 
but  in  that  general  ferment  wliich  produced,  on  tlie  whol«>, 
marked  effects  upon  all  classes,  —  in  that  new  life  by  which  every 
jirovince  of  human  intelligence  and  action  was  refreslied.  A  far 
higher  development,  indeed,  than  the  Greek  or  Latin  mania, 
sprang  from   the  nearer  and   more  seductive  paganism  of  Italy, 


LANGUAGE.  293 

partly  through  travel,  partly  through  her  poetry  and  romance. 
A  land  of  tropical  gardens  and  splendid  skies,  of  public  pageants 
and  secret  tragedies,  of  brilliant  fancies  and  gorgeous  contrasts, 
she  fascinated  the  Northern  imagination  with  a  strange  wild 
glamour.  'An  Italianate  Englishman,'  ran  the  Italian  proverb, 
'  is  an  incarnate  devil.'  Our  ancestral  youth  who  repair  to  her 
for  polish  and  inspiration  or  in  quest  of  fanciful  adventure,  are 
warned  of  her  alluring  charms: 

'And  being  now  in  Italy,  that  great  limbique  of  working  braines,  he  mu.<t  be  very 
circumspect  in  his  carriage,  for  she  is  able  to  turne  a  Saint  into  a  devil,  and  deprave 
the  best  natures,  if  one  will  abandon  hiniselfe,  a!id  become  a  prey  to  dissolute 
courses  and  wantonesse.' 

Ascham  writes  with  the  alarm  and  severity  of  a  rigorist: 

'These  bee  the  inchantenientes  of  Circes,  brought  out  of  Italic  to  marre  mens 
nianers  in  England:  much,  by  example  of  ill  life,  but  more  by  preceptes  of  fonde 
bookes,  of  late  translated  out  of  Italian  into  English,  sold  in  every  sho|)  in  London. 
.  .  .  There  bee  moe  of  these  ungratious  bookes  set  out  in  Printe  wytliin  these  fewe 
monethes,  than  have  been  sene  in  England  many  score  yeares  before.  .  .  .  Than 
they  have  in  more  reverence  the  triumphes  of  Petrarche:  than  the  Genesis  of  Moses; 
They  make  more  account  of  Tullies  ofHces,  than  S.  Panics  epistles;  of  a  tale  in 
Bocace  than  a  storie  of  the  Bible." 

If  the  breath  of  the  South  was  tainted,  it  was  spirit-stirring;  and 
the  healthier  constitution  which  inhaled  it,  purged  otY  much  of 
its  mischief,  while  it  assimilated  the  beneficial.  The  contem- 
plative vein  of  the  Briton  was  quickened  by  the  brilliancy  of  the 
Italian.  That  which  in  the  first  became  a  superb  corporeality, 
became  in  the  second  a  vehement  and  unconventional  .spirituality. 
The  debt  of  Eng-lisli  to  Italian  literature  consists, —  in  material  of 
production  —  the  impulse  towards  creation  —  a  keener  sense  of 
the  tragic  —  a  livelier  sense  of  tlie  beautiful  —  a  more  copious 
diction  —  and  a  more  finished  .style. 

Ijanguage.  —  Of  the  monstrous  anomalies  of  the  current  or 
colloquial  sjx'cch,  the  following  note  from  the  Duchess  of  Norfolk 
to  Cromwell  is  a  curious  instance: 

'My  ffary  gode  lord  —  lur  I  -.ind  yon  in  tokyn  hoff  the  lu'weycr  .1  irla-isc  hoff 
Sctyl  set  in  Sellfer  gyld  I  pra  you  t.ik  hit  (iru  wort  An  by  wcr  li:ibcl  hi-t  showlde 
be  bater  I  wol!  hit  war  wort  a  ni  crone." 

So  unsettled  was  our  ortliou"ra]ihv  still,  that  writers,  cjirli  ni 
his  ])eculiar  moih^  ot"  s]iellii)g,  did  not  write  the  same  words  uni- 
formly. Elizabeth,  the  royal  mistress  of  eii;-lit  laiiL;"n;ie-<s.  wr^le 
sovereir/)!   seven   difTerent  wavs,  whil(»   the  name  <il'   I  V/A /••<,  in  the 


294  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

deeds  of  that  family,  has  fourteen  different  forms.  Shakespeare 
is  found  in  the  manuscripts  of  the  period  spelled  in  any  manner 
that  may  express  the  sound  or  the  semblance  of  it.  Many  of  the 
learned  engaged  in  the  ambitious  reform  of  teaching  the  nation 
how  to  spell  and  pronounce.  But  the  pronunciation  was  so  dis- 
cordant in  different  shires,  that  the  orthoepists  are  quite  irrecon- 
cilable with  each  other  or  with  themselves.  Some  may  amuse. 
One  would  turn  the  language  into  a  music-book.     He  says: 

'  In  true  orthographie,  both  the  eye,  the  voice,  and  the  eare  must  consent  perfectly, 
without  any  let,  doubt,  or  maze.' 

Another  affords  a  quaint  definition  of  orthoepy  combined  with 
orthography  : 

'Orthographic,  conteyning  the  due  order  and  reason  howe  to  write  or  painte  thimage 
of  manne's  voice,  moste  like  to  the  life  or  nature.' 

While  Shakespeare  sarcastically  describes  the  whole  race  of 
philologists:  'Now  he  is  turned  orthoyrapher,  his  words  are  a 
very  fantastical  banquet;  just  so  many  strange  dishes.'  The 
English  Bible  had  been  the  strong  breakwater  against  the  tides 
of  novelty  and  the  vicissitudes  of  time;  and  Tyndale's  New  Tes- 
tament, executed  in  the  traditional  sacred  dialect  of  Wycliffe, 
did  more  to  fashion  and  fix  our  tongue  than  any  other  native 
work  from  Ciiaucer  to  Shakespeare.  The  Lord's  Prayer  illus- 
trates well  its  force  and  purity  of  expression: 

'Our  Father,  which  arte  in  hevon,  halowed  be  thy  name.  Let  thy  kingdom  come. 
Thy  wyll  be  fultilled.  ai^  well  in  erth  as  hit  ys  in  heven.  Geve  vs  this  daye  oure  dayly 
brcade,  and  forgeve  vs  oure  treaspasses,  even  as  we  forgeve  them,  which  treaspas  vs. 
Leede  vs  not  into  temptacion,  but  delyvre  vs  from  yvell.    Amen.' 

In  1575,  standard  P]nglish  had  so  progressed  in  simplicity  and 
power,  tlint   Sidney  could  say,  to  his  honor: 

'English  is  void  of  those  cumbersome  differences  of  cases,  genders,  moods,  and 
tenses,  which  I  think  was  a  i>iece  of  the  Tower  of  Babylon's  curse,  that  a  man  should 
be  i)ut  to  -^choole  to  l<'ani  his  mother  tongue:  but  for  the  uttering  sweetly  and  properly 
the  conceit  of  the  minde,  which  is  the  ende  of  speech,  that  it  hath  equally  with  any 
other  tongue  in  the  world." 

Travel  and  commcree,  enlarging  with  the  rapid  progress  of 
geographical  discovery,  made  numerous  and  important  accessions 
to  the  vocabtilarv.  New  wares  were  introduced,  new  stores  of 
natural  knowledge  flowed  in  from  regions  hitherto  unknown. 
For  a  single  instance  of  tlie  many  terms  which  thus  rose  above 
the   liorizon,  seldom   more  grateful   if  less  material,  potato^  now 

1  From  the  Indian  ba'ata. 


LANGUAGE  —  ORGANIZED   COMPLETION.  295 

made  its  first  appearance  in  Europe,  imported  from  America. 
Of  this  esculent  tuber,  a  voyager  makes  the  following  mention: 

'  Openark  are  a  kinde  of  roots  of  round  forme,  some  farre  greater,  which  are  found 
in  moist  and  marish  grounds,  growing  many  together,  one  by  another  in  ropes,  as  though 
they  were  fastened  by  a  string.    Being  boiled  or  sodden,  they  are  very  good  meat.' 

A  more  prolific  origin  of  new  words  than  the  taste  for  sea  rov- 
ing was  the  intense  thirst  after  religious  discussion.  The  Refor- 
mation enriched  our  theological  dialect  by  the  translation  of 
many  moral  and  religious  works  from  the  Latin;  and  the  very 
general  study  of  theology  rendered  this  dialect  more  familiar 
than  that  of  any  other  branch  of  letters.  Latin,  moreover,  was 
the  great  link  between  our  Reformers  and  those  of  the  Conti- 
nent, and  the  new  ideas  taking  root,  brought  in  shoals  of  new 
terms.  Finally,  the  versions  of  classical  authors,  after  the  brief 
reaction  against  classical  learning,  were  an  inexhaustible  mine 
of  linguistic  wealth;  and  the  'far-journeyed  gentlemen'  re- 
turned not  only  in  love  with  foreign  fasliions,  but  equally  fond 
'to  powder  their  talk  with  over-sea  language.'  The  influx  of 
foreign  neologisms  alarmed  the  purists,  wlio  always  deem  that 
English  corrupt  which  recedes  from  its  Saxon  ciiaracter.  Says 
Wilson  in   1550: 

'  Some  seke  so  farre  for  outlandishe  Englishe,  that  thei  forgette  altogether  their 
mothers''  language,  .  .  .  He  that  commeth  lately  out  of  France,  will  talke  Freiiche- 
English,  and  never  blush  at  tlie  niiitter.  The  unlearned  or  foolishe  phantusticall  that 
the  simple  cannot  but  wonder  at  their  talke  and  thinke  surely  tliei  speake  by  st)UH'  rev- 
elacion.  I  know  them  that  thinke  Rhelorique  to  stand  whollie  ui)on  darke  woordes,  and 
he  that  can  catche  an  ynke  home  ternie  by  the  taile,  hym  thei  coumpt  to  be  a  tine  Eng- 
lishman and  a  good  Rhetorician.' 

Notwithstanding,  in  1583  Mulcaster  wrote:  'The  Eiiglisli  tuiig 
cannot  prove  fairer  than  it  is  at  this  day.'  Querulous  critic  and 
rash  soothsayer  !  The  one  did  not  reflect  that  an  expansion  of 
thought  compels  an  expansion  of  its  garniture,  and  could  not 
know  that  even  Chaucer's  'well  of  English  uiulefiled '  was  a  well 
in  which  were  deposited  inanv  waters;  while  the  other  could  not 
foresee  the  luxuriant  productiveness,  the  jiowerfnl  stinmlus,  of 
the  next  thirty  years.  A  single  example  may  suggest  something 
of  that  varietv  and  aftluetice  bv  which  the  s])occh,  once  so  nide 
and  impotent,  was  being  made  ready  for  tlie  enlarge(l  and  diver- 
sified conceptions  of  the  great  masters:  un'dth  and  //•(-'  caiup  over 
with   Hengist;    the   Danes  brought  uiujer;   the   French, supplietl 

•  From  Saxon  yrre. 


296  FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

rage  and  fury,'  the  Latin  indignation'  the  Greek  choler;  and 
we  now,  it  may  be  added,  confer  this  sense  on  passion.  As  a 
final  illustration  of  the  state  of  English  orthography  in  its  pro- 
cess of  evolution,  we  extract  the  following  from  the  address  of 
Brutus  to  the  people  in  the  drama  of  Julius  Cccsar,  written  in 
or  before  IGOl,  and  printed  in  1G23: 

'I  have  done  no  more  to  Cimar  than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The  Question  of  his 
death,  is  iuroll'd  in  the  Capitol:  his  Glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy;  nor 
his  oflfences  enforc'd,  for  which  he  siuffered  death. 

Heere  comes  his  Body,  mourned  hy  Marke  Atito ay,  who  though  he  had  no  hand  in  his 

death,  shall  receiuc  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  in  the  Commonwealth,  as  which  of 

yon  shall  not.    With  this  I  depart,  that  as  I  slewe  my  best  Louer  for  the  good  of  Rome, 

I  haue  the  same  Dagger  for  my  selfe,  when  it  shall  please  my  Country  to  need  my  death. 

All.     Line  Brutu.'s,  Hue,  Hue. 

1.  Bring  him  with  Triumph  home  vnto  his  house. 

2.  Giue  him  a  Statue  with  his  Ancestors. 

3.  Let  him  be  Cxsar. 

4.  Ccesars  better  parts 
Shall  be  Crown'd  in  Brutus. 

1.  Wee'l  bring  him  to  his  House,  with  Showts  and  Clamors. 
Bru.    My  Country-men. 

2.  Peace,  silence,  Brutus  speakes 
1.    Peace  ho. 

Bru.    Good  Countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone. 

And  (for  my  sake)  stay  heere  with  Antony: 

Do  grace  to  Ciesars  Corpcs,  and  grace  his  Speech 

Tending  to  Cii-sars  Glories,  which  Marke  Antony 

(By  our  permission)  is  allow'd  to  make. 

I  do  intreat  you  not  a  man  depart, 

Saue  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.' 

Here  our  survey  is  approximately  complete.  We  have  arrived 
at  the  stage  where  now  capabilities  are  no  longer  imperiously 
demanded  by  the  advancement  of  culture.  Tlie  nursling  has 
become  a  child,  the  child  a  man, —  still,  with  proper  training,  to 
acquire  additional  flcxilnlity  and  strength,  yet  to  remain  substan- 
tially the  same.  The  closing  century  that  witnessed  the  vast  and 
varied  revelation  of  man's  moral  nature,  witnessed  also  the  end 
of  that  organic  action  by  which  the  English  language  was  devel- 
oped from  its  elements  and  constitutionallv  fixed,  unfettercMl  and 
many-voiced.  Your  daughter,  O  Thor  and  Odin,  has  indeed  lost 
the  likeness  of  her  mother,  but, — 

'Xot  from  one  nietnl  alone  the  perfcrtest  mirror  is  shapen. 
Not  from  one  cohir  i-  built  the  rainbow's  aerial  l)ridge: 
Instrunient-i  bltndiuL'  toirether  yield  the  divinest  of  music, 
»<)i)t  of  myriad  of  tl<iwer<  sweetest  of  lioney  is  drawn. "> 

1  W.  W.  Storv. 


POETRY  —  REALISM.  297 

Poetry.  —  Do  but  consider  the  life  of  man,  that  we  are  as  a 
shadow  and  our  days  as  a  post,  then  tliink  whether  it  were  good 
to  disinter  the  lifeless  versifiers  who  fill  up  the  spaces  around  and 
between  the  noticeable  elevations  of  this  age,  with  scarce  a  soul 
to  a  hundred,  and  of  interest  to  poetical  antiquarians  only. 
Chaucer,  it  has  been  seen,  left  nothing-  to  resemble  him.  Gower 
is  a  feeble  spring,  obstructed  by  scholastic  rubl)ish.  Occlevc  an(i 
Lydgate  are  as  dead  sea-moss  on  a  barren  shore.  The  Scotch 
poets,  with  more  energy,  are  yet  nebuhe,  which  no  telescope 
could  resolve  into  individual  stars.  Where  they  mean  to  be 
serious,  they  are  tedious;  and  where  lofty,  pedantic.  Th(>ir  com- 
positions, with  scattering  remembrances  of  beauty  or  occasional 
throbs  of  true  vitality,  have  the  same  vices  of  unreality  atid 
allegor}^  which  were  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Verse  that  makes 
us  foreigners  is  no  poetry. 

One  Avriter  alone,  in  its  early  years,  displays,  like  a  feudal 
premonition,  the  two  great  destined  features  of  the  sixteenth 
century, —  hatred  of  the  ecclesiastical  hierarchy,  which  is  the 
Reformation  ;  and  the  realism  of  the  senses,  which  is  the  Re- 
naissance.     His  rhyme, — 

'Tattered  and  jagged, 
Rudely  ruin -beat  en, 
Rusty,  moth-eaten,' 

full  of  English   and  popular  instincts,   is  a  sort  of  literary  nnid 
with  which  he  bespatters  those  who  retain  the  privileges  of  saints: 

'Thus  I,  Colin  Clout,  How  wearily  they  wrangle! 

As  I  go  about.  Doctor  Daupatus 

And  wondering  as  I  walk.  And  Bachelor  Bacheleratus, 

I  hear  the  people  talk:  Drunken  as  a  mouse 

Men  say  for  silver  and  sold  At  the  ale-house. 

Mitres  are  bought  and  sold:  Taketh  his  pillion  and  his  cap 

A  straw  for  Ooddys  curse.  At  the  !,'ood  ale-tap 

What  are  they  the  worse?  For  'ack  of  good  wine. 
What  care  the  clenry  though  C.ill  sweat,     A-  wise  a-;  Robin  Swine, 

Or  Jack  of  the  Noke?  Tnder  a  notary's  sii:n. 

The  poor  people  they  yoke  Was  made  a  di\ine: 

With  sumners  and  citacions,  A-<  wise  as  Waltham's  calf. 

And  excommunications.  Must  pn-ach  in  Coddys  half; 

.\l)out  churches  and  eiarkets  In  the  i)uli)it  solemnly; 

The  bishop  on  his  carpets  More  meet  in  a  i)illory; 

At  home  soft  doth  sit.  For  by  St.   Hilary 

This  is  a  fearful  tit.  He  can  nothiiii;  smalter 

To  hear  the  people  jangle.  Of  logic  nor  school  matter." 


298 


FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 


With  almost  brutal  coarseness  alternate  gleams  of  the  sprightly 
fancy.  Called  upon  to- praise  the  ladies  of  the  court,  he  can  give 
a  portrait  of  the  outside,  clear,  pretty,  and  full  of  detail.  He 
compares  one  to  — 


'The  fragrant  camomile. 
The  ruddy  rosary, 
The  sovereign  rosemary 


And  adds: 


'  Your  color 

Is  like  the  daisy  flower 
After  an  April  shower. 


The  pretty  strawberry, 
The  columbine,  the  nepte, 
The  gillyflower  well  set. 
The  proper  violet.' 


Star  of  the  morrow  grey, 
The  blossom  of  the  spring. 
The  freshest  flower  of  May.' 


By  his  hilarity  and  freedom  only,  does  SkeltOH  exhibit  the  new 
spirit.  Rooted  in  the  soil,  he  grovels  there,  with  no  aspiring 
instinct  towards  diviner  air. 

A  brighter  light  in  this  rising  dawn  gives  clearer  promise  of 
refulgent  da}-.  For  Ho'Ward.,  Earl  of  Surrey,  it  was  reserved  to 
mark  a  transformation  of  the  intellect,  —  to  introduce  a  new  and 
manly  style,  and  to  teach  the  English  muse  accents  she  had  never 
tried  before.     Says  Puttenham: 

'In  the  latter  end  of  the  same  king  (Henry  the  eight)  reigne,  sprong  up  a  new 
company  of  courtly  makers,  of  whom  Sir  Thomas  Wyat  ih"  elder  and  Ilcnry  Earle 
of  Surrey  were  the  two  chieftaines,  who  having  travailed  into  Italic,  and  there  tasted 
the  sweete  and  stately  measures  and  stile  of  the  Italian  Poesie,  as  novices  newly 
crept  out  of  the  schooles  of  Dante,  Arioste,  and  Petrarch,  they  greatly  pollished 
our  rude  and  homely  maner  of  vulgar  Poesie,  from  that  it  had  bene  before,  and 
for  that  cause  may  justly  be  sayd  the  first  reformers  of  our  English  meetre  and 
stile.' 

The  life  of  Surrey  was  a  chivalric  romance.  An  earl,  a  relative 
of  the  king,  a  satellite  of  the  Court,  brilliant  in  arms,  magnificent, 
sumptuous,  ambitious,  four  times  imprisoned,  then  beheaded  at 
twenty-seven;  like  Dante  and  Petrarch,  a  plaintive  and  platonic 
lover.  -More  than  all,  his  mvstieal  love  for  the  fair  Geraldine, 
like  Dante's  for  Beatrice  and  Petrarch's  for  Laura,  invests  his 
inemorv  with  a  peculiar  cliariii.  She  too  is  a  child,  seen  only  to 
he  i(lealiz(Ml;  one  of  nature's  sw(>et  creatures  that,  like  chastened 
colors,  have  alwavs  a  holy  reference  beyond  themselves;  wlK)se 
image,  entering  the  poet-soul,  is  straightway  enthroned  in  a 
reiriou  sublime,  to  shine  as  a  light,  a  consolation,  a  ho]ie,  in  a 
(lark  and  troubled  world,  ^^^itll  the  ])olish  and  disposition  uf  his 
Italian  model,  he  savs  of  this  heino'  of  the  heart  and  mind: 


POETRY  —  THE   SONNET.  299 

'I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would, 
The  whole  eflfect  of  Natures  plaint. 
When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mould. 
The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint: 
With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did  cry. 
And  what  she  said,  I  know  it,  I. 

I  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind. 
Her  kingdom  only  set  apart, 
There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 
That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart; 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain; 
She  could  not  make  the  like  again." 

The  sad  and  sombre  tint,  seldom  lacking  in  this  race,  is  here, 
even  in  youth.  Alone,  a  prisoner  in  Windsor,  banisliing  the  less 
by  remembrance  of  a  greater  grief,  he  recalls  with  pathetic 
modulation,  the  joys  and  faces  of  the  vanished  days: 

'With  each  sweet  place  returns  a  taste  fall  sour, 
The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were  wont  to  hove,  [kover 

With  eyes  cast  up  into  the  maiden's  tower. 
And  easy  sighs  sucli  as  folk  draw  in  love. 
The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  hue. 
The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  delight; 
With  words  and  looks,  that  tigers  could  but  rue; 
When  each  of  us  did  plead  tlie  other's  right,  .  .  . 

The  secret  groves,  which  oft  me  made  resound 

Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies"  praise; 

Recording  oft  what  grace  each  one  had  found. 

What  hope  of  speed,  what  dread  of  long  delays,  .  .  . 

The  secret  thoughts  imi)arted  with  such  trust; 

The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of  play; 

The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept  so  just, 

Wherewitli  we  ])asse(i  the  winter  night  away. 

And  witli  this  thought  tlie  l)loo(l  forsakes  the  face; 

The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  line: 

The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs,  alas: 

Upsupped  have,  llius  I  uiy  plaint  renew: 

"O  place  of  bliss,   renewcr  of  my  woes  I 

Give  me  iucouii!,  wliere  is  my  noble  fere,  [companion 

Whom  iji  thy  wall<  thou  dost  each  niirht  enclose. 

To  oilier  lief,  but  unto  me  most  dear.""  [i/'Or 

Kclio,  alas!    that  dotli  my  sorrow  rue 

Returns  thereat  a  liollow  sound  of  plaint.' 

Observe  the  i!('w-l)()rii  art.  It  is  calctilatiiiu"  and  .•^oloctivo,  con- 
trasted and  oniatiKMited,  clociiicnt  and  ff)rc('l'ul;  critical,  exact, 
musical,  and  balanced;  nuitiiio;  syiiiuictry  of  plii-asc  to  .syiiinu>- 
try   of    idea,  and   delio-ht    of    the   car  to   delight   of    the   mind. 

But  the  chief  jxiiiit  in  wliich  the  iiujiil  iiiiitati's  Ills  master 
is  in  the  use  of  tlie  sonnet.  This  'diamond  of  litei'at nrr."  as 
practiced    by   Petrarch,   is    composed    of    fourteen    lines^   divideil 


300  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

into  two  quatrains  and  two  tercets,  the  quatrains  repeating  one 
pair  of  rhymes  and  the  tercets  another.     Thus: 

'The  wrinkled  sire  with  liair  like  winter  snow 

Leaves  the  beloved  i^pot  where  he  hath  passed  his  years, 

Leaves  wife  and  children,  dumb  with  bitter  tears. 

To  see  their  father's  tottering  steps  and  slow. 
Dragging  his  aged  limbs  with  weary  woe. 

In  these  last  days  of  life  he  nothing  fears, 

But  with  stout  heart  his  fainting  spirit  cheers. 

And  spent  and  wayworn  forward  still  doth  goe; 
Then  comes  to  Rome,  following  his  heaifs  desire. 

To  gaze  upon  the  portraiture  of  Ilim 

Whom  yet  lie  hopes  in  heaven  above  to  see: 
Thus  I,  alas  I   my  seeking  spirit  tire, 

Lady,  to  find  in  other  features  dim 

The  longed  for,  loved,  true  lineaments  of  thee.' 

Surrey  does  not  adhere  to  the  strict  Italian  rule,  and  his  most 
famous  performance  consists  of  three  regular  quatrains  con- 
cluded with  a  couplet.     Thus: 

'The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  blome  forth  brings,  [xweet 

With  grone  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale? 

The  nightingale  with  fethers  new  she  sings: 

Tlie  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale: 
Somer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs: 

Tlie  hart  hath  hong  his  old  lied  on  the  pale; 

The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coate  he  flings: 

Tlie  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale:  [ewirn 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings: 

The  swift  swalow  i)ursueth  the  flies  smale; 

The  liusy  bee  her  bony  now  she  mings:  [ming/f.i 

Winter  is  worne,  that  was  the  flowers  bale. 
And  thus  1  sc  among  these  jileasant  things 

Eche  care  decayes;  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs.' 

Besides  the  sonnet,  Surrey  borrows  for  English  versification 
that  decasyllabic  iambic  rhythm  —  blank  verse  —  in  which  our 
greatest  jjoctical  triumphs  have  been  achieved.  Almost  verse 
for  verse  he  translates  parts  of  the  yEneid  into  unrhymed 
])entameter.  Tliu.s,  of  the  introduction  of  the  wooden  horse 
into  Troy: 

'We  cleft  the  wallcs,  and  closures  of  the  towne, 
Wherto  all  liclpc,  and  underset  the  feht 
With  slidiiiL'  rollcs,  and  bound  his  neck  with  ropes. 
This  fatall  '_'in  thu<  ovcrelambe  our  walles, 
Stuft  with  arind  men:   about  the  which  there  ran 
Childri'U  and  maides,  that  holly  carolles  sang.  .  .  . 
Fowr  times  it  stopt  in  tlicntrie  of  our  gale, 
Fowr  times  the  liarncsse  clattered  in  the  womb.' 

Surely  no  igiiol)le  effort  to  l)reak  the  bondage  of  rhyme.  Let  it 
not  be  forgotten,  however: — 


POETKY  —  CONTINUITY    OF  fVERSE-FORM.  301 

1.  That  English  verse  was  mainly  blank  for  the  first  five  hun- 
dred years  of  its  existence. 

2.  That    the  tvpic  scheme  of   our  old  'heroic  measure'  was 

^  I*  f  r  I  r    f,  ill  which  (1)  alternated  with  (2)  in  lines  of  two 
or  four  bars. 

3.  That  the  modern  'heroic'  differs  from  the  ancient  in  hav- 
ing for  its  prevalent  bar  ^  f  f,  with  five  bars  to  the  line. 

4.  That  Surrey  merely  disused  rhyme  in  a  rhythm  which  was 
established  by  Chaucer  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  gone  by;  as: 

A  A  A  A     . 

•  0        \        0  0        \        0  0        \        0  0        \  0  0    •    0     \ 

Whan      that  A-        prill    -      e       with        his       shoiir  -         es       :-woot-e 

0  0        \        0  0        ]        0  0         \        0  0        \  0  0     '    0     \ 

The    droghte       of       March      hath    perc    -     ed  to  the        root-c 

Farther  on,  thirty  years  distant,  beyond  this  budding  spring 
which  was  nipped  untimely,  is  the  phenomenal  Sidney,  whose 
writings  will  exhibit  the  luxuriance  and  the  irregularity  of  the 
prevailing  maimers  and  the  public  taste.  Higher  up,  in  that 
empyrean  where  the  moral  and  sensuous  arc  united,  is  the  jila- 
tonic  Spenser,  at  once  a  pagan  and  a  Clu'istian,  who  will  gather 
and  arrange,  with  inimitable  art,  the  loveliest  flowers  of  both 
civilizations.  About  this  exceptional  bloom  is  an  abundance, 
of  verse,  beyond  the  drama,  most  of  which  is  a  dismal  travesty 
upon  the  name  of  poetry.  Undoubtedly,  these  j)oetastors,  badly 
as  they  wrote,  did  not  write  in  vain.  By  their  very  failures  they 
helped  to  develop  tlie  powers  of  the  language,  and  bv  patient 
labor  on  its  sterile  spots  ein-iclied  tlie  soil  for  such  as  should  be 
born  into  the  inheritaiu'c  of  '  fresh  liclds  and  jiastures  new.'  It 
would  be  })leasant  to  be  grateful  to  them  foi-  their  ]>()enis, —  vov- 
bose,  generally  stale,  dull  to  the  verge  of  stupidity.  Tht'  tithes 
set  one  yawning;  as,  /'7'V'  Jnnnlri'd  Points  of  t/ood  IFn^hii iKlnj ; 
A  Dialocfne  contaipinKj  iti  ifi'n't  t/ic  /t/'udttr  of  c/  tin  Pron  rfts 
in  the  Jviu/UkJi  toiK/HC,  coinpdrt  in  o  ni<itt<r  fi)/ii'(  I'n ho/  tn-o 
marriages;  T/ie  vliola  liooh\<  of  P.^thioa  ralhi-fol  into  E/ojIis/i 
metre  by  T.  StenihohJ,  7!  IFopkina,  <noJ  ot/nrs,  i-nnfrrxt  n-'itli 
the  l^Jbriie,  iinth  a}>t  Azotes  to  -^iiKj  tin  m  n-itholl.  Wn\  will  meet 
now  and  then,  we  dare  say,  with  a  l)rilliant  picture,  or  a  g(>nuine 


302  FIEST  CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

love-cry,   or  a  profound  truth,  as  in  the  two  noble  stanzas   of 
Sternhold : 

'The  Lord  dei^cended  from  above 
And  bowed  the  heavens  high, 
And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky; 

On  cherubs  and  on  cherubims 
Full  royally  ho  rode, 
And  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds 
Came  flying  all  abrode.' 

Or  the  elaborate  sonnet  of  the  amiable  Daniel  to  the  object  of 
his  baffled  affection: 

'Restore  thy  tresses  to  the  golden  ore; 
Yield  Cytherea"s  son  those  arcs  of  love; 
Bequeath  the  heavens  the  stars  that  I  adore ; 
And  to  the  orient  do  thy  pearls  remove. 
Yield  thy  hand's  pride  unto  the  ivory  white; 
To  Arabian  odors  give  thy  breathing  sweet; 
Restore  thy  blush  unto  Aurora  bright; 
To  Thetis  give  the  honor  of  thy  feet. 
Let  Venus  have  thy  graces,  her  resigned; 
And  thy  sweet  voice  give  back  unto  the  spheres; 
But  yet  restore  thy  fierce  and  cruel  mind 
To  Hyrcah  tigers  and  to  ruthless  bears; 
Yield  to  the  marble  thy  hard  heart  again; 
So  shalt  thou  cease  to  plague  and  I  to  pain.' 

The  grand  dictum  of  Stoicism: 

'  He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  set  his  mind. 
And  reared  the  dwelling  of  the  thoughts  so  strong. 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers:   nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same; 
What  a  fair  seat  hath  he  from  whence  he  may 
Tlie  boundless  w-astes  and  weals  of  man  survey!' 

And  the  famous  sentiment: 


'■Unlenf!  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  hoiv  poor  a  thing  is  man!^ 

Or  Drayton's  graceful  compliment  to  Isabella's  hand: 

'  She  laid  her  fingers  on  his  manly  cheek. 
The  srod's  pure  sceptres  and  the  darts  of  love, 
That  with  their  touch  might  make  a  tiger  meek. 
Or  might  great  Atlas  from  his  seat  remove. 
So  white,  so  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sleek 
As  she  had  worn  a  lily  for  a  glove.' 

And  his  description  of  the  virgin  morning  of  the  infant  year, 
when  brooks  .sing  carols  and  glees,  and  birds  in  silvery  warblings 
tell  their  panting  joy: 


POETRY  —  RHETORICAL   AND    EMOTIVE.  303 

'When  Pha'bus  lifts  his  head  out  of  tlie  water's  wave, 
No  sooner  doth  ttjc  earth  her  flowery  bosom  brave, 
At  such  time  as  the  year  brings  on  the  pleasant  spring, 
But  Hunt's  up  to  the  morn  the  feathered  sylvans  sing; 
And,  in  the  lower  grove  as  on  the  rising  knowl. 
Upon  the  highest  spray  of  every  mounting  i>ole 
These  quiristers  are  perched,  with  many  a  speckled  breast. 
Then  from  her  burnished  gate  the  goodly  glittering  East 
Gilds  every  mountain  top,  which  late  the  humorous  night 
Bespangled  had  with  pearl,  to  please  the  morning's  sight; 
On  which  the  mirthful  quires,  with  their  clear  open  throats. 
Unto  the  joyful  morn  so  strain  their  warbling  notes 
That  hill  and  valleys  ring,  and  even  the  echoing  air 
Seems  all  composed  of  sounds  about  them  every  where.' 

But  we  shall  no  longer  pause,  if  we  know  our  opulence,  and  have 
learned  to  distinguish  diamond  from  flint-sand,  or  gold  from  iron- 
glance;  for  be  it  clearly  and  constantly  remembered,  worthy  art, 
that  makes  of  all  men  a  commonwealth,  that  is  always  new  and 
incapable  of  growing  old,  must  have  that  intensity  of  moral  feel- 
ing or  power  of  imagination  by  which  noble  emotions  are  excited, 
— Veneration,  Love,  Admiration,  Joy,  or  their  opposites — Hatred, 
Scorn,  Horror,  Grief.  There  were  simple  ballad-writers  who 
could  have  o-iven  these  scholars  a  lesson  in  rhetoric.  For  hear 
a  lover  deceived  and  repentant  'of  the  true  love  which  he  bare 
her': 

'Where  I  sought  heaven  there  found  I  hap; 
From  danger  unto  death. 
Much  like  the  mouse  that  treads  the  trap 
In  hope  to  find  her  food. 
And  bites  the  bread  thai  stoi)s  her  breath,— 
So  in  like  case  I  stood.' 

And  another,  'accusing  his  love  for  her  unfaithfulness,'  and  pro- 
posing 'to  live  in  liberty': 

'But  I  am  like  the  beaten  fowl 
That  from  the  net  escaped, 
And  thou  art  like  the  ravening  owl 
That  all  the  night  hath  waked." 

Shall  we  mak^  an  old  lava  stream  white-hot  by  covering  it  with 
hoar-frost?  With  these  futile  eiforts  to  kindle  one's  s.'lf  with  a 
painted  flame,  compare  the  wild  vigor  and  tierce  sincerity  of  the 
Scotch   Tira  Corhii'x : 

'A«  I  was  walkintr  all  alone 
I  heard  twa  rorbie-"  makini:  a  moan. 
The  one  unto  the  other  did  say 
Where  shall  we  irancr  dine  to-day? 
In  beyond  that  old  turf  dyke 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight; 


304  FIRST    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there 

But  hii?  hawk  and  his  hound  and  his  lady  fair. 

His  hound  is  to  tlie  hunting  gone, 

His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild  fowl  home, 

His  lady  has  ta"n  another  mate. 

So  we  may  make  our  dinner  sweet. 

O'er  his  white  bones  as  they  lie  bare 

The  wind  shall  blow  forevermair.' 

But  the  chief  excellence  of  poetry,  as  well  as  its  most  abun- 
dant and  popular  development,  was  dramatic.  The  most  original 
product  and  expression  of  the  English  Renaissance  is  the  drama. 
No  form  of  art  receives  and  preserves,  like  it,  the  exact  imprint 
of  the  age  and  of  the  nation.  None  expresses  so  much,  and  that 
so  deeply.  None  has  expanded,  in  all  its  details,  by  gradations 
more  insensible.  None  teaches  more  clearly  that  genius  can  not 
dispense  with  experience, —  that  the  favored  generation,  and  the 
great  artists  in  it,  flourish  largely  on  a  soil  fertilized  by  the  tenta- 
tive efforts  of  generations  which  precede.  Here,  as  in  Greece 
and  elsewhere,  the  drama  began  in  religion.  At  a  time  when 
sermons  were  not  intelligible  if  preached,  and  when  none  but 
the  clergy  could  read  the  stories  of  the  Christian  faith,  it  was 
introduced  by  the  Church,  to  instruct  the  illiterate  in  saintly  or 
Scriptural  history  —  the  only  history  then  known  —  and  to  extend 
her  influence  by  engrossing  the  sources  of  popular  recreation. 
Priests  were  the  writers  or  inventors,  and  frequently  the  actors, 
of  the  plays,  usually  written  in  mixed  prose  and  verse.  As  mys- 
terious subjects  were  chosen — the  lives  and  marvels  of  the  saints, 
the  Incarnation,  Crucifixion,  Resurrection,  Creation,  Fall,  or  Con- 
quests of  Hell — these  performances  acquired  the  general  name  of 
Mi/steries.  The  'theatre'  was  the  cathedral,  a  scaffold  in  the 
open  air,  or  a  movable  stage  on  wheels,  drawn  from  street  to 
street,  or  from  town  to  town.  As  the  cart  stopped  at  given 
y)oiiits,  tlie  actors  tlircw  open  the  doors,  and  proceeded  to  per- 
form tlic  scenes  allotted  them.  A  graduated  platform  in  three 
divisions,  represented  Heaven,  Eartli,  and  Hell.  Above,  the 
Deity  and  His  angels.  |>assive  when  not  actually  mingling  in  the 
action;  in  the  centre  moved  the  human  world,  the  actors  stand- 
ing motionless  at  one  side  when  they  had  nothing  to  say  or  do; 
and  the  yawning  tliifiat  of  an  immeasurable  dragon,  emitting 
smoke  and  flames  when  required,  showed  the  entrance  to  the 
bottomless    ]>it,    into    whicli,    through    the    expanded    jaws,    the 


POETRY  —  EARLY    DRAMA — EARLY   THEATRE.  305 

damned  were  dragged  with  shrieks  of  agony  by  demons.  Trap- 
doors and  like  mechanical  contrivances  were  not  unknown. 
Closed  structures  were  palaces,  cottages,  temples,  according  to 
the  necessities  of  the  piece,  their  destination  being  occasionally 
shown  by  written  placards.  A  superb  paradise  was  tlie  glory 
of  the  manager.  Silk  hangings,  flowers,  and  fruit-bearing  trees 
adorned  this  favored  spot.  The  costumes  were  as  rich  and  im- 
posing as  the  vestry  or  the  purse  could  compass.  Horned  devils 
in  skins  of  beasts,  with  tails  and  cloven  hoofs,  formed  an  excep- 
tion to  the  usual  inaccuracy  of  theatrical  attire.  These  were 
the  buffoons;  and  the  poor  yokels  who  shed  tears  at  the  torturous 
crucifixion,  or  were  appalled  at  the  flaming  wings  of  the  infernal 
monster,  would  listen  with  shouts  of  laughter  to  the  reciprocal 
abuse  voided  by  Satan  and  his  minions,  whose  very  names  in 
solitude  would  have  paralyzed  them.  The  customary  encomium 
was,  'To-day  the  mystery  was  very  fine  and  devout,  and  the 
devils  played  most  pleasantly.'  The  people  were  in  the  cliild- 
hood  of  society,  satisfied  that  they  were  good  Christians,  and  so 
were  innocently  insensible  to  the  blasphemy  or  indecency  of 
their  exhibitions.  It  accorded  with  the  debased  ideas  of  the 
times  to  make  such  entries  as:  'paid  for  a  pair  of  gloves  for 
God;'  'paid  for  gilding  God's  coat;'  '  dy  vers  necessaries  for 
the  trimmynge  of  the  Father  of  Heaven;'  'payed  to  the  players 
for  rehearsal  —  to  God,  ii.s.  viii(7. ;  to  Pilate  his  wife,  ii.s\;  for 
keeping  f3'er  at  hell's  mouth,  iii(/.'  The  coarse  humor  which 
kept  the  audience  awake,  was  not  without  a  certain  power  of 
characterization.  Thus  Noah  and  his  wife,  in  the  Dilu;/!,  are 
close  copies  of  contemporary  life.  Mrs.  Noah,  a  slirew  and  a 
vixen,  refuses  to  leave  her  gossips,  swears  slic  will  not  go  into 
the  Ark  ;  scolds  Noah,  and  is  (logged  ;  then  wislies  herself  a 
widow,  hopes  all  wives  the  same  good  luck,  and  thinks  she  but 
echoes  their  feelings  in  doing  so;  while  Noah  takes  occasion  to 
inform  all  husbands  that  tluMr  proper  course  is  to  break  their 
wives  after  his  fashion — with  a  stick  not  thicker  than  the  tlmnib. 
At 'this  point,  the  water  is  nearly  up  to  her  neck,  and  sli(>  is 
partly  coaxed,  partly  forced,  into  the  Ark   bv  one  of  her  sons. 

A  change    of    intellectual    condition    is    marked    by  tht^  deca- 
dence   of    the    Mysteries   after   the    fourteenth    century.      In   tlu' 
fifteenth,  a  new   class  of  dramatic   performances  arose,  in  which 
20 


306  FIRST   CliEATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

the  personages  were  not  concrete  beings,  but  their  shadowy 
reflections,  the  virtues  and  vices, —  Pride,  Gluttony,  Temperance, 
Faith,  and  the  like.  To  relieve  their  gravity,  under  which  the 
audience  were  liable  to  yawn  and  sleep,  the  Devil  was  retained, 
and  a  more  natural  buffoon  was  introduced  in  the  Vice,  who 
acted  the  part  of  broad,  rampant  jester.  These  two  were  the 
darlings  of  the  multitude.  Full  of  pranks  and  swaggering  fun, 
a  part  of  Vice's  ordinary  business  was  to  treat  the  Devil  with 
ribald  familiarity,  to  crack  saucy  jokes  upon  him,  to  bestride 
him  and  beat  him  till  he  roared,  and  in  the  end  to  be  carried 
off  to  Hell  on  his  back.  Characteristic  examples  are  The.  Castle, 
of  Perseverance  and  Every  Man.  The  latter  is  opened  in  a 
monologue  by  the  Messenger,  who  announces  the  subject.  Then 
God  appears,  who,  after  some  general  complaints  on  the  moral 
depravity  of  the  human  race,  calls  for  Death,  and  orders  him 
to  bring  before  His  tribunal  Every-Man.  Neither  Fellowship 
nor  Kindred  nor  Goods  nor  Riches  will  or  can  avail.  Succes- 
sively implored,  they  successively  forsake  the  suppliant.  Utterly 
disconsolate,  Every-Man  seeks  Good-Deeds,  and  she,  after  up- 
braiding him  with  his  long  neglect  of  her,  conducts  him  to  her 
sister  Knowledge,  who  in  turn  leads  him  to  the  'holy  man  Con- 
fession.' Confession  appoints  him  penance,  which  he  inflicts 
upon  himself,  and  then  withdraws  from  the  stage  to  receive  the 
sacraments  of  the  jjriest.  On  his  return  he  waxes  faint;  and, 
as  Strength,  Beauty,  Discretion  and  Five-Wits  desert  him,  h(^ 
ex]>ires,  abandoned  by  all  but  Good-Deeds,  who  attends  him  to 
the  last.  An  angel  then  descends  to  sing  his  requiem;  and  the 
epilogue  is  spokon  l)y  a  Doctor,  Avho,  after  recapitulation,  deliv- 
ers the  moral: 

'This  nipmnriall  men  may  have  in  mynde, 
Ye  liprors.  take,  if  of  worth  ohl  and  yonge. 
And  forsake  Pryde,  for  he  dcceyveth  you  in  thendc. 
And  remembrc  Beaiite,  Five  Witts,  Strength  and  Discretion, 
They  all  at  last  do  Every  Man  forsake: 
Save  his  (Jond  Deeds  there  dothe  he  take; 
But  beware,  for  and  they  be  small, 
Before  God  he  hath  no  help  at  all." 

Tliis  drama  came  from  the  Romanists  to  recall  the  auditors  back 
to  the  shaken  creed  of  thoir  fathers.  As  the  earlier  plays  were 
professcdlv  religious  or  theological,  so  the  later  were  semi-relig- 
ious or  ethical,  and  hence  were  styled  Moralities. 


POETRY — HISTORICAL    DEVELOPMENT    OF   THE    DRAMA.    307 

A  further  secularization  of  the  drama  occurred  when,  taking 
a  more  adventurous  course,  it  accommodated  itself  to  the  fash- 
ions and  factions  of  the  day,  not  yet  venturing  into  a  wide  field, 
but  peeping,  as  it  were,  from  a  corner.  It  was  nothing  more 
than  a  farce  in  a  single  act,  satirical  and  comic,  sustained  in 
dialogue  by  three  or  four  professional  characters  of  the  times, 
and  acted  in  the  intervals  of  a  banquet.  From  this  last  circum- 
stance, it  was  called  the  Interlude.     Thus  Douglas,  the  Scotch 

bard: 

'Grete  was  the  prcis  the  feast  royal  to  sene; 
At  ease  they  eat,  with  interludes  between.' 

HeyWOOd,  jester  of  Henry  VIII,  was  their  most  noted  author. 
His  Four  P''s  is  a  curious  illustration  of  the  wit,  manners,  and 
opinions  of  the  period.  It  turns  upon  a' dispute  between  a 
Palmer,  a  Pardoner,  a  Poticary,  and  a  Pedlar,  as  to  who  can 
practice  the  greatest  frauds  on  credulity  and  ignorance.  The 
contest  ends  in  a  wager  who  shall  tell  the  greatest  lie,  when  the 
Palmer  says  he  never  saw  a  woman  out  of  temper.  Thereupon 
the  others  declare  him  'a  liar  of  the  first  magnitude.'  Hey- 
wood's  zeal  for  the  Roman  Catholic  cause  does  not  seem  to  have 
prevented  him  from  lashing  with  the  utmost  freedom  and  sever- 
ity the  abuses  of  popery.     The  Pardoner  says: 

'  I  say  yet  again,  my  pardon*  are  such, 
That  if  there  were  a  thousand  souls  on  a  heap, 
I  would  bring  tlieni  all  to  heaven  as  good  sheep,  .  .  . 
With  small  cost  witliout  any  pain. 
These  pardons  bring  them  to  heaven  plain: 
Give  me  but  a  penny  or  two- pence, 
And  as  soon  as  the  soul  departeth  hence, 
In  half  an  hour,  or  three  quarters  at  the  most, 
The  soul  is  in  heaven  with  th('  Holy  Ghost.' 

Like  a  regular  graduate  in  the  game  of  imposture,  he  recounts 
the  virtues  of  his  relics,  to  which  he  and  the  rest  hood-wink  tlieir 
understandings: 

'Lo,  here  be  pardons,  half  a  dozen. 
For  ghostly  riches  they  have  no  cousin. 
And  moreover,  to  me  they  bring 
Sufhcient  succour  for  my  livintr.  .  .  . 
Friends,  here  shall  ye  see,  even  anon, 
Of  .Ml-IIallows,  the  blessed  jaw-bone. 
Mark  well  this,  this  relic  here  is  a  whipper; 
My  friends  unfeigned,  liere's  a  slipper 
Of  one  of  ttie  seven  sleeiiers,  be  sure. 
Here  is  an  eye-tooth  of  the  great  Turk; 
W^hose  eyes  be  once  set  on  this  piece  of  work, 


308 


FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 


May  happily  lose  part  of  his  eye-sight, 

But  not  all  till  he  be  blind  outright. 

Kiss  it  hardly,  with  good  devotion. 
Pot.    This  kiss  shall  bring  us  much  jironiotion : 

Fogh:    by  St.  Saviour,  1  never  l<issod  a  worse.  .  .  . 

For,  by  All-Hallows,  yet  methinketh 

That  All-Hallows"  breath  slinkelh. 
Palm.    Ye  judge  AU-IIallows'  breath  unknown; 

If  any  breath  stink,  it  is  your  own. 
Pot.    I  know  my  own  breath  from  All-Hallowe, 

Or  else  it  were  time  to  kiss  the  gallows. 
Pard.    Nay,  sirs  here  may  ye  see 

The  great  toe  of  the  Trinity: 

Who  to  this  toe  any  money  vowcth, 

And  once  may  roll  it  in  his  mouth, 

All  liis  life  after  I  undertake 

He  shall  never  be  vex'd  with  the  tooth-ache. 
Pot.    1  pray  you  turn  that  relic  about; 

Eitlier  the  Trinity  had  the  gout. 

Or  else,  because  it  is  three  toes  in  one, 

God  made  it  as  much  as  three  toes  alone.  .  .  . 
Pard.    Good  friends,  I  have  yet  here  in  this  glass, 

Wliicli  on  the  drink  at  the  wedding  was 

Of  Adam  and  Eve  undoubtedly: 

If  ye  lionour  this  relic  devoutly. 

Although  ye  tliirst  no  whit  the  less, 

Yet  sliall  ye  drink  tlie  more,  doubtless. 

After  wliicli  drinking,  ye  shall  be  as  meet 

To  stand  on  your  head  as  on  your  feet.' 

The  stage  was  becoming  a  living  power.  Mary  hastened  a  proc- 
lamation against  the  interludes  of  the  reformers,  while  Elizabeth, 
on  her  accession,  as  suddenly  suppressed  those  of  the  papists. 

Such  were  the  steps  by  which  the  national  genius  was  con- 
ducted to  the  verge  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  As  the  Morality 
had  superseded  tlie  Mystery,  and  the  Interlude  that,  the  older 
retaining  its  hold  till  the  younger  gained  strength  to  assert  its 
rights;  so  now,  in  the  march  of  intellect,  thoy  were  all  to  give 
way  before  the  drama  proper,  which  portrays  the  character  and 
actions  of  man,  to  the  exclusion  or  subordination  of  the  super- 
natural. The  first  play  which  bears  the  distinctive  marks  of  a 
legitimate  Comedi/,  is  commonly  considered  to  be  Ralph  Roister 
Doister,  by  Nicholas  TJdall  (1551).  The  plot,  without  involu- 
tion, progresses  through  five  acts  in  rhyme  more  racy  than  ele- 
gant.     Ralph  is  a  vain,  blustering,  amorous  hair-brain  : 

'So  fervent  hot  wooing,  and  so  far  from  wiving, 
I  trow,  n('ver  was  any  creature  living." 

His  baffled  pursuit  of  a  gay  and  rich  widow  forms  the  action  of 
the  piece.      A  group   of    domestics,   that   might    liave    formed  a 


POETRY  —  FIRST    COMEDY  —  FIRST   TRAGEDY.  309 

study  for  Shakespeare  in  his  happiest  vein,  opens  up  the  domes- 
tic scenery  of  the  metropolis,  warm  with  reality.  Its  scholastic 
authorship,  as  well  as  its  merry-making,  is  shown  in  a  proposal  of 
marriage  sent  by  the  conceited  fop  to  the  widow,  which  is  read 
to  her  with  its  sense  reversed  by  changing  the  true  punctuation: 

'  Now  by  these  presents  I  do  you  advertise 
That  I  am  minded  to  marry  you  in  no  wise. 
For  your  goods  and  substance  I  could  be  content 
To  take  you  as  ye  are.    If  ye  mind  to  be  my  wife, 
Ye  shall  be  assured  for  the  time  of  my  life 
I  will  keep  ye  right  well  from  good  raiment  and  fare; 
Ye  shall  not  be  kept  but  in  sorrow  and  care. 
Ye  shall  in  no  wise  live  at  your  own  liberty; 
But  when  ye  arc  merry,  I  will  be  all  sad; 
When  ye  seek  your  heart's  ease  I  will  be  unkind; 
At  no  time  in  me  shall  ye  much  gentleness  find.' 

The  tragic  muse  was  not  far  behind.  The  first  English  heroic 
tale  divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  and  clothed  in  the  formalities 
of  a  regular  Tragedy,  was  Gorbodnc,  by  ThomaS  Sackville 
(150^).  Gorboduc,  king  of  Britain  about  five  hundred  years  l)efore 
Chri.st,  divides  his  kingdom  between  his  two  sons,  Ferre.x  and 
Porrex.  A  quarrel  between  the  princes  results  in  civil  war,  and 
Ferrex  is  slain  by  his  brother.  The  mother  revenges  his  death 
by  murdering  Porrex  in  his  sleep.  The  people,  exasperated  at 
the  unnatural  deed,  rise  in  rel)eHion,  and  kill  both  her  and  the 
king.  The  nol^ilitv  collect  an  army  and  destroy  the  rel:)els,  but 
immediately  fall  to  destroving  one  another.  The  lineal  succes- 
sion to  the  Crown  is  lost;  and  the  country,  without  a  head,  is 
wasted  by  slaughter  and  famine.  Like  Hoisfer  Doister,  (ror- 
boduc  is  cast  in  tlie  mould  of  classical  antitiuity;  but  instead  of 
individual  nature  and  real  passion,  it  deals  only  in  vague  and 
labored  declamations  which  never  entered  any  head  but  tlu^ 
author's.  Nothing  is  intricate,  nothing  unravelled,  and  little 
pathetic.  It  has  the  form  of  dialogue  without  the  spirit.  Sin- 
gularlv  frigid  and  niiiinaginativ(\  it  is  not  without  justness, 
weight,  and  fertility  of  llxiUglit.  Its  diction  is  transpariMit.  It 
is  celebrated,  moreover,  as  biMiig  our  first  tragedy  in  l)lank  verse. 
But  the  measure,  though  the  embryon  of  SIiak(^s])eare's,  coiivt>ys 
no  notion  of  that  elasticity  and  variety  which  it  was  destiiu'd 
shortly  to  attain.  The  following  are  the  most  animated  lines  in 
the  wliole  ])lav: 


310  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'O  mother,  thou  to  murder  thus  thy  child! 
Even  Jove  with  justice  must  with  lightning  flames 
From  heaven  send  down  some  strange  revenge  on  thee. 
Ah,  noble  prince,  how  oft  have  I  beheld 
Thee  mounted  on  thy  fierce  and  trampling  steed, 
Shining  in  armor  bright  before  the  tilt. 
And  with  thy  mistress'  sleeve  tied  on  thy  helm. 
And  charge  thy  staff  — to  please  thy  lady's  eye  — 
That  bowed  the  headpiece  of  thy  friendly  foe ; ' 

In  these  exact  lines,  stealing  on  with  care  but  with  fear,  we  fail 
to  discover  the  potent  spirit  who  planned  the  Mirror  for  Magis- 
trates,^ and,  resigning*  that  noble  scheme  to  inferior  hands,  left  as 
its  model  the  Induction.  Tragical,  like  Gorboduc,  in  idea  and 
plot,  it  has  the  vigor  of  creative  imagination.  It  is  the  congenial 
offspring  of  a  gloomy  genius  in  a  night  of  storm,  which  may  be 
thought  to  receive  a  ghastly  complexion  from  the  lurid  flames 
that  wrap  the  victims  of  persecution.  Amid  the  shadows  of  the 
darkening  day,  across  the  faded  fields  swept  by  the  wintry  wind, 
the  poet,  as  he  pursues  his  lonely  way,  marks  the  gray  grass,  the 
blasted  flowers,  the  bare  boughs,  the  wan  clouds,  and  sees  in 
them  the  type  of  the  state  of  man ;  but  suddenly  as  he  redoubles 
his  pace, — 

'In  black  all  clad  there  fell  before  my  face 
A  piteous  wight.  .  .  . 

Her  body  small,  forwithered  and  forspent. 
As  is  the  stalk  with  summer's  drouth  opprest; 
Her  wealked  face  with  woful  tears  besprent. 
Her  colour  pale,  and  as  it  seemd  her  best, 
In  woe  and  plaint  reposed  was  her  rest; 
And,  as  the  stone  that  drops  of  water  wears, 
So  dented  were  hor  cheeks  with  fall  of  tears.' 

Sorrow  guides  him  into  the  region  of  death,  there  to  hear  from 
the  dead  the  stories  of  their  woes.  Here,  among  other  dreadful 
and  hideous  shapes,  is  Old  Age: 

'Crooked-backed  he  was,  tooth-shaken,  and  blear-eyed. 
Went  on  three  feet,  and  sometime  erci)t  on  four; 
With  old  lame  bones,  (hat  rattled  by  Ms  xUle ; 

His  scalp  all  piled,  and  he  with  eld  forelore;  \bald 

His  irithered  fist  still  knocking  at  death's  door: 
Fiimbliui,'  and  drivelliiis  as  he  draws  his  breath; 
For  brief,  the  sliape  and  niesseni^er  of  Death.' 

It  is  the  recurrence  of  tlie  deep  poetic  instinct,  the  feeling  of 
misery  and  mortality,  the  sad  sense  of  limitless  darkness,  the 
sombre  conception  of  the  world,  which  this  race  has  manifested 
from  its  origin,  which  it  will  preserve  to  its  end. 

'  A  series  of  yxietic  narratives  of  the  disasters  of  men  eminent  in  English  story. 


POETRY — THE   NEW    DRAMA    AND   THEATRE.  311 

Thenceforward  the  drama  makes  rapid  progress,  passing  from 
youth  to  a  splendid  maturity  with  enormous  strides,  and  extend- 
ing in  a  single  generation  over  all  the  provinces  of  history,  imagi- 
nation, and  fancy,  with  that  breadth  of  anticipation  and  intoxica- 
tion of  heart  which  the  ardent  soul  may  experience,  when  from 
being  a  child  it  has  become  a  man  and  feels  a  new-glowing  joy 
shoot  through  nerve  and  vein.  Expanding  with  the  growing 
taste,  it  quits  the  Palace,  the  Inns,  the  Universities,  where  it  is 
compressed,  and  creates  in  1576  a  public  theatre  and  a  national 
audience.  Before  the  end  of  the  century,  eleven  theatres  and 
nearly  two  hundred  dramas  attest  the  absorbing  passion.  Latin, 
French,  Italian,  and  Spanish,  are  ransacked  'to  furnish  the  play- 
house of  London.'     Listen  to  the  groaias  of  the  Puritan: 

'The  daily  abuse  of  stage  plays  is  such  an  offense  to  the  godly,  and  so  great  a  hin- 
drance to  the  Gospel,  as  the  Papists  do  exceedingly  rejoice  at  the  blemish  thereof,  and 
not  without  cause;  for  every  day  in  the  week  the  player's  bills  are  set  up  in  sundry 
places  of  the  city;  ...  so  that,  when  the  bells  toll  to  the  lecturer,  the  trumpets  sound  to 
the  stages.  Whereat  the  wicked  faction  of  Kome  laugheth  for  joy,  while  the  godly  weep 
for  sorrow.  ...  It  is  a  woful  sight  to  see  two  hundred  proud  players  jet  in  their  silks, 
while  five  hundred  poor  people  starve  in  the  streets.  .  .  .  Woe  is  me '.  the  play-houses  are 
pestered  when  the  churches  are  naked.  At  the  one,  it  is  not  possible  to  get  a  place;  at 
the  other,  void  seats  are  plenty.' 

Some  of  the  theatres  are  used  as  cock-pits,  some  for  bull-baiting 
and  bear-baiting,  all  are  poor  and  squalid.  On  the  banks  of  the 
Thames  rises  the  principal  one,  the  Globe,  a  hexagonal  tower, 
surrounded  by  a  muddy  ditch,  surmounted  by  a  red  flag,  and 
roofed  by  the  sky,  retaining  in  its  form  and  arrangements  traces 
of  the  old  model  —  the  inn-yard.  Into  the  pit,  the  sun  shines 
and  the  rain  falls  without  let  or  hindrance;  but  their  bodies  are 
inured  to  exposure,  and  they  don't  trouble  themselves  about  it. 
The  poor  are  there,  as  well  as  tlie  rich;  for  they  have  sixpenny, 
twopenny,  and  even  penny  seats.  With  the  actors,  on  the  rush- 
strewn  stage,  which  is  covered  with  tliatch,  are  the  elegant  and 
the  dainty,  who  pay  a  shilling  for  admittance.  For  an  extra 
shilling,  tliev  can  liave  a  stool.  Tf  stools  or  benches  are  lacking, 
they  stretch  tlieniselves  on  the  floor.  They  smoke,  drink,  swear, 
insult  the  pit,  who  pay  them  l)ack  in  kind,  and  fling  apples  at 
them  in  the  bargain.  Over  them,  in  a  lofty  gallrry  arc  the  musi- 
cians. Below,  in  the  circle  of  the  ])it,  while  they  wait  for  the 
piece,  cards  are  shuffled,  oaths  resound,  ale-|)()ts  clatter,  blows 
are  exchanged.     When  the  beer  takes  effect,  there  is  a  receptacle 


312  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

for  general  use.  When  the  fumes  rise,  they  cry,  'Burn  the  juni- 
per ! '  They  are  amusing  themselves  after  their  fashion.  At  one 
o'clock  —  Sundays  included  —  the  flag  is  hoisted,  to  announce  the 
hour  of  the  performance.  When  the  trumpet  sounds,  a  figure  in 
a  long  black  velvet  cloak  comes  forward  to  recite  the  prologue. 
Then  the  play  begins,  the  players  in  masks  and  wigs,  and  attired 
in  the  richest  dress  of  the  day.  If  the  house  are  not  suited,  they 
hiss,  whistle,  crow,  yell,  perhaps  fall  upon  the  actors  and  turn 
the  theatre  upside  down.  The  appointments  are  barbarous,  but 
imaginations  are  fervid  and  supply  what  is  wanting.  Wooden 
imitations  of  animals,  towers,  forests,  etc.,  are  the  scenery.  A 
bed  suggests  a  bed-room.  A  rough  table,  with  drinking  vessels, 
replaces  a  dingy  throne  and  turns  a  palace  into  a  tavern.  A 
young  man,  just  shaven,  stands  for  a  queen.  x\  scroll  in  big 
letters,  hung  out  in  view  of  tiie  spectators,  informs  them  that 
they  are  in  J^ondon,  Athens,  or  Paris.  Three  combatants  on  a 
side  determine  the  fate  of  an  empire.     Says  Sir  Philip  Sidney: 

'You  shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Africke  of  the  other,  and  so  many  other 
under-kingdonis,  that  the  Plaier  when  hoe  conies  in  must  ever  begin  with  telling  where 
hee  is,  or  else  the  tale  will  not  bo  conceived.  Now  shall  you  have  three  Ladies  walke 
to  gather  flowers,  and  then  wee  must  boleeve  the  stage  to  be  a  garden.  By  and  by  wee 
heare  newos  of  shipwracke  in  the  same  place,  then  wee  are  to  blame  if  we  accept  it  not 
for  a  rockc;  .  .  .  while  in  the  mcanc  time  two  armies  flie  in,  represented  with  foure 
swordes  and  bucklers,  and  then  what  hard  heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a  pitched  field?' 

The  actors  —  at  first  strolling  companies  under  the  patronage  of 
some  nobleman,  as  security  against  the  laws  which  brand  all 
strollers  as  vagabonds  and  rogues  —  are  neglected  or  despised 
by  those  whom  they  entertain.  Their  social  position  is  not  far 
above  that  of  the  jester  who  shakes  his  cap  and  bells  at  tlie 
tables  of  the  great.  Nearly  all  are  writers.  Most  are  born  of 
the  people,  yet  educated.  The  majority  are  accomplished  in  the 
classics.  The  manager  gives  them  work,  advances  them  money, 
and  receives  their  manuscripts  or  their  wardrobes.  For  a  play 
he  allows  them  seven  or  eiglit  ]")ounds.  Their  trade  of  author 
scarce!}'  brings  bread.  Rarely,  like  Shakespeare,  they  contrive, 
by  a  judicious  investment  of  earlv  gains  to  acquire  a  third  and 
more  fruitful  source  of  income, —  a  theatre-share.  Generally, 
tliey  are  wild  Bohemians,  improvident,  poor,  full  of  excess,  and 
dio  untimely  by  exhaustion  or  violence. 

Sucli  are  the  externals.     We  have  seen  what  the  interior  must 


POETRY  —  MARLOWE.  313 

be;  for  the  drama  is  but  the  moral,  social,  and  physical  expres- 
sion of  the  age  in  which  it  lives;  and  the  poets  who  establish  it 
carry  in  themselves  the  intensified  sentiments  and  passions  of 
those  around  them.  They  will  reproduce  the  entire  man, —  his 
finest  aspirations  and  his  savagest  appetites,  the  low  and  the 
lofty,  the  ideal  and  the  sensual.  So  docs  Marlo"We,  the  true 
founder  of  the  dramatic  school,  the  mightiest  of  Shakespeare's 
pioneers.  Born  in  1564,  son  of  a  shoemaker,  he  was  the  proudest 
and  fiercest  of  aristocrats.  At  seventeen  he  was  in  Cambridge. 
Studied  theology,  and  became  a  sceptic.  Returning  to  London, 
he  turned  actor,  broke  his  leg  in  a  scene  of  debauchery,  and 
turned  author.  Rebellious  in  manners,  he  was  rebellious  in 
creed;  declared  Moses  a  juggler;  was  accused  of  saying  that  'yf 
he  wer  to  write  a  new  religion,  he  vvolde  undertake  both  a  more 
excellent  and  a  more  admirable  methode';  was  prosecuted  for 
avowed  infidelity,  and,  if  time  had  not  failed,  would  probably 
have  been  brought  to  the  stake.  In  love  with  a  harlot,  he  tried 
to  stab  his  rival;  his  hand  was  turned,  and  the  blade  entered  his 
own  eye  and  brain,  and  he  died,  at  thirty,  cursing  and  blasphem- 
ing.    A  Puritan  ballad,  in  which  he  is  called  Wormall,  draws  the 

nioral: 

'Take  waniing,  ye  that  plays  do  make. 
And  ye  that  them  do  act. 
Desist  in  time,  for  WormalTs  sake, 
And  think  upon  his  fact.' 

His  first  play,  Tarahurlabie  the  Great,  is  characteristic, —  a  pic- 
ture of  boundless  ambition  and  murderous  rage.  The  Ikh'o  is  a 
shejiherd,  who  aspires  to  tlie  thront?  of  Persia,  srornful  of  re- 
straint, and  ready  to  put  men  to  the  sword  or  to  rail  at  the  gods. 
He  says,  giant-like: 

'For  in  a  field,  wiiose  snporllries 
Is  cover'd  with  a  liipiid  iJiirplc  veil. 
And  sprinkled  with  the  brains  of  sl;uii:;htori'd  men 
My  royal  chair  of  state  shall  he  advanc'd: 
And  he  that  means  to  place  himself  therein, 
Must  armed  wade  iiji  to  the  chin  in  hlood,  .  .  . 
And  I   would  strive  to  swim  Ihrouu'h  pools  of  hlnoil. 
Or  make  a  hridi::e  of  murdi'rM  carcasses. 
Whose  arches  should  he  fraiifd  with  horn—  of  Turks, 
Kri'  I  would  lose  the-  title  of  a  kimr." 

Seated  in  a  chariot,  drawn  l)v  ('a]')tiv(^  kings,  lie  Iterates  tlnMu  for 
their  slowness: 


314  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'Hallo!  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia! 
What,  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a  day? 

And  adds,  with  purest  splendor,  as  with  swaggering  fustian: 

'  The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven. 
And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils. 
Making  their  fiery  gait  above  the  clouds. 
Are  not  so  honored  in  their  governor 
As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine.' 

All  the  ferocities  of  the  middle-age  are  in  the  Jew  of  Malta.  If 
there  is  less  bombast  than  in  Tamhurlaine,  there  is  even  more 
horror.  Barabbas,  the  Jew,  robbed  by  the  Christians,  has  been 
maddened  with  hate  till  he  is  no  longer  human.  He  says  to  his 
servant: 

'Hast  thou  no  trade?  then  listen  to  my  words. 
And  I  will  teach  thee  that  shall  stick  by  thee: 
First,  be  thoii  void  of  these  affections, 
Compassion,  love,  vain  hope,  and  heartless  fear; 
Be  moved  at  nothing,  see  thou  pity  none. 
But  to  thyself  smile  when  the  Christians  moan.  ,  ,  . 

I  walk  abroad  a-nights. 
And  kill  sick  peojjle  groaning  under  walls: 
Sometimes  I  go  about  and  poison  wells.  .  .  . 
Being  young,  I  studied  jjhysic,  and  began 
To  practice  first  ui)()ii  the  Italian; 
There  I  enriched  the  priests  with  burials, 
And  always  kept  the  sexton's  arms  in  ure 
With  digging  graves  and  ringing  dead  men's  knells.  .  .  . 
I  fiil'd  the  jails  with  bankrouts  in  a  year. 
And  with  young  orphans  planted  hospitals.' 

By  forged  letters  he  causes  his  daughter's  lovers  to  slay  each 
other.  She  leaves  him,  and  he  poisons  her.  A  friar  comes  to 
convert  him,  and  he  strangles  liinj,  joking  with  his  cut-throat 
slave,  who  rejoices  in  tlie  neatness  of  the  job: 

'Pull  amain, 
"Tis  neatly  done  sir;  here's  no  print  at  all: 
So,  let  him  lean  upon  his  staff;   excellent! 
He  stands  as  if  he  were  begging  of  bacon.' 

A  true  painting,  conceived  with  an  intensity  and  executed  with 
a  sweep  of  imagination  unknown  before.  So  in  Edward  IT,  all 
is  impetuous,  excessive,  and  abrupt.  Furies  and  hatreds  clash; 
helplessness  and  misery  wait  for  their  hour  alike  in  the  fortalices 
of  strength  and  the  high  places  of  pleasure.  He  who  has  seen 
and  felt  with  volcanic  energv  the  heights  and  depths  of  imagina- 
tion and  license  can  paint,  more  jiowerfullv  than  Shakespeare  in 
Hichard  FT,  the  heart-I)r('aking  distress  of  a  dying  king: 


POETRY  —  MARLOWE. 


315 


^Edward.    Wccp'st  thou  already?    List  awhile  to  me. 

And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Gurney's  is, 

Or  as  Matrevie,  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 

Yet  will  it  melt  ere  I  have  done  my  tale. 

This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me,  is  the  sink 

Wherein  the  filth  of  all  the  castle  falls. 
lightborn.    Oh  villains! 
Edward.    And  here  in  mire  and  puddle  have  I  stood 

This  ten  days'  space;  and  lest  that  i  should  sleep. 

One  plays  continually  upon  a  drum. 

They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a  king; 

So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance, 

My  mind's  distempered,  and  my  body's  numb'd; 

And  wliether  1  have  limbs  or  no,  I  know  not. 

Oh !  would  my  blood  drop  out  from  every  vein. 

As  doth  this  water  from  my  tatter'd  robes! 

Tell  Isabel,  the  Queen,  I  look'd  not  thus. 

When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France, 

And  there  unhors'd  tlie  Duke  of  Clercmont. 

What  are  we  but  sports  of  every  pressure  of  the  air '?  What  is 
life  but  a  crushing-  fatality?  A  wreck  upon  the  shore  of  time. 
At  most,  a  brief  day  of  joy  or  victory,  then  the  silence  and  gloom 
of  the  Illimitable.  Mortimer,  brought  to  the  block,  says,  with 
the  mournful  heroism  of  the  old  sea  kings: 

'Base  Fortune,  now  I  see,  that  in  thy  wheel 
There  is  a  jjoint,  to  which  when  men  aspire. 
They  tumble  headlong  down:  that  point  I  touched. 
And,  seeing  there  was  no  jjlacc  to  mount  u|)  higher. 
Why  should  I  grieve  at  my  declining  fall?  — 
Farewell,  fair  queen:  weep  not  for  Morlinu'r, 
That  scorns  the  world,  and,  as  a  traveller. 
Goes  to  discover  countries  yet  unknown.' 

So  in  Faustus,  which  best  reflects  the  genius  and  experience 
of  Marlowe,  the  overshadowing  thought  is  — 

'Ay,  we  must  die  an  everlasting  death  .  .  . 
What  will  be,  shall  be;  divinity,  adieu!' 

Therefore  enjoy,  at  any  cost,  though  you  ho  swallowed  u]i  on 
the  morrow;  nor  say  to  the  passing  moment,  'Stay,  thou  art  so 
fair,'  but  seek  forever  the  intoxicating  whirl.  Fau.stus,  glutted 
with   'learning's  golden   gifts,'  swells  with   desire    for  the   magi- 


cian s  power: 


'Emi>orors  .'Uiil  kincrs 
Are  but  o>K'y<(l  in  their  several  provinces: 
But  his  dominion  that  exceeds  in  this. 
Stretches  as  far  as  doth  tlie  mind  of  man. 
A  sound  inairician  i~  a  initrhty  trod.  .  .  . 
How  T  am  slutted  with  conceit  of  this!  .  . 
I'll  have  them  lly  to  India  for  L'old. 
Ransack  tlie  ocean  for  orient  pearl.  .  .  . 


316  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

I'll  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy, 
And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings; 
I'll  have  them"  wall  all  Germany  with  brass. 
And  make  swift  Rhine  circle  fair  Wittenberg.' 

To  satisfy  these  vast  desires,  he  summons,  by  his  mystic  art, 
Mephistophilis  from  Hell: 

^  Faust.    And  what  are  you  that  live  with  Lucifer? 
Meph.    Unhappy  spirits  that  fell  with  Lucifer, 

Conspired  against  our  God  with  Lucifer, 

And  are  forever  damned  with  Lucifer. 
Faust.    How  comes  it  then  that  thou  art  out  of  hell? 
Meph.    Why  this  is  hell,  nor  am  I  out  of  it; 

Think'st  thou  that  I,  that  saw  the  face  of  God 

And  tasted  the  eternal  joys  of  heaven. 

Am  not  tormented  with  ten  thousand  hells 

In  being  deprived  of  everlasting  bliss? 

O  Faustus,  leave  these  frivolous  demands 

Which  strike  a  terror  to  my  fainting  soul. 
Faust.    What!   Is  great  Mephistophilis  so  passionate 

For  being  deprived  of  the  joys  of  heaven? 

Learn  then  of  Faustus  manly  fortitude. 

And  scorn  those  joys  thou  never  shalt  possess.' 

Boldly,  to  obtain  four-and-twenty  years  of  power,  he  sends  an 
offer  of  his  soul  to  Lucifer: 

'Had  I  as  many  souls  as  there  be  stars 
I'd  give  them  all  for  Mephistophilis. 
By  him  I'll  be  great  emperor  of  the  world. 
And  make  a  bridge  through  the  moving  air.  .  .  . 
Why  should'st  thou  not?   Is  not  thy  soul  thy  own?' 

At  midnight  the  answer  comes,  and  the  bond  is  signed  with 
blood.  Pangs  of  conscience  come.  Good  and  evil  angels  plead, 
and  he  cries: 

»0  Christ,  my  Saviour,  my  Saviour, 
Help  thou  to  save  distressed  Faustus'  soul  I ' 

Too  late,  says  the  demon.  Plunge  into  the  rushing  of  time,  into 
the  rolling  of  accident,  and  deaden  thought  in  the  feast  of  the 
senses: 

'Oh,  miglit  I  see  hell,  and  return  again. 
How  happy  were  I  then!' 

He  is  conducted  invisible  over  the  whole  world,  around  the 
wliole  circle  of  sensual  pleasure  and  earthly  glory,  hurried  and 
devoured  by  desires  and  conceptions  that  burn  within  him  like 
a  furnace  with  bickering  flames.  Ever  and  anon,  in  the  midst 
of  his  transports,  he  .starts,  falters,  and  struggles  with  the  toils 
of  Destinv: 


POETRY  —  MARLOWE.  317 

'I  will  renounce  this  magic  and  repent.  .  .  . 
My  heart's  so  harden'd  I  cannot  repent: 
Scarce  can  I  name  salvation,  faith,  or  heaven. 
But  fearful  echoes  thunder  in  mine  ears, 
"Faustus  thou  art  damned  I"   the  swords,  and  knives, 
Poison,  guns,  halters,  and  envcnom'd  steel, 
Are  laid  before  me,  to  despatch  myself. 
Had  not  sweet  pleasure  conquer"d  deep  despair. 
Have  not  I  made  blind  Homer  sing  to  me 
Of  Alexander's  love  and  GEnon's  death? 
And  hath  not  he,  that  built  the  walls  of  Thebes 
With  ravishing  sound  of  his  melodious  harp, 
Made  music  with  my  Mephistophilis'r 
Why  should  1  die,  then,  or  basely  despair? 
I  am  resolved;  Faustus  shall  ne'er  repent. 
Come  Mephistophilis,  let  us  dispute  again. 
And  argue  of  divine  astrology.' 

The  term  expires,  and  the  forfeit  is  exacted.  Faustus  has  run 
the  round  of  his  brilliant  dream,  and  stands  on  the  brink  of  the 
Bottomless.  Never  was  such  an  accumulation  of  horrors  and 
anguish.  Mephistophilis  gives  him  a  dagger.  An  old  man 
enters,  and  with  loving  words  warns  him: 

'Oh,  stay,  good  Faustus,  stay  thy  desperate  steps! 
I  see  an  angel  hover  o'er  thy  head, 
And  with  a  vial  full  of  precious  grace 
Offers  to  pour  the  same  into  thy  soul: 
Then  call  for  mercy,  and  avoid  despair.' 

He  would  weep,  but  the  devil  draws  in  his  tears;  he  would  raise 
his  hands,  but  he  cannot.  The  lovely  Helen  is  conjured  up, 
between  two  Cupids,  to  prevent  his  relapse,  and  the  wildfire 
kindles  in  his  heart: 

'Was  this  the  face  that  launch'd  a  thousand  ships. 
And  burnt  the  topless  tow'rs  of  Ilium? 
Siveel  Helen^  make  me  unmorlal  with  a  ki)<s. 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul!     See  where  it  Hies. 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  luy  soul  a>;aiii. 
Here  will  1  dwell,  for  Hoav'n  is  in  tlioe  lips, 
And  all  is  dross  that  i.<  yiot  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris,  an<l  for  love  of  tlu'c. 
Instead  of  Troy  shall  Wittenberg  be  sack'd; 
And  I  will  combat  witli  weak  Menelaus, 
And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest; 
Tea  I  will  wound  .Vchilles  in  the  heel. 
And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 
Oh!  thou  art  fairer  than  the  ereninci  air, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thoui<and  stars." 

The  clock  strikes  eleven.  He  implores  the  mountains  and  hills 
to  fall  upon  him,  would  rush  headlong  into  the  gaping  cartli,  but 
it  will  not  harbor  him: 


318  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'Oh,  Fuustus! 
Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually! 
Stand  gtill,  you  ever-iuoving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come !  .  .  . 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 
The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damn'd. 
Oh,  I'll  leap  up  to  my  God!— Who  pulls  me  down?  — 
See,  see,  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament! 
One  drop  would  save  my  soul,  half  a  drop:  ah,  my  Christ, 
Ah,  rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ! 
Yet  will  T  call  on  him.' 

The  clock  strikes  the  half  hour: 

'Ah,  half  the  hour  is  past!   'twill  all  be  past  anon.  .  .  . 
Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 
A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  saved.' 

The  clock  strikes  twelve: 

'It  strikes!   it  strikes:   Now  body  turn  to  air. 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell. 
Oh  soul!   be  changed  into  small  water-drops. 
And  fall  into  the  ocean:  ne'er  be  found.' 

This  tormented  soul,  who  reels  from  desire  to  enjoyment,  from 
the  diabolical  to  the  divine,  is  not  the  philosophic  type  of 
Goethe's  Faust,  the  ferment  of  whose  spirit  impels  him  towards 
the  'far-away,'  though  both  are  equally  lost  in  the  end;  but  I 
find  nothing  in  that  tragedy  equal^  in  power  of  delineation,  to 
this  closing  scene  of  terror,  despair,  and  remorse. 

If  ever  there  was  poet  born,  Marlowe  was  one.  His  poetry 
is  irregular,  but  the  irregularity  is  that  of  the  extreme  flight  of 
virgin  nature,  the  inequality  of  the  young,  eager,  bounding 
blood.  His  Faustus  was  his  twin-spirit,  the  expression  of  the 
social  life  of  the  period, —  restless,  self-asserting,  hot-headed, 
and  omnivorous.  Extremes  meet,  at  sucli  times,  in  such  men. 
With  capacity  for  Titanic  conceptions,  they  render  gentlest 
beauty  into  sweetest  music.  Capable  of  enamored  hate  and 
soundless  sensuality,  they  are  also  capable  of  the  most  delicate 
tenderness  and  the  purest  dreams.  Thus  Marlowe  could  leave 
his  powerful  verse,  his  images  of  fury,  and  say  t«  his  lady-love, 
in  strains  like  the  breath  of  the  morning  which  has-  swept  over 
flowery  meads: 

'  Come  lire  >iifh  me  and  he  my  love. 
And  ive  idll  all  the  pleasiirex  prove^ 
Thai  hill  and  viilley,  grove  and  field. 
And  <dl  (he  craijipj  mountains  yield. 
There  will  we  sit  iii)on  the  rucks. 


POETRY — THE    NATIONAL    DRAMA,  319 

And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  tlocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  ttho^e  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigali. 
There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 
With  ii  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidcr'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle; 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
Slippers  lin'd  choicely  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold; 
A  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds. 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 
The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  he  my  love.' 

What  are  the  marked  characteristics  of  this  drama,  now  ad- 
vanced to  tlie  point  from  which  Shakespeare  will  rise  to  the 
supreme  heights  of  poetry?  —  Tamburlaine,  the  first  play  in 
blank  verse  which  was  publicly  acted,  drove  the  rhymed  couplet 
from  the  stage,  and  fixed  forever  the  metre  of  English  tragedy  as 
blank.  Not  only  did  the  author  popularize  the  measure,  but  he 
perfected  it:  he  created  a  new  metre  by  the  melody,  variety,  and 
force  which  he  infused  into  the  iambic;  not  a  fixed,  unalterable 
type,  in  which  the  verse  moves  to  the  common  and  despotic  beat 
of  time,  but  a  Proteus,  whose  varying  pauses,  speed,  and  group- 
ing of  syllables  make  one  measure  represent  a  thousand.  It 
fiows  impetuous  and  many-colored,  like  the  spirit  which  feels 
it  —  not  studies  it  —  and  revels  in  a  stream  of  images.  Consider 
the  didactic  dignity  of  the  following: 

'Our  souls  wliose  faculties  can  comprehend 
Tile  wondrous  architecture  of  the  world, 
And  incasurt'  every  wandering  planet's  course, 
btill  climbing  after  knowledge  intinite, 
And  always  moving  as  the  restless  spheres, 
Will  ns  to  wear  ourselves,  and  never  rest 
I'ntil  we  reach  the  ripest  fruit  t.f  all. 
That  pcrfcrf  bliss  and  sole  felicity. 
The  sweet  fruition  of  an  eiirlhly  ('rown.' 

Or  the  variable   modulations   of  tluvse  lines  —  in   particular,   the 
daring  but  successful  liccnise  of  the  first  and  third: 

'  l?ags  of  llcry  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts. 
Jacinths,  liard  toi)a/.  grass-green  emeralds. 
Beauteous  rul)ies,  s])arkliuir  (liaulonll^, 
Aiul  sclil  <iTn  costly  stones  of  so  '.'reat  i)rii'i'. 
As  one  of  iIkmu,   inililTereutly  rated. 
May  serve,  in  peril  of  calamity. 
To  ransom  great   kinirs  from  ca|)tivity .' 


820  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Or  the  changeful  temper,  the  'plastic  stress'  of  these: 

'Mortimer!   who  talks  of  Mortimer, 
Who  wounds  me  with  the  name  of  Mortimer, 
That  bloody  man?    Good  father,  on  thy  lap 
Lay  I  this  head  laden  witli  mickle  care. 
O,  might  I  never  ope  these  eyes  again. 
Never  again  lift  up  this  drooping  head, 
O,  never  more  lift  up  this  dying  heart  I ' 

Single   lines,   struck   in   the   heat   of  glowing    passion   or   fancy, 

seem  to  leave  a  track  of  fire: 

'Tyrants  swim  safest  in  a  crimson  flood.' 

'Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhile!' 

'And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils.' 

'See,  see,  where  Chrisfs  blood  streams  in  the  firmament.' 

•Thence  flew  Love's  arrow  with  the  golden  head.' 

'I  know  he  is  not  dead;   I  know  proud  death 
Durst  not  behold  such  sacred  majesty." 

Not  inaptly  has  a  living  poet  described  Marlowe  as  singing  — 

'With  mouth  of  gold,  and  morning  in  his  eyes.' 

For  this  is  his  contribution  to  the  heroic  style, —  that  he  found  it 
insipidly  regular,  and  left  it  various,  sometimes  redundant,  some- 
times deficient,  enriched  with  unexpected  emphases  and  changes 
in  the  beat.  Shakespeare  will  only  refine  it  from  wordiness,  and 
use  it  with  more  than  Marlowe's  versatility  and  power. 

Our  first  tragedy  and  comedy  observed  the  classical  or  dramatic 
unities:  Unity  of  Action,  which  required  that  the  action  repre- 
sented should  be  one,  complete,  and  important;  Unity  of  Time, 
which  required  that  the  incidents  of  the  play  should  naturally 
occur  within  one  <lay;  Unity  of  Place,  which  required  that  the 
entire  action  should  naturally  occur  in  tlie  same  locality.  The 
Greek  drama,  relying  tlius  upon  form  or  proportion,  owed  its 
charm  to  a  certain  union  and  regularity  of  feeling.  In  its  sphere, 
it  spoke,  felt,  and  acted  according  to  nature  —  that  is,  nature 
under  the  given  circumstances;  but  it  was  limited  by  the  physi- 
cal conditions  of  time  and  space,  as  well  as  bound  to  a  certain 
dignity  and  attitude  of  expression,  selection  and  grouping  of 
figures,  as  in  a  statue.  But  this  was  too  formal  and  stately  to 
suit  the  tastes  and  wants  of  an  age  or  people  distinguished  by 
its  novelty,  strangeness,  and  contrast.  The  whole  framework  of 
society  —  customs,  manners,  aspirations,  religion  —  had  changed. 


PROSE — FORCES  —  STYLE.  321 

Hence  a  sudden  revolution  in  the  dramatic  art.  Our  poets,  who 
felt  the  excitement  of  the  new  life,  disdained  paths  previously 
made,  scorned  the  thraldom  of  Greece,  the  servility  of  Rome. 
They  had  to  address  no  scholastic  critics,  but  the  people.  As 
one  of  them  said, — 

'They  would  have  good  plays,  and  not  produce 
Such  mu!-ty  fopperies  of  antiquity; 
Which  do  not  suit  the  humorous  age's  back 
With  clothes  in  fashion.' 

To  win  a  mutable  attention  required  a  multiform  shape.  At 
once  they  clung  to  the  human  nature  before  them, —  its  appe- 
tites, passions,  frailties,  hopes,  imaginations,  heights  of  ecstasy 
and  depths  of  depravity.  The  theatre,  mingling  the  comic  with 
the  tragic,  was  to  be  a  mirror  of  enchantment, —  Gothic  in  the 
scope  of  its  design  and  the  boldness  of  its  execution.  While 
Italy  and  France  were  adhering  to  the  contracted  antique  model, 
two  nations  —  England  and  Spain  —  were  thus  spontaneously 
creating  a  national  drama  accordant  with  their  own  sympathies 
and  experiences  —  a  movable  reflection  of  themselves. 

Prose. — The  poetry  of  the  period,  as  the  overflow  of  natural 
enthusiasm,  has  a  decided  ascendancy  in  quantity  and  quality; 
but  the  powerful  vitality  which  impels  it  and  makes  it  great, 
begins  also  the  era  of  prose.  The  insatiable  desire  of  the  mind 
to  beget  its  own  image  gives  the  primary  impulse.  The  reforma- 
tion of  religion,  the  revival  of  antiquity,  the  influx  of  Italian 
letters,  traditions  of  the  past,  speculations  of  the  future,  inven- 
tion, travel,  and  discovery,  give  the  materials.  Philology  begins, 
notably  with  Clieke  and  Muleaster;  artistic  theory  and  criticism, 
with  Sidney,  Wilson,  Ascham,  and  Puttenliam,  who  explore  the 
rules  of.  stvlo;  narratives  of  adventure  and  observation,  with 
Hakluyt';  history,  witli  TToliiished,  Mor(>,  and  Kaleigli;  the  essay, 
with  Lord  Bacon;  rational  theology,  with  Hooker;  roniantic  or 
fanciful  fiction,  with  Lily.  Tn  physics,  medicine,  and  law,  curi- 
osity is  rife.  P^ditions  and  revisals  of  the  Scriptures  increased. 
The  roar  and  dash  of  opinions  creates  and  multiplies  pamphlet- 
eers, Anglican  and  Puritan,  sectarian  and  secidar, —  Skelton  a 
virulent  one,  Rov  a  merciless  one,  I'ish  a  seditious  one,  Gr(>ene  an 
incessant  one,  Nash  a  lirilliant  one.      ^^en's  brains  are  busy,  their 

'  The  Principal  Navigafionn,  Voyages,  and  IJiscoverifs  madt  by  tlu  Knglish  Xadon. 
21 


322  FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

spirits  stirring,  their  hearts  full.  With  the  new  resources  of 
tliought  and  language,  comes  a  new  sense  of  literary  beauty  —  a 
new-born  pleasure  in  delicacy  and  grandeur  of  phrase,  in  the 
choice  of  words  and  the  structure  of  sentences.  We  see  it  first 
in  Lilly's  Euphues,^  the  story  of  a  young  Athenian  who,  after 
spending  some  time  in  Italy,  visits  England  in  1579.  Its  form 
is  Italian,  and  its  style  a  skilful  elaboration  of  the  Italian  taste 
for  alliteration,  verbal  antithesis,  far-fetched  allusion.  To  ladies 
and  lords,  it  was  a  novel  enchantment  to  read: 

'There  is  no  privilege  that  needcth  a  pardon,  neither  is  there  any  r^misi^ion  to  be 
a~ke(i,  where  a  fo;?; mission  is  granted.  1  speake  this,  Gentlemen,  not  to  excuse  the 
o/fence  which  was  taken,  but  to  offer  a  rf«fence  wliere  I  was  mistaken.  A  cleare  con- 
science is  a  sure  card,  truth  hath  the  prerogative  to  speake  with  plainnesse,  and  the 
modesty  to  heare  with  patience.  It  was  reported  of  some,  and  beleueed  of  many,  that  in 
the  education  of  Ephoebus,  where  mention  is  made  of  Uniuersilics,  that  Oxford  was  to 
much  either  defaced  or  dvfamed.  I  know  not  what  the  enuious  have  picked  out  by 
malice,  or  the  curious  by  wit,  or  the  guilty  by  their  own  galled  consciences;  but  this  I 
say,  that  I  was  as  farre  from  thinking  ill  as  I  find  them  from  iudging  u-ell.  But  if  I 
should  goe  about  to  make  amends,  I  were  then  faulty  in  somewhat  amisse,  and  should 
shew  my  selfe  like  Apelles  Prentice,  who  coueting  to  wiend  the  nose  ?«arred  the  «eck; 
and  not  vnlike  the  foolish  Dier,  who  neuer  thought  his  cloth  Slack  vntil  it  was  turned. 
If  any  fault  be  committed,  impute  it  to  Euphues  who  knew  you  not,  not  to  Lylie  who 
hates  you  not.' 

Once  more  in  Athens,   Euphues  writes: 

'Gentlemen,  Euphues  is  musing  in  the  bottom  of  the  mountain  Silixedra,  Philau- 
tus  is  married  in  the  Isle  of  England:  two  friends  parted,  the  one  living  in  the 
delights  of  his  new  wife,  the  other  in  contemplation  of  his  old  griefs.' 

The    new    fashion,    universally  admired,   ran    into    extravagance 

without  elegance,  overloaded,  strained,  and  motley.     Staniliurst 

in   the  dedication   of   a  history  of   Ireland  writes,   quaintly  and 

ludicrously: 

'My  vcric  good  Lord,  there  have  bcenc  diuerse  of  late,  that  with  no  small  toile, 
and  great  commendation,  hauc  throughlie  imploied  thcmselues  in  culling  and  packing 
togither  the  scrapings  and  fragments  of  the  historic  of  Ireland.  Among  which  erne, 
my  fast  friend,  and  inward  companion,  maister  Edmund  Campion  did  so  learncdlie 
becjuite  himsidfe,  in  the  ixniiing  of  certeinc  breefe  notes,  concerning  that  countrie, 
as  certes  it  wiw  L'reatlie  to  be  lamented,  that  either  his  theame  had  not  beene  shorter, 
or  else  his  leasiire  had  not  beene  longer.  For  if  Alexander  were  so  rauisht  with 
Homer  liis  historic,  that  notwithstanding  Thersiies  were  a  crabbed  and  a  rugged 
dwarfe,  being  in  outward  feature  so  deformed,  and  inward  conditions  so  crooked,  as 
be  seemed  to  stand  to  no  better  ^^teed,  than  to  lead  apes  in  hell/ 

There  was  just  time  for  Gosson  to  have  read  Ei/phf/es  before  he 
wrote   in    77ic   ScJiaol  of  .l/>>(si;: 

'The  title  of  my  l)ook  doth  iironiise  much,  the  volume  you  see  is  very  little: 
and   sithen-^  I   cannot  bear  out  my  folly  by  authority,   like   an    emperor,    I    will   crave 

'  Frfini  the  (Irrck,  meaning  nfU-z/roir/).  si/rmnf'riral.  hence  rlerer,  >r}f/i/.  It  was 
really  .)n  the  culmination  of  the  irrowiiii:  inllueuce  of  Italian  conceits  and  quibbles. 


PROSE  —  RISE   OF   HISTORY.  323 

pardon  for  my  phrensy  by  submission,  as  your  worship's  to  command.  The  school 
which  I  build  is  narrow,  and  at  the  lirst  blush  appearoth  but  a  dog-hole;  yet  small 
clouds  carry  water;  slender  threads  sew  sure  stitches;  little  hairs  have  their  shadows; 
blunt  stones  whet  knives;  from  liard  rocks  flow  soft  springs;  the  whole  world  is  drawn 
in  a  map,  Homer's  "Iliad"  in  a  nutshell,  a  king's  picture  in  a  penny.' 

Comparisons  mount  one  above  another,  sense  disappears,  atti- 
tudes are  visible.  But  out  of  this  youthful  wantonness  will 
spring  complete  art.  Tinsel  and  pedantry  will  pass,  beauty  and 
merit  will  remain.  Prose,  born  of  thought  rather  than  of  feeling, 
does  not  reach  literary  excellence  till  the  imagination  is  regu- 
lated, and  the  gaze  is  fixed,   not  to  admire,  but  to  understand. 

BHstOry.  —  A  whole  class  of  industrious  antiquaries  collected 
the  annals  of  the  by-gone  world,  and  embodied  them  in  English 
shape,  supplying  materials  for  the  historical  dramatist  and  the 
future  historian,  Daniel  gave  to  the  chronicle  a  purer  literary 
form,  while  Raleigh's  History  of  the  World  showed  the  widen- 
ing of  historic  interest  beyond  national  bounds.  If  there  was  no 
rhyming,  there  was  little  accuracy,  and  no  attempt  at  a  minute 
tracing  of  cause  and  effect;  that  was  to  come.  The  compilers, 
following  the  beaten  path,  usually  began  at  the  Creation  and 
continued  to  the  date  of  publication.  Credulity  still  darkened 
the  field,  and,  surveying  it  complacently,  they  gathered  con- 
tentedly, with  both  hands,  seldom  doubting  the  truth  of  what 
from  childhood  they  had  been  taught  to  believe.  Thus  Holin- 
Slied,  the  most  complete  of  our  chroniclers,  thinks  it  prol)aljle 
that  Britain  was  peopled  before  the  Deluge,  and  supposes  these 
primitive  Britons  to  have  been  drowned  in  the  flood.  He  can 
vouch  for  the  arrival  of  Ulysses,  inclines  to  the  derivation  of 
Albion  from  a  huge  giant  of  tliat  iiante,  and  relates  the  story 
of  Brute,  the  great-grandson  of  .Eneas,  with  unquestioning  con- 
fidence. He  inserts  a  one-line  notice  of  '  Caxton  as  the  first 
practicer  of  the  art  of  printing,'  but  is  more  intent  in  tli*^  same 
paragraph  to  speak  of  'a  bloody  rain,  tlie  red  drops  falling  on 
the  sheets  which  had  !)oon  hanged  to  dry.'  It  was  reserved  for 
Raleigh,  in  his  unfinished  but  anii)itious  work,  to  strike  into  a 
virgin  vein,  and  make  the  ordinary  events  of  history  assume  a 
new  face  by  the  noble  sjKMmlations  which  lie  builds  on  them, 
often  profound,   oftener  elo(]uent. 

Theology. — A  new  era  of  creed-formations  s(^t  in.  Tlit^ 
Articles  of    the    Any-Iican    Church,    now    in    number  thirty-niue. 


324  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

were  originally  forty-two,  drawn  up  under  the  supervision  of 
Crannier  as  the  bonds  of  Christian  union,  the  conditions  of 
Christian  fellowship.     It  is  asserted,  in  this  confession  of  faith, — 

1.  That  there  is  an  infinite  Spirit,  and  'in  the  unity  of  this 
Godhead  there  be  three  persons  of  one  substance,  power,  and 
eternity,  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost.' 

2.  That  the  fall  of  Adam  'brought  death  into  the  world  and 
all  our  woe.' 

3.  That,  by  Adam's  transgression,  we  are  shapen  in  iniquity, 
and  conceived  in  sin. 

4.  That  Christ,  of  the  same  substance  with  the  Father,  died 
for  our  original  guilt  and  our  actual  sins. 

5.  That  none  can  emerge  from  this  state  of  pollution,  and  be 
saved,  but  by  Christ. 

G.  That  every  person  born  into  the  world  *  deserveth  God's 
wrath  and  damnation.' 

7.  That  'predestination  to  life  is  the  everlasting  purpose  of 
God  ...  to  deliver  from  curse  and  damnation  those  whom  he 
hath  chosen  in  Christ  out  of  mankind.' 

The  English  Reformers  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  arrived  at 
any  definite  conclusions.  Luther  and  Calvin  framed  the  specula- 
tive doctrines  for  Protestant  Europe.  Both  declared  the  utter 
depravity  of  human  nature,  and  'eternal  fire'  the  punishment  of 
the  lost.  Calvin  was  an  uncompromising  predestinarian,  who 
taught  that  the  Fall  with  all  its  consequences  was  predetermined 
ages  before  the  Creation;  that  the  fate  of  each  individual  was 
thus  irrevocably  decided  before  he  was  called  into  existence;  tliat 
out  of  the  ruined  race  a  few  are  selected  for  eternal  bliss;  that 
the  rest  are  pre-ordained  to  'most  grievous  torments  in  soul  and 
body  without  intermission  in  hell-fire  for  ever.'  Luther  was  only 
loss  explicit,  hardly  aware,  perhaps,  of  the  extreme  to  which  his 
acrimonious  zeal  logically  carried  him.  The  mild  and  sagacious 
Erasmus  had  written  a  defence  of  free-will,  to  which  Luther 
replies: 

'The  human  will  is  like  a  hcA^X  of  burden.  If  God  mounts  it,  it  wislies  and  goes  as 
God  wills;  if  Satan  mounts  it,  it  wishes  and  goes  as  Satan  wills.  Nor  can  it  choose  the 
rider  it  would  prefer,  or  l)etake  itself  to  him,  but  it  is  the  riders  who  contend  for  its  \ms,- 
sc  s-^ion." 

Again: 

'This  is  the  acme  of  faith,  to  txdieve  that  He  is  merciful  who  saves  so  few  and  who 
condemns  so  many:  that  He  is  just  wlio  at  His  own  i)leasure  lias  made  us  necessarily 
doomed  to  damnation." 


PROSE  —  RATIONALISM    AND    DOGMA.  325 

Thus  the  two  great  founders  of  Protestantism  designed,  it  would 
appear,  to  construct  a  religious  system  which  should  be  as  dis- 
tinct and  exclusive  as  tliat  which  they  assailed,  but  which  should 
represent  more  faithfully  the  teachings  of  the  first  four  cen- 
turies. The  Puritans,  simple  and  rigorous,  preferred  the  grim 
and  pitiless  features  of  the  Calvinistic  system,  whose  spirit,  how- 
ever, has  long  been  yielding  to  conciliation  and  charity.  The 
Anglicans,  practical,  prudent,  and  more  worldly,  favored  rather 
the  less  gloomy  and  more  conservative  system  of  Luther.  Both 
found  common  ground  in  the  idea  of  the  inexorable  Judge,  the 
alarm  of  conscience,  the  impotence  and  inherited  poison  of  na- 
ture, the  necessity  of  grace,  the  rejection  of  rites  and  ceremonies. 
A  period  of  passion  and  conflict  throws  men  naturally  upon  dog- 
njatic  systems,  nor  is  the  mind  easily  extricated  from  old  theo- 
logical modes  of  thought.  A  century  was  required  to  develop 
fully  the  germ  of  rationalism  that  had  been  cast  abroad.  Still, 
the  intellect  was  moving  onward,  the  tenor  of  life  was  cluing iiig, 
and  at  the  close  of  the  century  the  disposition  was  perceptible  to 
interpret  the  articles  of  special  creeds,  not  by  the  precept  and 
example  of  tradition,  but  by  the  light  of  reason  and  of  con- 
science. A  remarkable  evidence  of  the  transition  is  found  in 
Jewel's  Apology,^  and,  a  generation  later,  in  Hooker's  Kfclc- 
siastical  Polity, —  the  two  most  important  theological  works 
which  appeared  in  England  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Both 
wrote  with  the  avowed  object  of  defending  the  Established 
Church,  but  their  methods  are  entirely  different.  The  first  incul- 
cates the  importance  of  faitli,  collects  the  decisions  of  antiquity, 
and  regards  the  mci  ■  ass«"rtions  of  the  Fathers,  when  uncontra- 
dicted by  Scripture,  as  proofs  positive.  The  second  insists  upon 
the  exercise  of  reason,  and  lays  little  stress  upon  the  ancients, 
evidently  considering  that  his  readers  would  be  slightly  ini[)ressed 
by  their  unsu})portod  opinions.      He  says: 

'For  men  to  bo  tied  anil  led  by  authority,  as  it  were  with  a  kind  of  raptiv  ily  of  juds;- 
ment,  and,  tliough  tlicre  l)c  reason  to  tho  contrary,  not  to  listen  unto  it,  but  to  follow, 
like  beasts,  the  first  in  the  herd,  they  know  not  nor  care  not  whither:  tlii<  were  brutish. 
Again,  that  authority  of  men  should  prevail  with  men,  either  aL'aiu~t  or  ;iIiove  Kea^ou, 
ia  no  part  of  our  belief.  Companies  of  learned  men,  be  they  ne\-er  so  great  and  revrr- 
cnd,  arc  to  yield  unto  Reason.' 

•Written  in  1501  or  l.")<i:2.  This,  the  nil)le,  and  Fox'u.l/ar^yr.-'  were  ordereil  -to  be 
fixed  in  all  parish  churches,  to  be  read  by  the  people.' 


326  FIRST  CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

When  this  could  be  said,  the  English  intellect  had  made  immense 
progress. 

With  the  revolution  in  Church,  preaching  changed  its  object 
and  character.  It  became  more  earnest,  popular,  and  moral. 
The  Age  of  Doctrines  was  to  follow.  In  the  pulpit,  it  was  not 
yet  sought  to  exhibit  dialectics,  but  to  recall  men  —  sailors,  sol- 
diers, workmen,  servants  —  to  their  duties.  At  least,  this  is  what 
we  see  in  the  sermons  of  Latimer  (1472-1555),  a  genuine  Eng- 
lishman, serious,  courageous,  and  solid,  sprung  from  the  heart 
and  sinews  of  the  nation.  He  never  speaks  for  the  sake  of 
speaking.  With  him,  practice  is  before  all;  theology  —  the 
metaphysics  of  religion  —  secondary.  To  reprove  the  rich,  who 
oppress  the  poor  by  enclosures,  he  details  the  needs  of  the 
peasant : 

'A  plough  land  must  have  sheep;  yea,  they  must  have  sheep  to  dung  their  ground 
for  bearing  of  corn;  for  if  they  have  no  sheep  to  help  to  fat  the  ground,  they  shall  have 
but  bare  corn  and  thin.  They  must  have  swine  for  their  food,  to  make  their  veneries  or 
bacon  of:  their  bacon  is  their  venison,  for  they  shall  now  have  hangum  tuum  if  they  get 
any  other  venison;  so  that  bacon  is  their  necessary  meat  to  feed  on,  which  they  may 
not  lack.  They  must  have  otlier  cattle:  as  horses  to  draw  their  plough,  and  for  car- 
riage of  things  to  the  markets;  and  kine  for  their  milk  and  cheese,  which  they  must 
live  upon  and  pay  their  rents.  These  cattle  must  have  pasture,  which  pasture  if  they 
lack,  the  rest  must  needs  fail  them:  and  pasture  they  cannot  have,  if  the  land  be  taken 
in,  and  enclosed  from  them.' 

Only  the  wish  to  convince,  to  denounce  vice,  and  to  do  justice. 
No  grand  words,  no  show  of  style,  no  exaltation.  Generally,  it 
may  be  observed,  the  preachers  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  six- 
teenth century  were  accustomed  to  take  a  wide  range,  to  bring 
together  into  a  miscellaneous  assortment  topics  from  every 
region  of  heaven  and  earth.  Not  more  fastidious  as  to  manner. 
Their  style,  like  that  of  most  contemporary  prose,  is  simpler  in 
construction,  more  familiar  and  homeh%  than  that  which  came 
into  fashion  in  the  later  years  of  the  Elizabethan  period.  Their 
kind  of  writing,  however,  though  indirectly  interesting  and  his- 
torically valuable,  can  hardly  be  regarded  as  partaking  the  char- 
acter of  literary  composition. 

But  that  which  penetrated  the  imagination  and  language  of 
England  tnore  than  any  word,  lay  or  ecclesiastic,  was  the  Bible 
itself,  wherein  the  sitii])le  folk,  without  other  books  and  open  to 
new  emotions,  pricked  by  the  reproaches  of  conscience  and  the 
presentiment  of  the  dark  future,  looked  suddenly  with  awe  and 
trembling  upon   the   face  of  the  eternal  King,  read  or  heard  the 


PROSE — THE   BIBLE  —  ETHICS.  327 

tables  of  his  law,  the  archives  of  his  vengeance,  and  with  the 
whole  attention  of  eyes  and  heart  filled  themselves  with  his  prom- 
ises and  threats.  Condemned,  hunted,  in  concealment,  Tyndale 
translated  from  the  Greek,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  the  New 
Testament  and  a  portion  of  the  Old.  It  was  this  Book  which, 
revised  by  Coverdale,  and  edited  in  1539,  as  CromiceWs  Bible, 
again  in  1540,  as  Cranmer's  Bible,  was  set  up  in  every  English 
parish  church  by  the  very  sovereign  who  had  caused  the  trans- 
lator to  be  strangled  and  burned.  It  was  not  only  a  discovery  of 
salvation  to  the  troubled  conscience,  but  the  revelation  of  a  new 
literature  —  the  only  literature  practically  accessible  to  all,  and 
comprising  at  once  legends  and  annals,  war-song  and  psalm,  phi- 
losophy and  vision.  Imagine  the  effect  upon  minds  essentially 
unoccupied  by  any  history,  romance,  or  poetry,  and  anxiously 
alive  to  the  grandeurs  and  terrors  which  pass  before  their  eyes  as 
they  gather  in  crowds  Sunday  after  Sunday,  day  after  day,  to 
hear  its  marvellous  accent: 

'Many  well-disposed  people  used  much  to  resort  to  the  hearing  thereof,  ospecially 
when  ihey  could  gel  any  that  had  an  audible  voice  lo  read  to  them.  .  .  .  One  John 
Porter  used  sometimes  to  be  occupied  in  that  goodly  exercise,  to  the  edifyini,' of  him- 
self as  well  as  others.  This  Porter  was  a  fresh  young  man  and  of  a  big  stutiirc;  and 
great  multitudes  would  resort  ihither  to  hear  him,  because  he  could  read  well  and 
had  an  audible  voice.' 

The  Koran  alone  can  boast  an  equal  share  of  reverence,  spread 
far  and  wide;  and  as  a  mere  literary  monument,  the  English  Bible 
is  the  noblest  example  of  the  English  tongue.  Of  its  6,000  words, 
only  250  are  not  in  common  use,  and  nearly  all  of  these  last  are 
readily  understood. 

Ethics. —  Occam,  the  Nominalist,  had  taught  tliat  moral  dis- 
tinctions originate  in  the  arbitrary  appointment  of  God;  that  'no 
act  is  evil  but  as  prohibited  by  Him,  or  which  cainiot  be  made 
good  by  His  command.' 

Catholics,  who  appealed  to  tradition,  Protestants,  who  appealed 
only  to  Scripture, —  confirmed  the  pernicious  error.  On  none 
of  these  principles  could  there  be  a  science  of  morality.  Tlnit 
was  possible  only  when  men,  seeking  for  just  ideas  of  riglit  and 
wrong,  should  be<iin  to  interrogate  their  moral  s(Mise  more  tlian 
the  books  of  theologians,  and  make  this  faculty  tht>  supreme  ail»i- 
ter,  moulding  theology  into  conformity  witli  its  dictat<'s.  'I  lie 
moral  was  still  subordinate  to  the  doirnuitic  side  of  religion,      il 


328  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

needed  the  profound  sagacity  of  Hooker  to  give  anything  like 

currency  to   the   following   principle,   in   which   the   rationalistic 

tendency  to  a  philosophy  of  morals  is  first  decidedly  manifest: 

'Those  precepts  which  learned  men  have  committed  to  writing,  transcribing  them 
from  Ihe  common  reason  and  common  feelings  of  human  nature,  arc  lo  be  accounted 
not  less  divine  than  those  contained  in  the  tables  given  to  Moses;  nor  was  it  God's 
intention  to  supersede  by  a  law  graven  on  stone  tliat  which  is  written  with  His  own 
finger  on  the  table  of  the  heart." 

Two  years  later,  in  1596,  appeared  LiOrd  Bacon'S  Essays, 
which,  if  they  offered  nothing  new  to  the  English  heart,  revealed 
much  to  the  English  consciousness,  and  formed  an  emphatic 
agency  in  the  history  of  English  practical  ethics. 

In  general,  estimated  by  the  standard  of  the  present,  moral 
perceptions  were  clouded,  and  moral  sympathies  were  neither 
expansive  nor  acute.  Add  to  this  the  reflexive  influence  of 
religious  belief  —  in  particular,  the  doctrine  of  exclusive  salva- 
tion, and  we  have  an  adequate  explanation  of  the  burnings, 
tortures,  imprisonments,  animosities  and  wars  which  for  so  many 
centuries  marked  the  conflicts  of  theological  bodies.  As  long 
as  it  was  believed  that  those  who  rejected  certain  opinions  were 
excluded  from  eternal  felicity,  so  long  would  scepticism  be 
branded  a  sin,  and  credulity  a  virtue.  As  long  as  the  Church, 
by  a  favorite  image  of  the  Fathers,  was  regarded  as  a  solitary 
Ark  floating  on  a  boundless  sea  of  ruin,  the  heretic,  as  an 
offender  against  the  Almighty,  was  to  be  reclaimed  or  pun- 
ished, and  heresy  was  to  be  corrected  or  stifled  —  by  persuasion 
if  possible,  bv  violence  if  necessary.  While  some  of  the  perse- 
cutions, even  some  of  the  most  atrocious,  sprang  from  purely 
selfish  motives,  I  doubt  not  that  they  were  mainly  due  to  the 
sincere  conviction  that  the  cause  of  truth  (as  apprehended) 
required  the  sacrifice  of  its  foes.  Men  had  yet  to  learn  that 
mere  acts  of  the  understanding  are  neither  right  nor  wrong; 
and  that  vtnbelief,  whether  good  or  bad,  must  receive  its  charac- 
ter from  the  dispositions  or  motives  which  produce  or  pervade  it. 

Science. — 'In  Wonder,'  says  Coleridge,  'all  Philosophy  be- 
gan; in  Wonder  it  ends:  and  Admiration  fills  up  the  interspace.' 
Better,  it  is  suggested, —  and  Investigation  fills  up  the  inter- 
sjiace.  In  the  first  wonder  and  the  last,  the  poet  and  the  philos- 
o])her  are  akin;  but  the  emotion  tends  to  different  results.  The 
former  wonders  at   the  Ijeauty  in  the   face  of  Nature,  but  seeks 


PROSE  —  RISE    OF   SCIENCE.  329 

no  explanation, —  reads  its  inner  meaning,  and  tries  to  utter  it. 
The  latter  wonders  at  what  he  sees,  but  scrutinizes  appearances 
to  find  the  laws  which  regulate  them.  The  two  processes — im- 
aginative intuition  and  painful  analysis  —  are  distinct,  not  to  be 
combined  in  one  intellectual  act,  nor  scarcely  to  coexist  in  one 
mind.  The  latter  does  not  assert  itself  till  objects-  pass  from  the 
poetic  flush  of  emotion  into  the  colder  region  of  rational  insight. 
Therefore,  beyond  a  few  exceptional  and  isolated  facts,  there  was 
as  yet  no  English  science.  But  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century  the  daylight  of  scientific  speculation  and  experiment  had 
already  arisen  on  the  Continent.  Memorably,  after  twenty  years' 
study  of  the  heavens  from  the  window  of  his  garret,  CopernicuS 
the  Pole  founded  modern  astronomy.  He  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion, as  had  Aristarchus  in  the  third  century  before  Christ,  that 
the  sun  is  immovable,  while  the  earth  and  planets  revolve  around 
it.  Afraid  of  public  opinion,  he  refused  to  publish.  Bruno  the 
Italian  espoused  his  theory  with  ardor,  propagated  it,  as  well  as 
the  plurality  of  worlds,  with  haughty  defiance, —  and  was  burned 
by  the  Inquisition.  The  fact  survived,  soon  to  effect  an  impor- 
tant revolution  in  our  conceptions.  As  long  as  the  globe  was 
believed  to  be  the  central  object  of  the  universe,  and  the  stars 
but  inconsiderable  lights  to  garnish  its  firmament,  it  was  as- 
signed a  similar  position  in  the  moral  scheme;  and  every  phe- 
nomenon, human  and  divine,  terrestrial  and  celestial,  was  sup- 
posed to  have  some  bearing  upon  the  acts  and  history  of  man. 
But  when  this  'goodly  ball'  was  seen  to  be  only  a  moving  point 
in  infinite  space  —  a  mere  infinitesimal  fraction  in  creation,  human 
egotism  was  succeeded  by  a  depressing  sense  of  insignificance, 
and  the  way  was  open  for  the  gradual  substitution  of  the  idea  of 
law  for  that  of  supernatural  intervention. 

Every  priest  in  the  Cathedral  of  Pisa,  every  woman  and  child 
at  Christmas,  saw  the  great  lamps  which  hung  from  tlio  ceiling, 
some  by  a  longer,  some  by  a  shorter  chain, —  saw  tliein  swing  in 
the  wind  that  came  in  with  the  crowd,  as  the  Christmas-eloors, 
storied  all  over  with  inedi:eval  fictions,  o])ened  wide;  i)ut  only 
Galileo,  a  student  not  yet  twenty,  saw  that  the  motion  of  \ho 
swinging  lamps  was  uniform,  and  pro])ortional  to  the  h-ngtli  of 
the  chain  —  <'aeh  a  great  clock  whereof  he  alono  had  tin'  dial. 
For  five  hundred  years  those   lamps,  swinging  slowly  to  aii'l    tro. 


330  FIRST   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

had  been  virtually  proclaiming  the  law  of  gravitation,  but  Gali- 
leo was  the  first  who  heard  it.  This  was  the  great  principle  of 
the  Pendulum.  So  does  genius  find  general  laws  in  facts  which 
have  been  familiar  to  everybody  since  the  world  was. 

In  England,  meanwhile,  much  of  the  progress  abroad  probably 
remained  unknown.  Various  mathematical  works  were  produced 
in  the  vernacular  in  the  first  half  of  the  century,  by  William 
Record,  a  physician.     Says  a  contemporary: 

'He  was  the  first  who  wrote  on  arithmetic  in  Englisli;  the  first  who  wrote  on  geome- 
try in  English;  the  first  who  introduced  algebra  into  England;  the  first  who  wrote  on 
astronomy  and  the  doctrine  of  the  sphere  in  English;  and  finally  the  first  Englishman 
who  adopted  the  system  of  Copernicus." 

He  styled  the  first  the  Ground  of  Arts;  the  second,  Pathxoay  to 
Knoidedge;  the  third,  Wlietstone  of  Wit;  the  fourth,  the  Castle 
of  Knowledge.  In  1599,  Thomas  Hill  published  Hie  School  of 
Skill,  which  is  described  as  'an  account  of  the  heavens  and  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  replete  with  those  notions  on  astrology  and 
physics  which  are  not  very  common  in  the  works  of  Record.* 
The  author  refers  to  the  scheme  of  Pythagoras  and  Copernicus, 
by  which,  as  he  expresses  it,  '  they  took  the  earth  from  the 
middle  of  the  world,  and  placed  it  in  a  peculiar  orb.'     He  adds: 

'But  overpassing  such  reasons,  lest  by  the  newness  of  the  arguments  they  may 
offend  or  trouble  young  students  in  the  art,  we  therefore  (by  true  knowledge  of  the  wise) 
do  attribute  the  middle  seat  of  the  world  to  the  earth,  and  appoint  it  the  centre  of  the 
whole.' 

Gilbert's  book  On  JLn/netistn    (IGOO)    marks  the  origin  of  the 

modern    science    of    electricity.       Medicine    was    practiced    and 

taught  on   the  revised   princij)lcs  of   the  ancients.     Henry  VIII 

incorporated  tlie  College  of  Physicians  in  1518.     From  the  time 

of   Edward  tlie  Confessor,  the  power  of   kings  lo  touch   for  tlie 

King's  Evil  seems  never  to  have  been  doubted,  and  to  have  been 

extensively   exercised.      The   Breviary   of  Jlealth,   by   Andrcw 

Borde    (1547),  is   a  curious  suggestion  of  the  state  of   medical 

science.      It   has  a  j)rologue  addressed  to  physicians,  bogiiining: 

'EirrpL'ions  doctors,  and  iiiastcrs  of  tlie  pximioiis  and  arcane  science  of  physick,  of 
your  urbanity  exasperate  not  yourselves  against  me  for  making  tliis  little  volume." 

The  'volume'  treats   not   oiilv   of   bodily   disease,   but   of   mental, 

as    in    'the    1T4    Chapter,'    which    'doth    shewe    of    an    infirinitie 

named   Hereos': 

^Iifirriis  is  llic  (irrke  worde.  Tn  Latin,  it  is  named  Amor.  In  EnLiH^^h  it  is  named 
Lnrf-!>irk.  aiirl  wmii'ii  iiiny  hauc  tlii>  liekleness  as  well  as  men.  Young  persons  be  much 
trouliled  with  tliis  iiiiix-diimnt." 


PROSE  —  REVIVAL   OF    PHILOSOPHY.  331 

The  following  is  the  remedy  prescribed: 

'  First  I  do  advertize  every  person  not  to  set  to  the  heart  what  another  doth  set  to  the 
hi'le.  Let  no  man  set  his  love  so  far,  bnt  that  he  may  withdraw  it  betime;  and  muse  not, 
but  use  mirth  and  mery  company  and  be  wyso,  and  not  foolish." 

Philosopliy. —  So  far  as  it  concerns  the  history  of  philoso- 
phy, the  Renaissance  meant  the  revival  of  Platonism  and  the 
insurgence  against  scholastic  antiquity.  Never  had  monarch 
been  so  nearly  universal  and  absolute  as  Aristotle.  For  two 
thousand  years  he  had  dictated  to  the  nations  what  to  believe. 
Amid  all  the  commotions  of  Empire  and  the  war  of  words,  he 
had  kept  his  throne  and  state',  unshaken  and  undisturbed.  His 
autocratical  edict  was  placed  by  the  side  of  the  Gospel.  His  ten 
categories,  which  pretend  to  classify  every  object  of  human 
apprehension,  were  held  as  another  Revelation.  Universities 
were  his  sentinels.  Parliaments  issued  decrees  banishing  those 
who  maintained  theses  against  him.  His  name  was  a  synonym 
for  reason.  To  contradict  him  was  to  contradict  the  Church, 
whose  integrity  was  based  on  the  immovable  conformity  of  all 
human  opinions.  In  vain  did  Galileo  try  to  convince  the  learned 
of  Pisa  that  bodies  of  unequal  weight,  dropped  from  the  same 
height,  would  reach  the  ground  in  equal  times.  They  saw  the 
weights  fall  from  the  top  of  the  tower,  saw  them  strike  the 
ground  simultaneously;  but  they  would  not  believe,  for  Aristotle 
had  said  that  a  ten-pound  weight  would  fall  ten  times  as  fast  as 
a  one-pound  weight.  A  student,  having  detected  spots  in  the 
sun,  communicated  his  discovery  to  a  worthy  priest,  who  replied: 

•My  son,  T  have  read  Aristotle  ninny  tunes,  and  I  assure  you  there  is  luithiiiir  of  the 
kind  mentioned  by  him.  Go  rest  in  peace;  and  be  certain  tli;it  tlie  siiots  wliicli  yon  liave 
seen  are  in  your  eyes,  and  not  in  the  sun.* 

But  early  in  the  sixteenth  century  revolt  had  lirokon  I'ortli,  in 
Italy,  in  Spain,  in  France,  in  Germany,  even  in  Eiiglaiul.  In 
l.").!,"),  a  roval  commission  al^iolislicd  from  the  two  universities  the 
works  of  the  famous  Duns  Seotus.  Said  the  rc^port,  in  a  lone  of 
triuni)ih:  'We  have  set  Dinirc.  in  Bocardo,'  and  have  utterly 
banished  him  from  O.xford  forever,  with  all  his  liliiid  g|i)ss«s.' 
In  lr)83,  Bruno,  a  lionized  foreigner,  a  kniglit-eri-ant  of  truth, 
opened  under  the  patronage  of  Elizabeth,  a  public  disputation,  in 
which    he    combated    the    Aristotelians    with    stirring   eloijuence. 

'  .\  fiL'iire  of  syll.)L;i-:m  teriiiinatiiiLr  in  a  neL'ative  eoiithision,  and  iniplyin_'  Uirrrfore 
annihilation. 


332  FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

He  styled  the  wise  conclave  of  liis  opponents  *a  constellation 
of  pedants,  whose  ignorance,  presumption,  and  rustic  rudeness 
would  have  exhausted  the  patience  of  Job.'  To  all  the  reform- 
ers, however  various  their  doctrines,  one  spirit  seems  to  have 
been  common, —  unhesii  iting  opposition  to  the  dominant  author- 
ity. Each  i  1  his  own  way,  tlie  new  generation  were  emancipat- 
ing themselves  from  the  dogmas  of  the  ancient  dictator.  Scho- 
lasticism, majestic  in  its  decay,  was  fast  losing  its  hold  upon  the 
mind  of  the  age.  As  yet,  however,  there  was  nothing  better  to 
accept  in  its  stead.  Being  the  whole  philosophy,  mental  and 
physical,  then  taught,  its  abolition  from  the  academical  course 
was  tantamount  to  the  ejection  of  philosophical  studies  entirely. 
So  it  happens  that  all  departments  —  physics,  metaphysics,  and 
ethics  —  were  alike  barren.  Materials  were  at  hand,  indeed,  for 
the  most  successful  research;  but  there  was  need  of  an  instructor, 
an  organizer,  who  should  reduce  to  form  and  method  the  discord- 
ant elements,  and  cut,  as  it  were,  a  new  channel  in  which  the 
philosophic  spirit  of  the  world  should  flow. 

Resume. — The  feudal  system,  worn  out  and  vicious,  unable 
to  give  to  a  general  society  citlier  security  or  progress,  disap- 
pears; and  European  society  passes  from  the  dominion  of  spirit- 
ual to  that  of  temporal  governments,  in  which  the  essential  fact 
is  centralization  of  power.  A  new  and  remarkable  species  of 
politicians  appears  —  the  first  generation  of  professional  states- 
men, all  laymen,  all  cultured,  all  men  of  peace,  who  direct  the 
politics  of  England  dexterously,  resolutely,  gloriously.  The 
nobles  cease  to  be  military  chieftains,  the  priests  cease  to  pos- 
sess a  monopoly  of  learning.  Chivalry,  no  longer  a  controlling 
institution,  has  been  refined  of  its  grossness,  and  retaining  only 
its  beauty,  gives  color  and  flavor  to  society,  and  tinctures  strongly 
poetic  sentiment.  Literature  proper  still  belongs  almost  exclu- 
sively to  the  upjjcr  classes,  but  these  are  being  greatly  increased 
by  additions  of  rich  citizens,  who  are  growing  up  to  be  the  body 
of  the  nation.  \'cstiges  of  slavery  still  exist,  yeomen  lead  a 
coai'sc  and  brutish  life,  vagrancy  and  crime  are  inadequately 
su]>i)r<'sse(l  l)y  severe  laws  unequally  administered.  Language 
reaciies  its  full  stature,  strong,  flexilfle,  and  copious;  adequate 
to  the  iiee(ls  of  ])liilosopliic  tliought  anil  of  deep  and  varied  feel- 
ing.      The   aroused   spirit    of  travel   and   adventure   brings  races 


RESUME.  333 

face  to  face,  widens  the  sphere  of  human  interest,  and  by  its 
revelations  gives  life  and  richness  to  the  imagination.  The 
Reformation,  connectecl  on  the  one  side  with  scholarship,  un- 
locks the  sealed  treasures  of  the  Bible,  and  opens  the  path  for 
modern  biblical  criticism;  connected  on  the  other  with  intoler- 
ance of  mere  authority,  it  leads  to  what  has  been  termed  ra- 
tionalism—  the  attempt  to  define  the  laws  which  underlie  the 
religious  consciousness ;  connected  with  politics,  it  is  linked 
historically  with  the  approaching  Revolution.  The  veil  woven 
by  human  hands  across  the  brightness  of  Christianity  is  rent 
asunder,  and  a  new  meaning  is  given  to  the  words:  'God  is  a 
spirit;  and  they  that  worship  him  must  worship  him  in  spirit 
and  in  truth.'  The  Renaissance  achieves  the  discovery  of  the 
world  and  of  man, —  the  first,  the  exploration  of  the  globe  and 
the  exploration  of  the  heavens;  the  second,  the  restoration  of 
Pagan  antiquity  —  man  in  his  temporal  relations,  and  the  reno- 
vation of  faith  —  man  in  his  spiritual  relations.  Printing  renders 
indestructible  all  knowledge,  and  disseminates  all  thought.  Sci- 
ence, rescued  from  the  hands  of  alchemy  and  astrology,  takes 
her  incipient  steps.  Philosophy,  sundered  from  Schohisticism 
and  Aristotle,  awaits  the  principle  of  order  —  the  law  and  the 
lawgiver.  Prose,  waking  larger  and  riclier  from  its  sleep,  passes 
from  the  elegant  simj^licity  of  More  to  the  formal  rhetoric  of 
Ascliam,  and  thence  from  the  extravagance  of  Lily  and  the 
Euphuists  to  the  decorated  eloquence  of  Raleigh  and  Sidney, 
gaining,  by  the  close  of  the  period,  much  in  copiousness,  in 
sonorousness,  in  splendor.  Poetry,  in  Skelton  an  instrument  of 
reform,  revives  as  an  art  in  Surn^y,  who  gives  a  sweeter  move- 
ment to  English  vers(>,  and  extends  its  'lyrical  rano-o.'  In  the 
poems  of  Spenser  ar»>  reliected  the  roseate  hues,  the  higii(>r 
elements,  of  the  Englisli  Renaissance;  wliilc  its  higher  and  lower 
alike  are  reflected  in  th(^  drama,  which  is  both  iiidigenoiis  and 
national.  In  it  is  directly  iinag<>d  the  whole  of  English  life  — 
character,  class,  condition,  in  all  their  varieties;  and  the  |ioets 
who  establish  it  carry  in  themselves  the  sentim<>nts  wliieli  it 
displays, —  happy  and  abundant  feeling,  free  and  full  desin',  the 
overflowing  of  nature,  tlu>  worship  of  beauty  and  of  vigor,  iIm' 
energy  of  pride,  the  despair  of  destiny,  the  insurrection  of  r<'asou, 
the    turbulence    of    passion,   the    brutality  of   evil    lusts,   and    the 


334       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

divine  innocence  of  love,  all  the  luxuriance  and  irregularity  of 
men  who  feel  the  sudden  advance  of  corporal  well-being',  and  are 
scarcely  recovered  from  barbarism.  A  constellation  of  kindred 
spirits,  with  unequal  success  but  with  the  same  unconcerned  pro- 
fusion, express  the  new  art,  closing  around  Shakespeare,  who 
expresses  it  fully,  towering  above  his  fellows  '  in  shape  and  ges- 
ture proudly  eminent,' — all  impelled  by  the  same  causes  in  their 
whirling  and  eccentric  career;  for  the  productive  forces  which 
culminate  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  ripen  some  of  their  distinctive 
fruits  in  the  times  immediately  subsequent.  The  last  ])ortion  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  with  the  earlier  of  the  seventeenth,  consti- 
tutes the  great  era  of  our  literary  history,  and  the  first  of  its 
stages  of  consecutive  progress,  in  which  the  warmth  of  soul,  the 
love  of  truth,  the  passion  for  freedom,  and  the  sense  of  human 
dignity,  are  the  promise  of  eternal  development.  Consider  the 
mass  of  knowledge  we  have  since  acquired  —  knowledge  infinitely 
curious  and  infinitely  useful,  consider  how  much  of  this  kind  was 
acquired  in  the  ten  centuries  which  preceded  —  then  you  may 
estimate  the  expansive  force  generated  in  this  notable  epoch  of 
human  o-rowth. 


MORE, 


Like  Cato  firm,  like  Aristides  just, 

Like  riL'id  C'incinnatus  nobly  poor, — 

A  dauntless  soul  erect,  who  smiled  on  death. — 77iom'>on. 

Biography. — Born  in  London,  in  1480,  of  noble  parentage;  at 
fifteen,  a  page  in  the  household  of  Cardinal  Morton,  who  said  of 
him:  'Whoever  may  live  to  see  it,  this  boy  now  waiting  at  table 
will  turn  out  a  marvellous  man';  at  seventeen,  a  law-student  in 
Oxford  University;  cham]:)ion(Ml  tlie  'Greeks'  against  the  'Tro- 
jans'; practised  his  jirofession;  lectured  on  divinity;  entered 
Parliamejit  at  twenty-two  ;  became  Speaker  of  the  Connnons; 
defeated  tlie  royal  di'mand  for  a  lieavy  subsidy;  withdrew  from 
public  life  under  the  royal  displeasure;  rose  into  repute  at  the 
})ar,  wrote  and  ])ubiished;  was  forced  back  into  the  political  cur- 
rent   by   the   accession   of    Henry  VIII;   was  soon   in  the    king's 


MORE.  335 

favor  as  counsellor  and  diplomatist;  succeeded  Wolsey  as  Chan- 
cellor in  1529,  the  first  layman  appointed  to  that  office;  refused, 
as  a  zealous  Catholic,  to  acknowledge  the  validity  of  Henry's 
marriage  with  Anne  Boleyn,  or  his  headship  of  the  English 
Church,  and  the  neck  that  oft  had  been  familiarly  encircled  by 
the  royal  arm  was  in  1535  cleft  by  the  headsman's  axe.  A  strik- 
ing illustration  of  the  truth  of  Wolsey's  words  to  Cromwell, — 

'How  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  who  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! ' 

"Writings. — He  wrote  numerous  theological  tracts,  but  of 
local  or  passing  interest,  and  all  inflamed  by  a  passion  which  be- 
trayed him  —  otherwise  clear-headed  —  into  violent  expression 
and  confusion  of  thought.  Much  of  his  fame  as  a  writer  rests 
upon  his  Life  of  Richard  III,  of  doubtful  historical  value,  but 
of  great  philological  importance,  as  the  best  English  secular 
prose  which  had  yet  been  written.  More  is  better  known  by  his 
Latin  work,  Utopia, —  a  vision  of  the  kingdom  of  'Nowhere,' 
the  leading  design  of  which,  under  the  veil  of  fanciful  fiction,  is 
to  correct  abuses  and  suo-o-est  reforms.  A  sailor  who  has  vov- 
aged  into  new  and  unknown  worlds,  gives  him  an  account  of  an 
imaginary  republic  risen,  as  by  enchantment,  in  the  form  of  a 
crescent,  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  watery  waste.  In  its  laws  and 
institutions,  in  its  moral  and  physical  aspects,  it  realizes  the 
author's  ideal  of  a  perfect  society,  and  shows  thus,  by  contrast, 
the  defective  one  in  which  he  lives.  The  principal  city  of  the 
Utopians  — 

'Is  compassed  about  with  a  high  and  thick  stone  wall,  full  of  tunnels  and  bulwarks. 
A  dry  ditch,  but  deep,  goeth  about  three  sides.  On  the  fourth  side  the  river  serveth  for  a 
ditch.  The  streets  be  twenty  feet  broad.  On  the  back  side  of  tlie  houses,  through  the 
whole  length  of  the  street,  lay  large  gardens.  The  houses  are  curiously  builded  after  a 
gorgeous  and  gallant  sort,  with  three  stories,  one  over  the  other,  the  outside  beiim  of  hard 
plaster,  or  else  of  brick,  and  the  inner  side  well  strengthened  with  timber-work.  .  .  . 
They  keep  the  wind  out  of  their  windows  with  glass,  for  it  is  there  much  used,  and  als<i 
with  fine  linen  cloth  dipped  in  oil,  for  by  this  means  more  light  cometh  in  and  tlie  wind 
is  better  kept  out." 

In  Utopia  arc  no  taverns,  no  fasliions  ever  clianging,  few  laws 
and  no  lawyers.  All  learn  agriculture;  and  each,  in  addition,  a 
trade.  They  labor  six  hours  a  day,  and  sleep  eight.  War  is  a 
l:)rutal  thing,  hunting  a  degrading  thing: 

'What  pleasure,  they  ask,  can  one  find  in  seeing  dogs  run  after  a  hare?  It  ouirlit 
rather  to  stir  pity,  when  a  weak,  liarmless,  and  timid  hare  is  devoured  by  a  stroni:.  lirii-e, 
and  cruel  dog.     Therefore,  all  this  business  of  hunting  is,  among  tlie  Utopians,  turned 


336       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

over  to  their  butchers;  and  they  look  on  hunting  as  one  of  the  basest  parts  of  a  butcher's 
work.' 

Wisdom  is  preferred  to  riches,  the  formation  of  character  to  the 
accumulation  of  property.  Virtue  is  nobility.  Integrity  is  the 
marble  statue  which  survives  the  sacking  of  cities  and  the  down- 
fall of  empires: 

'The  Utopians  wonder  how  any  man  should  be  so  much  taken  with  the  glaring,  doubt- 
ful lustre  of  a  jewel  or  stone,  that  can  look  up  to  a  star,  or  to  the  sun  itself:  or  how  any 
should  value  himself  because  his  cloth  is  made  of  finer  thread;  for,  how  fine  soever  that 
thread  may  be,  it  was  once  no  better  than  the  fleece  of  a  sheep,  and  that  sheep  was  a 
sheep  still  for  all  its  wearing  it.  Thoy  wonder  much  to  hear  that  gold,  which  in  itself  is 
so  useless  a  thing,  should  be  everywhere  so  much  esteemed,  that  even  man,  for  whom  it 
was  made,  and  by  whom  it  has  its  value,  should  yet  be  thought  of  less  value  than  it  is," 
80  that  a  man  of  lead,  who  has  no  more  sense  than  a  log  of  wood,  and  is  as  bad  as  he  is 
foolish,  should  have  many  wise  and  good  men  serving  him,  only  because  he  had  a  great 
heap  of  that  metal.' 

To  this  day  tolerance  is  far  from  being  a  general  virtue.  Perse- 
cution has  indeed  given  up  its  halter  and  fagot,  but  it  secretly 
blasts  what  it  cannot  openly  destroy.  In  'Nowhere,'  however,  it 
is  lawful  for  every  man  to  be  of  what  faith  he  will.  Each  may 
propagate  his  creed  by  argument  —  never  by  violence  or  insult. 
Religion  rests  simply  on  nature  and  reason,  finds  its  centre  rather 
in  the  family  than  in  the  congregation,  holds  asceticism  to  be 
thanklessness,  and  bases  its  unity  on  the  moral  and  spiritual 
cohesion  of  motives.  If  Utopia  contains  impracticable  dreams  of 
political  organization,  it  also  anticipates  the  views  and  improve- 
ments of  the  latest  and  wisest  legislation.  While  in  England 
half  the  population  are  unable  to  read,  in  'Nowhere'  every  child 
is  well  taught.  The  aim  of  the  laws  is  the  comprehensive  wel- 
fare of  the  labor-class  as  the  true  basis  of  a  well-ordered  common- 
wealth. Is  it  not  true  to-day  that  the  civilized  world,  with  its 
palaces,  libraries,  academies  of  science,  and  galleries  of  art,  rests 
on  the  solid  shoulders  of  farmers  and  mechanics?  All  the  im- 
provements in  our  criminal  system  arc  the  Utopian  conceptions 
of  More,  who  insists,  centrally,  that  the  proper  end  of  punish- 
ment is  reformation,  and  that  the  most  effective  means  of  sup- 
pressing crime   is  prevention: 

'If  you  allow  your  people  to  be  badly  taught,  their  morals  to  be  corrupted  from  child- 
hood, and  then  when  they  arc  men  punish  them  for  the  very  crimes  to  which  they  have 
been  trained  in  childliood  —  wliat  is  this  but  first  to  make  thieves,  and  then  to  punish 
til  em?  ■ 

Style. — Easy  and  flowing,  without  pedantry  and  without  vul- 
garisms;   rivalling   in    purity  his  great   antagonist,  Tyndale;    so 


MOKE.  337 

graphic  in  description  that  many  of  the  learned  received  the 
Utopia  as  a  true  history,  and  tliought  it  expedient  to  send  mis- 
sionaries to  that  island  for  the  conversion  of  so  wise  a  people  to  • 
Christianity;  so  buoyant  in  tone,  that  in  tiie  grave  and  sullen 
pages  of  polemics,  it  jests,  smiles,  rails,  or  drifts  into  ludicrous 
ribaldry;  for,  on  questions  of  religious  reform.  More  was  a  mad- 
man, and  sarcasm  was  at  any  moment  liable  to  pass  into  scurril- 
ity. Thus,  of  one  Richard  Mayfield,  a  monk  and  a  priest,  he 
says: 

'His  holy  life  well  declares  his  heresies,  when,  being  both  a  priest  and  a  monk,  he 
went  about  two  wives,  one  in  Brabant,  another  in  England.  What  he  meant  I  cannot 
make  you  sure,  whether  he  would  be  sure  of  the  one  if  fother  should  happen  to  refuse 
him;  or  that  he  would  have  them  both,  the  one  here,  the  other  there;  or  else  both  in  one 
place,  the  one  because  he  was  priest,  the  other  because  he  was  monk." 

Of  a  famous  invective  against  the  clergy,  who,  though  only  'a 
four  hundredth  part  of  the  nation,  held  half  the  revenues,'  lie 
writes: 

'And  now  we  have  this  gosling  with  his  "Supplication  of  Beggars."  lie  maketh  his 
bill  in  the  name  of  the  beggars.  The  bill  is  couched  as  full  of  lies  as  the  beggar  swarm- 
eth  full  of  lice." 

He  looked  upon  literature  without  humor,  as  a  banquet  without 

sauce;    and,  even  in  combating  heresy,  conceived  it  better  'to 

tell  his  mind  merrily  than  more  solemnly  to  preach.' 

Raiik.  —  A  scholar,  a  lawyer,  a  theologian,  a  wit,  a  politici;m 
without  ambition,  a  lord-chancellor  who  entered  and  resigned  liis 
f)frice  poor,  a  sage  whose  wisdom  lay  concealed  in  his  philosoph- 
ical pleasantry,  a  theorist  and  a  seer, — 

'Who  could  forerun  his  aire  and  race,  and  let 
His  feet  niilleniiinms  lience  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge  dreamed  not  yet"; 

a  martyr  who  laid  his  head  upon  the  block,  to  seal  his  conscience 
with  his  blood;  the  most  illustrious  figure  —  save  Wolsey — in  tiu- 
reign  of  Hein-v  VTIT;  an  author  who  missed  the  lull  iiiiiuortality 
of  his  genius  by  the  infelicity  of  his  subjects,  but  whose  massive 
folio  remains  a  monuinout  of  our  language  in  its  pristine  vigor; 
memorable  as  the  first  in  prose  to  gauge  the  means  of  sti-iking 
the  attention,  to  studv  the  art  of  arrangement  and  cfTtH-t;  hence, 
in  the  order  of  time,  the  first  of  our  great  p]nglish  ]irose  writers. 
The  following  letter  to  his  children  —  in  itself  an  admirable  j)i<'t- 
nre  —  shows  an  intellect  grown  capable  of  self-criticism,  possessed 
of  ideas  and  expressing  them  by  suj)erior  rt'flection : 


338       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

'The  merchant  of  Bristow  brought  unto  me  your  letters,  the  next  day  after  he  had 
received  them  of  you;  with  the  which  I  was  exceedingly  delighted.  For  there  can 
come  nothing,  yea,  though  it  were  never  so  rude,  never  so  meanly  polished,  from  this 
■  your  shop,  but  it  procureth  me  more  delight  than  any  others"  works,  be  they  never  so 
eloquent:  your  writing  dotli  so  stir  up  my  affection  towards  you.  But,  excluding  this, 
your  letters  may  also  very  well  please  me  for  their  own  worth,  being  full  of  fine  wit  and 
of  a  pure  Latin  phrase:  therefore  none  of  them  all  but  joyed  me  exceedingly.  Yet,  to 
tell  you  ingenuously  what  I  think,  my  son  John's  letter  pleased  me  best;  both  because  it 
was  longer  than  the  other,  as  also  for  that  he  seemeth  to  have  taken  more  pains  than  the 
rest.  For  he  not  only  painteth  out  the  matter  decently,  and  spcaketh  elegantly;  but  tic 
playeth  also  pleasantly  with  me,  and  returneth  my  jests  upon  me  again,  very  wittily. 
Hereafter  I  expect  every  day  letters  from  every  one  of  you:  neither  will  I  accept  of  such 
excuses  as  you  complain  of;  that  you  have  no  leisure,  or  that  the  carrier  went  away  sud- 
denly, or  that  you  have  no  matter  to  write:  John  is  not  wont  to  allege  any  such  thing. 
And  how  can  you  want  matter  of  writing  unto  me,  who  am  delighted  to  hear  either  of 
your  studies  or  of  your  play;  whom  you  may  even  then  please  exceedingly,  when,  having 
nothing  to  write  of,  you  write  as  largely  as  you  can  of  that  nothing,  than  which  nothing  is 
more  easy  for  you  to  do. 

But  this  I  admonish  you  to  do;  that,  whether  you  write  of  serious  matters  or  of 
trifles,  you  write  witli  diligence  and  consideration,  premeditating  of  it  before.  Neither 
will  it  be  amiss,  if  you  first  indite  it  in  English;  for  then  it  may  more  easily  be  translated 
into  Latin,  whilst  the  mind,  free  from  inventing,  is  attentive  to  find  apt  and  eloquent 
words.  And,  although  I  put  this  to  your  choice,  whether  you  will  do  so  or  no,  yet  I  enjoin 
you,  by  all  means,  that  you  diligently  examine  what  you  have  written  before  you  write  it 
over  fair  again;  first  considering  attentively  the  whole  sentence,  and  after  examine  every 
part  thereof;  by  which  means  you  may  easily  find  out  if  any  solecisms  have  escaped  you; 
which  being  put  out,  and  your  letter  written  fair,  yet  then  let  it  not  also  trouble  yon  to 
examine  it  over  again;  for  sometimes  the  same  faults  creep  in  at  the  second  writing, 
which  you  before  had  blotted  out.  By  this  your  diligence  you  will  procure,  that  those  your 
trifles  will  seem  serious  matters.  For,  as  nothing  is  so  pleasing  but  may  be  made  unsavory 
by  prating  garrulity,  so  nothing  is  by  nature  so  unpleasant,  that  by  industry  may  not  be 
made  full  of  grace  and  pleasantness.    Farewell,  my  sweetest  children.' 

Cliaracter. — Of  keen  irregular  features,  gray  restless  eye, 
tumbled  brown  liair,  careless  g-ait  and  dress, —  the  outer  pictures 
the  inner  man,  cheerful,  witty  even  to  recklessness,  kindly,  half- 
sadly  humorous,  throwing  the  veil  of  laughter  and  of  tears  over 
the  tender  reverence  of  the  soul.  He  married  his  first  wife  out 
of  pure  benevolence,  thinking  how  much  it  would  grieve  her  to 
see  her  younger  sister,  whom  he  loved  the  better,  preferred 
before  her.  As  his  wife,  it  was  his  delight  to  train  her  in  his  own 
taste  for  letters  and  for  music.  Among  his  children,  he  was  a 
loving  companion  and  a  w-ise  teacher,  luring  them  to  the  deeper 
studies  by  relics  and  curiosities  gathered  in  his  cabinet.  Fond 
of  their  pets  and  their  games  as  they  themselves.  He  would  take 
scholars  and  statesmen  into  his  garden  to  see  his  girls'  rabbits  or 
watch  the  gambols  of  their  favorite  monkey.  'I  have  given  you 
kisses  enough,'  he  wrote  them,  'but  stripes  hardly  ever.'  In  con- 
versation aiid  writing,  liumor  was  liis  constitutional  tem})er.  At 
the  most  solemn  moments  of  his  life,  he  was  facetious.      In  the 


MORE.  339 

Tower,  denied  pen  and  ink,  he  writes  to  his  daughter  Margaret, 
and  tells  her,  'This  letter  is  written  with  a  coal';  but  that,  to 
express  his  love,  a  peck  of  coals  would  not  suffice.  Climbing 
the  crazy  timbers  where  he  was  to  die,  he  said  gaily  to  the  lieu- 
tenant, 'I  pray  you  see  me  safe  up;  and  for  my  coming  down, 
let  me  shift  for  myself.'  When  life  and  death  were  within  a 
second  of  each  other,  he  bade  the  executioner  to  stay  his  hand 
till  he  had  removed  his  beard,  observitig,  'Pity  that  should  be 
cut,  which  has  never  committed  treason.'  His  fatalistic  niaxim 
was: 

'If  evils  come  not,  then  our  fears  are  vain; 
And  if  lliey  do,  fear  but  augments  the  pain.' 

His  character  presents  many  opposite  and,  unhappily,  some  in- 
consistent qualities.  Beneath  his  sunny  nature  lay  a  stern 
inflexibility  of  resolve.  When  he  took  office,  it  was  with  the 
open  stipulation,  '  first  to  look  to  God,  and  after  God  to  the 
king.'  He  laughed  at  the  superstition  and  asceticism  of  the 
day,  yet  every  Friday  scourged  his  body  with  whips  of  knotted 
cords,  and  by  way  of  further  penance  wore  his  hair-shirt  next  to 
his  lacerated  skin.  Once  an  opponent  of  abuses  in  the  Church, 
when  the  Reformation  was  sprung,  he  went  violently  back  to  the 
extreme  of  maintaining  the  whole  fabric  of  idolatry.  Playful 
and  affectionate  in  his  own  household,  his  abuses  of  power  are  a 
cloud  on  his  memory.  Free-thinker,  as  the  bigots  termed  him, 
he  appeals  to  miraculous  relics  as  the  evidences  of  his  faith.  In 
allusion  to  a  napkin  sent  to  King  Abgarus,  on  which  Jesus 
impressed  the  image  of  his  own  face,  he  says: 

'And  it  hath  been  by  like  miracle  in  the  thin  corruptible  cloth  kept  and  preserved 
these  1500  years  fresh  and  well  preserved,  to  the  inward  comforts,  spiritual  rejoicing,  and 
great  increase  of  fervor,  in  the  hearts  of  good  Cliristiaii  peojile.' 

Theoretically  opposed  to  sanguinary  laws,  he  spared  no  jiains  to 
carry  the  most  sanguinary  into  execution.  He  wished  to  liav<^  it 
engraved  on  his  tombstone  that  he  was  'J^/n'i^>>'s,  ILniiict<H-<^ 
ITivnticisque  ynoh'st'is'' — the  scourge  of  Thieves,  Murderers,  and 
Heretics  —  the  last  being  the  greatest  nuilefactors  of  the  three. 

Influence. — Viewed  in  active  as  in  meditative  life,  in  ])ublic 
as  in  private  relations,  the  character,  the  events,  and  the  works 
of  this  distinguished  man  will  be  always  interesting  ami  always 
instnietive.       Under  his    free    and    copious    vein,    the    \  ei-nacular 


340      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

idiom  enlarged  the  compass  of  its  expression.  To  him  belongs 
the  merit  of  having  struck  out,  in  advance  of  his  age,  and,  as  it 
afterward  appeared,  in  advance  of  himself,  a  new  path  in  litera- 
ture,—  that  of  political  romances,  wherein  his  successors  —  among 
them.  Swift  —  were  to  be  indebted  largely  to  his  reasoning  and 
inventive  talents.  His  antagonism  to  the  Reformation  could  at 
most  prove  a  transient  evil,  hardly  appreciable,  if  so  much  as  a 
retarding  force.  But  the  comprehensive  dreams  of  the  Utopia 
have  haunted  every  nobler  soul.  Excellence  is  perpetual,  and  all 
of  it  exists  in  vision  before  it  exists  in  fact.  The  Utopia  has 
long  afforded  to  conservatives  a  term  of  reproach  applicable  to 
all  reformatory  schemes  and  innovations.  There  is  a  large  class 
of  persons  with  whom  the  idea  of  making  the  world  better  and 
happier  is  ever  regarded  with  distrust  or  contempt.  He  who 
entertains  it  is  an  unpractical  dreamer.  His  project  is  straight- 
way pronounced  to  be  Utop)ian.  Of  which  the  moral,  to  the 
wise,  is:  Look  kindly  upon  the  'vagaries'  of  the  'dreamer'  and 
the  'fanatic';  reflect  that  what  was  folly  to  our  ancestors,  is 
wisdom  to  us,  and  that  another  generation  may  successfully 
practice  what  we  now  reject  as  impossible  or  regard  with  an 
incredulous  smile.  The  idealizing  power  of  the  race  —  I  would 
have  it  engraved  upon  the  living  tablets  of  every  human  mem- 
ory—  is  the  most  potent  force  of  its  development.  A  family  of 
equals, —  a  community  without  want,  without  ignorance,  without 
crime, —  a  church  of  righteousness, —  a  state  where  the  intuitions 
of  conscience  have  been  codified  into  statutes, —  are  all  possible, 
just  as  possible  as  cultivated  America,  jewelled  all  over  with 
cities  and  fair  towns,  factories  and  schools,  Avhich  no  one  would 
have  dared  to  propliosy  some  hundred  years  ago.  A  steam- 
engine  is  only  an  opinion  dressed  in  iron.  A  republic  is  but 
an  idea  worked  out  into  men.  JThe  difference  between  a  savage 
and  an  Angelo  was  once  a  power  of  progress.  Desire  only  ])oints 
to  the  reserve  of  power  that  one  day  shall  satisfy  it. 


THE   JEWEL   OF   THE    COURT.  341 


SIDNEY. 

Warbler  of  poetic  prorie.— Co teper. 

Biography.— Of  high  birth,  born  in  Kent,  in  1554;  at  thir- 
teen entered  Oxford,  where  he  won  distinction  as  a  scholar;  at 
eighteen,  without  a  degree,  though  trained  in  polite  literature, 
began  a  tour  of  travel  embracing  France,  Germany,  and  Italy; 
was  in  Paris  during  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew;  read  Plato 
and  Aristotle;  studied  Astronomy  and  Geometry  at  Venice;  pon- 
dered over  the  Greek  tragedies  and  the  Italian  sonnets;  returned 
to  England  in  his  twenty-first  year,  a  polished  and  accomplished 
man;  instantly  became  a  favorite  of  the  Queen  and  the  Court, 
where  he  shone  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant;  at  twenty-two,  an 
ambassador  for  the  promotion  of  a  Protestant  league  among  the 
princes  of  the  Continent ;  at  twenty-nine,  married,  and  was 
knighted;  two  years  later,  was  a  candidate  for  the  throne  of 
Poland,  but  yielded  to  the  remonstrance  of  Elizabeth,  who  feared 
to  lose  'the  jewel  of  her  times';  shortly  after,  a  cavalry  oflicer 
fighting  in  the  cause  of  the  Netherlands;  mortally  wounded  in 
battle,  he  died  on  the  17th  of  October,  158G,  lamented  abroad, 
honored  at  home  with  a  public  funeral  in  the  cathedral  of  St. 
Paul's,  while  the  whole  nation  went  into  mourning  for  their  hero. 

Writings. — Far  from  the  glittering  whirl  of  the  Court,  in 
the  shelter  of  the  ft)rest  oaks,  Sidney  wrote  for  his  own  and  his 
sister's  amusement  the  Arcad'i<(,  a  romance  of  love  and  chivalry, 
narrated  in  prose  mixed  with  verse,  in  imitation  of  Italian  mod- 
els, with  pastoral  episodes,  in  the  maimer  of  the  Spanish.  Two 
princes,  cousins,  in  quest  of  adventure,  attached  to  each  other  in 
chivalrous  fashion,  are  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Sparta,  wander 
])r()vi(leiitially'  and  mvsteriously  into  the  kingdom  of  Arcadia, 
fall  in  love  with  the  king's  two  daughters,  and,  after  passing 
through  many  severe  trials,  marry  them,  and  are  ha])py.  Vou 
will  llnd  in  it  profusion  of  startling  eviMits  and  tragical  or  fan- 
tastic images, —  sliij>\vr('cks,  deliverances,  surprises,  abductions, 
pirates,  wicked  faii'ics,  dancing  sheplii>rds,  disguised  princes, 
songs,  allegori(\s,  sensuous  beauties,  tournaments  of  wit.  It  is 
less  a  monument  than  a  relic,  not  inori-  an  image  of  the  time 
than  of  the   man,  who   had   said:    "It    is   a   tritle;   mv  young   head 


342       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

must  be  delivered.'  In  works  of  courtly  taste  and  impassioned 
youth,  look  for  excessive  sentiment.  A  lover  sends  a  letter  to 
his  love,  and  says  to  the  ink: 

'Therefore  niourne  boldly,  my  inke;  for  while  shee  lookes  upon  you,  your  black- 
nesee  will  shine:  cry  out  boldly  my  lamentfition;  for  while  shee  reades  you,  your  cries 
will  be  musicke.' 

Two  young  princesses  have  retired: 

'They  impoverished  their  clothes  to  enrich  their  bed,  which  for  that  night  might 
well  scornc  the  shrine  of  Venus;  and  there  cherishing  one  another  with  deare,  though 
chaste  embracements:  with  sweet,  though  cold  kisses;  it  might  seeme  that  love  was 
come  to  play  him  there  without  dart,  or  that  wearie  of  his  owne  fires,  he  was  there  to 
refreshe  himselfe  between  their  sweet  breathing  lippes.' 

It  is,  in  part,  the  knightly  desire  of  effect;  in  part,  the  exagger- 
ation of  inventive  fire,  confusing  the  story  by  endless  digressions, 
and  marring  now  and  then  idea,  as  well  as  expression,  by  un- 
natural refinements.  Hence,  the  Arcadia  is  above  the  prose- 
level  by  its  poetic  genius,  absorbing  reveries,  and  tumultuous 
thoughts.  So,  it  was  long,  and  may  still  remain,  the  haunt  of 
poets.  Stately  periods,  luxuriant  imagery,  graceful  fancies,  natu- 
ral freshness,  piercing  through  the  outward  crust  of  affectation, 
withstanding  the  revolutions  of  times  and  tastes.     For  example: 

'In  the  time  that  the  morning  did  strew  roses  and  violets  in  the  heavenly  floore  against 
the  coming  of  the  sun,  the  nightingales  (striving  one  with  the  other  which  could  in  most 
dainty  varieties  recount  their  wronge-caused  sorrow)  made  them  put  off  their  sleep.' 

Or  the  scenery  of  Arcadia: 

'There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with  stately  trees;  humble  val- 
leys, whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with  the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers;  meadows, 
enamelled  with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers;  thickets,  which  being  lined  with  most 
pleasant  shade,  were  witnessed  so  to,  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of  many  well-tuned 
birds;  .each  pasture  stored  with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security;  while  the  i)retty 
lambs,  witli  bleating  oratory,  craved  the  dam's  comfort;  here  a  shepherd's  boy  piping,  as 
thouL'h  he  sliould  never  bo  old:  there  a  young  slieplierdess  knitting,  and  withal  singing; 
and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  comforted  her  hands  to  work,  and  her  bauds  kept  time  to  her 
voice-music' 

Growing  Puritanism  disparaged  poetry,  calling  the  poets  of  the 
age  'caterj)illars  of  the  commonwealth.'  Sidney,  therefore,  as  a 
knight  battling  for  his  lady,  wrote,  in  heroic  and  splendid  style, 
77te  Dt fence  of  Po't^j/.  Tlie  conception  is  noble,  the  argument 
j)ro found,  the  tone  vehement  and  commanding.  No  art  or  sci- 
ence, he  reasons,  produces  such  invigorating  moral  effects;  and  it 
})osses.ses  tliis  excellence  by  its  superior  creative  power  to  dress 
and  embellish  nature.      He  says: 

'Xow,  tlicrein,  of  all  sciences  —  T  speak  still  of  human,  and  according  to  the  human 
conceit— is  our  poet  the  monarcli.     For  he  doth  not  only  shew  the  way,  but  giveth  so 


SIDNEY.  343 

sweet  a  prospect  into  the  way,  as  will  entice  any  man  to  entor  into  it.  Nay,  he  doth,  as 
if  your  journey  should  lie  through  a  fair  vineyard,  at  the  very  ttrs^t  give  you  a  cluster  of 
grapes;  that,  full  of  that  taste,  you  may  long  to  pass  further.  He  beginneth  not  with 
obscure  definitions;  wliich  must  blur  the  margin  with  interpretations,  and  load  the  mem- 
ory with  doubtfulnes.s;  but  he  cometh  to  you  with  words  set  with  deliglitful  proportion, 
either  accompanied  with,  or  prepared  for,  the  well-enchanting  skill  of  music;  and  with  a 
talc,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you,  with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play,  and  old 
men  from  the  chimney-corner;  and  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the 
mind  from  wickedness  to  virtue;  even  as  the  child  is  often  brought  to  take  most  whole- 
some things,  by  hiding  them  in  such  other  as  have  a  pleasant  taste.  So  is  it  in  men,— 
most  of  whom  are  childish  in  the  best  things,  till  they  be  cradled  in  their  graves.  Glad 
they  will  be  to  hear  the  tales  of  Hercules,  Achilles,  Cyrus,  .Eneas;  and  hearing  them, 
must  needs  hear  the  right  description  of  wisdom,  valour,  and  justice;  which,  if  they  had 
been  barely  — that  is  to  say,  philosophically  —  set  out,  they  would  swear  they  be  brought 
to  school  again.' 

It  was  natural  that  a  spirit  so  ardent  and  aspiring  should  feel 
and  paint  the  sentiment  in  which  all  dreams  converge  —  love. 
More  beautiful  than  anything  in  the  world  were  the  eyes,  love- 
lier still  the  soul,  of  Stella  (star)  who  inspired  his  adoration: 

'Stella,  sovereign  of  my  joy,  .  .  . 
Stella,  star  of  heavenly  Are, 
Stella,  load-star  of  desire, 
Stella,  in  whose  shining  eyes 
Are  the  lights  of  Cujiid's  skies.  .  .  . 
Stella,  whose  voice  when  it  speaks 
Senses  all  asunder  breaks; 
Stella,  whose  voice  when  it  singeth. 
Angels  to  acquaintance  bringetli.' 

To  her,  he,  as  Astrophel  (lover  of  the  star),  addressed  one  hun- 
dred and  eight  sonnets,  besides  a  number  of  songs;  and  in  addi- 
tion to  these,  wrote  sixteen  others,  chiefly  amatory.  Some  are 
artificial  and  cold;  others,  artless  and  warm:  some  forced  and 
painful ;  others,  simple  and  sweet.  There  is  nothing  conven- 
tional here  —  onl\-  the  troubled  heart,  and  the  adored  image  of 
the  absent,  seen  through   worshipful  tears: 

'  Wlicn  I  was  forced  from  Stella  ever  dear  — 
Stella,  food  of  my  thouc;lits,  liuart  of  my  lieart  — 
Stella,  wliosc  eyes  make  all  my  Icmpests  clear  — 
By  SliOhrs  laws  of  duty  to  depart: 
Alas,  I   found  that  she  with  me  did  smart; 
I  saw  tliat  tears  did  in  licr  eyes  a|)pear; 
I  saw  that  sighs  lier  sweetest  lii)s  did  part, 
And  lier  sad  words  my  s;idded  sense  did  hear. 
For  me,  I  wei>t  to  see  pearls  scattered  so; 
I  sii'lied  her  sighs,  and  wailed  for  her  woe: 
Vet   s*vam  in  joy,   such  love  in  her  wa<  seen. 
Thus,  wliile  111"  efTeet   most  bitter  was  to  nie, 
.And  uotliinir  than  the  cause  more  sweet  could  ho, 
1  had  been  ve.xed,  if  vexed  I   had  not   heeii.' 


344       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

And  nothing-  gallant  or  far-fetched  in  this, —  only  real  and  noble 

feeling,  told  in  changeful  melody: 

'Stella,  think  not  that  I  by  verse  seek  fame, 
Who  seek,  who  hope,  who  love,  who  live  but  thee; 
Thine  eyes  my  pride,  thy  lips  my  history: 
If  thou  praise  not,  all  other  praise  is  shame. 
Nor  so  ambitious  am  I,  as  to  frame 
A  nest  for  my  young  praise  in  laurel  tree: 
In  truth,  I  swear  I  wish  not  there  should  be 
Graved  in  my  epitapli  a  Poet's  name. 
Nor,  if  I  would,  could  I  just  title  make. 
That  any  laud  thereof  to  me  sliould  grow. 
Without  my  plumes  from  otliers"  wings  I  take: 
For  nothing  from  my  wit  or  will  doth  flow, 
Since  all  my  words  thy  beauty  doth  cndite. 
And  love  doth  hold  my  hand,  and  makes  me  write.' 

What  more  genuine,  free,  and  graceful  than  this  invocation  to 
exhausted  nature's  'sweet  restorer'? 

'Come,  Sleep!   O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace. 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealtli,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  tierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0  make  in  m(^  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head: 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  slialt  in  me. 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see.' 

But  there  is  a  divine  love  which  continues  the  earthly;  a  death- 
less beauty,  a  heavenly  brightness,  which  fails  not,  and  is  the 
soul's  scjvereign  beatitude: 

'Leave  me,  O  Love,  wliich  readiest  l)ut  to  dust; 
And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  tilings; 
Grow  ricli  in  tliat  wliicli  never  taketh  rust; 
Whatever  fades  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  huml)le  all  thy  might 
To  tliat  sweet  yoke  wliere  lasting  freedoms  be; 
Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  ojiens  forth  the  light. 
That  doth  both  sliine,  and  give  us  siglit  to  see. 
O  take  fast   liold :    lit  that  liu'ht  be  tliy  guide 
In  Iliis  small   course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death. 
And  think  liow  ill  beconieth  him  to  sli(l(>, 
Who  sc<'k'th  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 
Then  farewell,  world:    thy  uttermost  I  see: 
Eternal  Loxc,  maintain  tliy  lif<-  in  mel' 

Style. —  Always  tl('.\il)li'    and    harnioiiious,    usually  decorated 
and   luminous,  l)ut  ever  liable  to  voutli's  unripeness  and  inequal- 


SIDNEY.  345 

ity;  commonly  easy  and  vigorous;  occasionally  running  into 
trivial  conceits  and  remote  comparisons;  now,  stately  or  ani- 
mated; now  cramped  or  irksome;  here  direct,  here  overloaded, 
as  of  a  nimble  wit  that  must  regard  an  object  under  all  its 
forms,  delighting  in  endless  excursions,  and  perhaps  somewhat 
too  studious  of  display.  The  demand  for  what  is  tine  in  diction 
may  easily  degenerate  into  admiration  of  what  is  superfine,  Sid- 
ney's style  is  not  a  little  affected  by  the  prevalent  taste  for 
Euphuism,  in  the  use  of  which,  however,  lie  is  almost  always 
labored  and  unnatural.  The  following  passage  exhibits  tlie  arti- 
fice to  uncommon  advantage: 

'The  messenger  made  speed  and  found  Argalus  at  a  castle  of  his  own,  sitting  in  a 
parlor  with  his  fair  Parthenia,  he  reading  in  a  book  the  stories  of  Hercules,  she  sitting 
by  him  as  to  hear  him  read; but  while  his  eyes  looked  on  the  book,  she  looked  in  his 
ej'es,  sometimes  staying  him  with  some  pretty  question,  not  so  mucli  to  be  resolved  of  her 
doubt,  as  to  give  him  occasion  to  look  upon  her.  A  happy  couple!  he  joying  in  her,  she 
joying  in  herself,  but  in  herself,  l)ecause  she  joyed  in  him;  botli  increased  their  riches 
by  giving  to  each  other,  each  making  one  life  double  because  tliey  made  a  double  life 
one.  Where  desire  never  wanted  satisfaction,  nor  satisfaction  ever  bred  satiety:  he 
ruling  because  she  would  obey,  or  rather  because  she  would  obey,  she  therein  ruling.' 

Rank. —  Less  potent  and  comprehensive  tlian  other  spirits  of 
his  age,  but  more  beautiful  and  engaging  than  any;  a  combina- 
tion of  the  scholar,  the  poet,  and  the  knight-errant;  a  courtier 
petted  and  praised;  a  patriot  who  failed  in  ambition,  though 
educated  a  statesman,  because  too  fine  an  ornament  of  the  nation 
to  be  spared  for  its  defence;  a  lover  wlio  failed  in  love,  marrving 
the  woman  he  resj)ected,  and  losing  the  one  he  adored;  a  soldiiM', 
a  gentleman,  and  a  gifted  writer,  whose  vigor,  variety,  and  idiom 
in  prose  mark  a  decided  advance.  Largely  conspicuous  in  life, 
his  merits  are  apt  to  bo  h)st  on  the  modern  reader  in  conse(|uem'e 
of  their  bedizened  dre.ss;  for,  though  his  thouglits  w(M-t>  noblt» 
and  liis  feelings  genuine,  his  fancy  was  artificial,  and  tetided 
incessantly  to  lift  his  rhetoric  on  stilts.  Il<^  will  always  main- 
tain, howevcM',  a  high  jilace  as  an  aesthetic  critic,  nor  an  incon- 
sideral)le  one  as  a  sonneteer.  Into  wliat  final  mould  his  ]V)W('i-s 
would  have  run,  to  what  heights  thev  might  have  attaineil,  had 
they  not  l)(M>n  cut  olT  so  prematurely,  is  matter  for  s])eciilat ion. 

Character. —  So  rare  a  union  of  attractions  is  ditVicidt  of  dcti- 
nition.  'He  hath  had,'  was  the  simple  testinioniul  of  a  t'licnd. 
'as  great  love  in  this  life,  and  as  many  tears  for  his  death, 
as   ever   any   had.'      His   conception    of    cliivalty  —  •  liiiih-cnfted 


346       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

thoughts  seated  in  a  heart  of  courtesy' — is  the  fitting  descrip- 
tion of  his  own  manliness,  and  the  charm  that  made  him  the 
idol  of  court  and  camp.  Scholarly,  aspiring,  brilliant,  ingenuous, 
brave,  and  gentle.  With  a  keen  sense  of  pleasure  and  a  thirst 
for  adventure,  he  possessed  a  gravity  beyond  his  years.  Like 
most  men  of  high  sensibility,  he  inclined  to  melancholy  and  soli- 
tude. His  chief  fault  —  which  was  the  impassioned  energy  of  the 
age — was  an  impetuosity  of  temper,  a  trait  which  appears  in  the 
following  letter  addressed  to  his  father's  secretary,  and  contain- 
ing what  proved  to  be  a  groundless  accusation: 

'Mr.  Molyneus^-Few  words  are  best.  My  letters  to  my  father  have  come  to  the  eyes 
of  some.  Neither  can  I  condemn  any  but  you  for  it.  If  it  be  so,  you  liave  phiyed  the 
very  l<iiave  with  me;  and  so  I  will  make  you  know,  if  I  have  good  proof  of  it.  But  that 
for  so  much  as  is  past.  For  that  is  to  come,  I  assure  you  before  God,  that  if  ever  I  know 
you  do  so  much  as  read  any  letter  I  write  to  my  father,  without  his  commandment,  or 
my  consent,  I  will  thrust  my  dagger  into  you.  And  trust  to  it,  for  I  speak  it  in  earnest. 
In  the  meantime,  farewell." 

Tlie  closing  scenes  of  his  life  di.splay  the  crowning  qualities  of 
his  character, —  magnanimity  and  seriousness.  On  the  field  of 
carnage,  mortally  wounded,  and  perishing  of  thirst,  a  cup  of 
water  is  brought  to  him;  but  as  it  touches  his  fevered  lips  he  sees 
by  his  side  a  soldier  still  more  desperately  hurt,  who  is  looking 
at  the  water  with  anguish  in  his  face;  and  he  says,  'Give  it  to 
this  man;  his  necessity  is  yet  greater  than  mine.'  In  liis  last 
moments,  his  chaplain  — 

'proved  to  him  out  of  the  Scriptures,  that  though  his  understanding  and  senses 
should  fail,  yet  that  faith  wliich  he  had  now  could  not  fail;  he  did,  with  a  cheerful  and 
smiling  countenance  ])ut  forth  his  hand  and  slapped  me  softly  on  the  cheeks.  Not 
long  after,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  hands,  uttering  these  words,  "I  would  not  change 
my  joy  for  the  empire  of  the  world."  .  .  .  Having  made  a  comparison  of  (iod's  grace 
now  in  him,  his  former  virtues  seemed  to  be  notliing;  for  he  wholly  condemned  his 
fornuT  life.     ".Ml  things  in  it,"  he  said,  "have  been  vain,  vain,  vain."  ' 

Influence. — A  work  so  extensively  perused  as  was  the 
Arrinlia  must  have  eoiitributod  not  a  little  to  liberalize  and 
dignify  Englisli  speech,  and  to  create,  among  writers,  a  bold  and 
iitiagiiiative  use  of  words.  From  him,  as  from  a  fountain,  the 
most  vigorous  shoots  of  the  period  drew  sometliing  of  their  verd- 
ure and  their  strength.  iSliakespeare  was  his  attentive  reader, 
copied  liis  diction,  transferred  his  ideas  —  above  all,  his  fine  con- 
ceptions of  female  character.      Tlius,  in  poetic  prose  of  Sidney: 

'  Mdrc  ^wcet  tlian  a  gentle  south-west  wind,  which  comes  creei)ing  over  flowery 
fields  and  ^h,-idowcd  waters  in  the  extreme  heat  of  summer." 


HOOKER.  347 


Said  Shakespeare,  after  him: 

'Oh:   it  came  o"er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south. 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odor.' 

And  Coleridge: 

'And  sweeter  than  the  gentle  south-west  wind, 
0"er  willowy  meads  and  shadowed  waters  creei)iiitr, 
And  Ceres"  golden  fields." 

And  Byron: 

'Breathing  all  gently  o'er  his  cheek  and  mouth. 
As  o"er  a  bed  of  violets  the  sweet  south." 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  moral  charm  of  his  character  wrought  bless- 
edly in  life;  and  the  noble  feeling,  the  lofty  aspiration,  that  lives 
in  and  exhales  from  the  record  of  his  heart  and  brain,  is  a  part 
of  the  breath  of  human-kind,  to  nourish  pastoral  delight,  pure 
friendship,  and  magnanimous  thought. 


HOOKER. 

There  is  no  learning  that  this  man  hath  not  searched  into.  .  .  .  His  books  will  L'et 
reverence  from  agf.—  Pope  Clemenf. 

Biography. — Born  near  Exeter,  in  15oo,  of  parents  respect- 
able, but  neither  noble  nor  rich,  and  abler  to  rejoice  in  his  early 
piety  than  to  appreciate  his  early  intelligence.  They  designed 
him  for  a  tailor,  but  to  iiis  humble  schoolmaster  he  appeared  'to 
be  blessed  witii  an  inward  divine  light,'  and  therefore  at  tlie  age 
of  fourteen,  through  the  kindness  of  Bishop  Jewel,  was  sent  to 
Oxford,  where  he  rose  to  eminence  and  preferment.  After  four- 
teen years  of  exhaustive  .study,  he  entered  holy  orders,  was  made 
deacon  and  ])riest,  and  nianied  a  scoKbng  wife,  wliom  he  had 
allowed  to  be  cliosen  for  him  by  an  ignorant  low-mindeil  mateli- 
maker.  In  15(85,  lie  was  a])])C)iiited  Master  of  tiie  Temple;  l>ut 
the  situation  neither  accorded  with  his  temper  nor  with  his 
literary  pursuits,  and  he  petitioned  his  superior  to  remove  him 
to   'some   (juiet   parsonage.'      The   following   is  the   appeal: 

'My  Lord,— Wlieii  I  lo^t  the  freedom  of  my  cell,  which  w;i-  my  collc-r.  vrl  I  found 
some  degree  of  it  in  my  quiet  coinitry  p.ii-soniiL'c.  Hut  I  :un  wcmiv  of  tlic  noi-r  :ind  oinio- 
sitions  of  thi<  Jilace:  and.  indeed.  (;od  ;uid  n:ilnrc  did  not  intend  me  for  . dnieiiiion-.  I'ul 
for  study  and  quietness.    And,  my  lord,  my  partieular  e(]nte>I--  lure  w  ilh  Mi.  ria\'  r-  ii,t\  e 


348      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

proved  the  more  unpleasant  to  me,  because  I  believe  him  to  be  a  good  man ;  and  that 
belief  hath  occasioned  me  to  examine  mine  own  conscience  concerning  his  opinions.  And 
to  satisfy  that  I  have  consulted'the  holy  Scripture,  and  other  laws,  both  human  and  divine, 
whether  tlio  conscience  of  him  and  others  of  his  j\idgment  ought  to  be  so  far  complied 
with  by  us  as  to  alter  our  frame  of  church-government,  our  manner  of  God's  worship,  our 
praising  and  praying  to  Him,  and  our  established  ceremonies,  as  often  as  their  lender  con- 
sciences shall  require  us.  And  in  this  examination  I  have  not  only  satisfied  myself,  but 
have  begun  a  treatise  in  which  I  intend  the  satisfaction  of  others,  by  a  demonstration  of 
the  reasonableness  of  our  laws  of  ecclesiastical  polity.  But,  my  lord,  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  finish  what  I  have  begun,  unless  1  be  removed  into  some  quiet  parsonage,  where  I  may 
see  God's  blessings  spring  out  of  my  mother-earth,  and  eat  my  own  bread  in  peace  and 
privacy;  a  place  where  I  may,  without  disturbance,  meditate  my  approaching  mortality, 
and  tliat  great  account  which  all  flesh  must  give  at  the  last  day  to  the  God  of  all  spirits.' 

First  appointed  to  a  parish  in  Wiltshire,  he  was  in  the  following 
year  presented  to  a  rectory  in  Kent,  where  the  remainder  of  his 
life  was  spent  in  meditation  and  the  faithful  discharge  of  his 
duties.  Never  strong,  he  died  in  November,  1600,  of  pulmonic 
disease  induced  by  a  heavy  cold. 

"Writing^. — Against  the  non-conforming  Puritans,  Hooker, 
in  The  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  undertook  to  investigate 
and  define  the  right  of  the  Church  to  claim  obedience  from  its 
members,  and  the  duty  of  the  members  to  render  obedience  to 
the  Church.  His  opponents  insisted  that  a  definite  scheme  of 
church  polity  was  revealed  in  the  Bible,  thus  reducing  the  con- 
troversy to  a  mere  anarchy  of  opinions  about  the  meaning  of 
certain  texts.  With  that  aching  for  order  and  that  demand  for 
fundamental  ideas  which  characterize  a  tranquil  spirit  and  a  great 
mind,  he  founded  his  argument  on  general  conceptions,  and 
urged  that  the  laws  of  nature,  reason,  and  society,  equally  with 
those  of  Scripture,  are  of  divine  institution.  Both  are  equally 
worthy  of  respect.  It  is  the  province  of  the  'natural  light'  to 
distinguish  between  what  is  variable  and  what  is  invariable  in 
these  laws,  between  what  is  eternal  and  what  is  temporary  in 
Revelation  itself.  Hence  the  divinely  constituted  reason  of  man 
does  not  exceed  its  rights  in  establishing  certain  vniiformities  and 
ceremonials  on  which  Scripture  may  be  doubtful  or  silent.  The 
English  Church  .system  niay  be  conformable  to  the  will  of  God, 
thougli  not  enjoined  hy  any  clear  text  of  his  revealed  Word. 

Wliat  was  transitory  or  what  was  partial  in  the  book  may  be 
subtracted  without  injury  to  its  itnmortal  excellence;  for  its 
foundations  are  laid  dec])  in  the  eternal  verities  which  are  the 
basis  of  all   duties  and  all   rights,   jiolitical  as  well  as  religious. 


HOOKER.  349 

Its  central  idea  is  law,  as  apprehended  by  reason,  whiclj  in  its 
essential  nature  is  one  with  the  self-conscious  infinite  reason  at 
the  heart  of  things.  '  May  we,'  he  indignantly  asks,  '  cause  our 
faith  without  Reason  to  appear  reasonable  in  the  eyes  of  men?' 
And  of  this  uncreated  Law  which  sustains  tlie  fabric  of  the 
universe,  and  weds  obligation  to  ecstasy,  he  says  in  language 
touched  by  a  consecrating  radiance: 

'Wherefore,  thai  here  we  may  briefly  end:  of  law  there  can  be  no  lo-:s  acknowl- 
edged, than  that  her  seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice  tlie  harmony  of  the  world:  all 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage,  the  very  least  as  feeling  her  care,  and  the 
greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her  power;  both  angels  and  men  and  creatures  of  what 
condition  soever,  though  each  in  different  sort  and  manner,  yet  all  with  uniform  consent, 
admiring  her  as  the  mother  of  their  peace  and  their  joy." 

Style. — Methodical,  correct,  ample,  massive,  and  grand;  idio- 
matic without  vulgarity,  and  learned  without  pedant rv.  The 
Latin  order  of  arrangement  was  with  Hooker,  as  with  all  the 
translators  of  the  period,  a  favorite  construction.  For  example: 
'Brought  already  we  are  even  to  that  estate';  'able  we  are  not 
to  deny,  but  that  we  have  deserved  the  hatred  of  the  heathen.' 
Often  it  is  used  with  powerful  effect,  giving  to  the  capital 
images  the  emphatic  positions;  as,  'Dangerous  it  were  for  the 
feeble  brain  of  man  to  wade  far  into  the  doings  of  the  .Most 
High.'  Some  of  his  periods  are  cumbrous  and  intricate,  but  in 
general  they  roll  melodiously  on,  with  the  serene  might  of  tlu' 
soul  that  inspires  and  moves  them,  rich  in  imagery  and  nol)le  in 
diction. 

Hank. — Bv  universal  consent,  one  of  the  great  in  Englisli 
letters.  A  learned  divine  without  fanaticism.  A  j)(M-suasiv(> 
logician,  from  the  chain  of  whose  reasoning  it  is  hard  to  di-tach 
a  link,  without  a  fractur(\  A  jjhilosopher  whose  breadth  and 
power  of  mind  are  shown  not  only  in  the  conception  an<l  ap|)li- 
cation  of  one  majestic  principle,  but  in  the  e.\liil)itioii  of  many 
principles  harmoniously  related.  Noiu*  bt'fore  him  had  his  grasp 
and  largeness;  lew  after  him  have  been  so  comprehensivf.  As 
he  was  one  of  the  loftiest  of  thinkers,  so  lie  was  one  of  the  most 
practical.  The  idea  that  shone  in  th(^  heaven  of  contcini>lat  ion, 
radiated  in  a  thousand  directions  on  the  eartli.  Worthy  to  lie 
regarded  not  onlv  as  one  of  tlie  fathers  of  the  Kiiglish  ('lunch. 
but  as  one  of  the  chief  foundt-rs  of  Knglish  prose.  It  was  said 
by  a  contemporarv  llomanist    lliat    he   had    mver  read  an   l-,'nL''!isii 


350      FIRST  CKEATIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

book  whose  writer  deserved  the  name  of  author  till  he  read  the 
first  four  books  of  'a  poor  obscure  English  priest'  on  Laws  and 
Church  Polity:  a  judgment  which  points  at  least  to  the  fact  that 
the  'obscure  priest'  is  the  original  of  what  deserves  to  be  called 
English    literature,   in  its  theological  and  philosophical  domain. 

Character. —  Grave,  mild,  modest,  and  devout;  in  youth 
ardently  studious,  and  in  manhood  conspicuous  equally  for  learn- 
ing and  for  eloquence.  As  a  schoolboy  he  was  remarkable  for  his 
contiiuial  questioning,  but  his  inquisitive  intellect  was  accompa- 
nied with  docility  of  disposition,  and  the  happy  teacher  spared  no 
efTorts  to  advance  the  little  wonder.  His  body  was  feeble,  his 
soul  capacious.  He  suffered  much,  yet  was  without  fretful  or 
morbid  quality,  resolved,  like  Socrates,  to  make  a  noble  use  of 
racking  pains  and  sordid  annoyances.  It  was  in  this  enlightened 
and  tolerant  spirit  that  he  bore  the  perpetual  cross  of  union  with 
a  female  of  vulgar  manners,  of  unprepossessing  face,  of  snappish 
and  tyrannizing  temper.  A  London  hostess,  on  tlie  occasion  of 
his  appointment  to  preach  a  sermon  at  Paul's  Cross,  had  oppor- 
tunely cured  him  of  a  cold.  He  was  easily  persuaded  that  his 
constitutional  delicacy  required  a  perpetual  nurse.  Her  benevo- 
lence not  stoj)ping  here,  she  offered  to  provide  such  a  one;  and 
lie,  in  an  excess  of  gratitude,  ]iromised  to  marry  her  choice.  On 
his  next  arrival,  tiie  artful  woman  presented  her  daughter,  and 
the  guileless  Hooker,  the  thinker  and  scholar,  the  man  of  inno- 
cent wisdom,  wlio  would  have  a  nurse-wife,  got  a  shrew.  She 
preferred  the  more  natural  oHice  of  vixen.  A\'iicn  visited,  about 
a  year  afterwards,  by  two  of  his  former  pupils,  he  was  found 
tending  a  flock  of  sheep,  with  a  copv  of  Horace  in  his  hand.  In 
tlie  house,  tliey  i-(>c('ived  no  entertainment  l)ut  his  conversation, 
which  Mi-s.  Hooker  interru))ted  by  calling  him  sharply  to  come 
an<l  rock  the  ci'adl(>;  for  she  would  have  it  understood  that  her 
husband  was  her  servant,  and  that  his  friends  wcmm'  unwelcome 
guests.      ("rainiuM',  in  taking  ](\i\'e,  said: 

•  (;oi)il  luior.  I  am  sori'v  llmt  your  lot  i-  fallen  in  no  better  L'ronnd  a<  to  yonr  jwr^oii- 
aLTc:  and  more  sorry  that  your  wife  pro\e<  not  a  more  coiiifortal)le  eonipanion  after  yon 
liave  Wearied  yonr-elf  in  yonr  re-tles-  >tn(lie>." 

To  whicli  Hooker   iiiadc^  tlie  cliaracterist  ic  answer: 

'  My  dear  ( .eoiL'e.  if  saii)t<  lia\  e  u-ually  a  double  share  in  the  miseries  of  this  Hf,.,  1, 
that  am  none.  ouL'iit  not  to  repine  at  ulial  my  wis,.  Crealcu-  halli  appointed  for  me,  but 
labor  — as  indeed  I  do  daily  —to  -ubn\it  mine  to  His  will,  ami  posse -s  my  soul  ill  l)ati<'nce 


RALEIGH.  351 

His  intelligence  was  essentially  nioral;  and,  by  the  alchemy  of 
his  rare  spirit,  all  knowledge  and  experience  were  transmuted 
into  celestialized  reason. 

Influence. —  To  Hooker  belongs  the  merit  of  first  fully  de- 
veloping the  English  language  as  a  vehicle  of  refined  and 
philosophic  thought.  His  work  is  monumental.  It  is  still 
referred  to  as  a  great  authority  upon  the  whole  range  of  moral 
and  political  principles.  The  beauty  of  his  daily  life  was  an 
agency  to  create  new  beauty  everywhere.  We  can  believe  that 
it  left  its  impress  even  upon  his  wife.  A  man  of  noble  piety  is 
in  a  community  like  a  flower  that  fills  the  whole  house  with  its 
fragrance;  and  the  children  born  there  a  hundred  years  later  are 
better  born  than  elsewhere,  because  that  man  spread  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  character  there,  and  uplifted  the  vulgar  when  they 
knew  it  not. 

Above  all,  Hooker  introduced  into  polemics  a  new  spirit  and 
method  —  philosophical  rather  than  theological.  Against  the 
dogmatism  of  creed  he  set  the  authority  of  reason,  to  which  he 
gave  so  large  a  place  that  never,  even  to  this  day,  has  it  nuide  a 
similar  advance.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see  the  immense  inij^or- 
tance  of  this  change, —  a  change  of  which,  indeed,  he  is  the 
re}>resentative  and  reactionary  rather  than  the  initial  and  efficient 
cause.  As  long  as  an  opinion  was  (lef(>nded  by  the  dogmatic 
method,  whoever  assailed  it  incurred  the  imputation  of  heresy, 
and  it  was  easy  to  justify  his  persecution;  l)ut  when  it  was 
chiefly  defended  by  human  n>asoii,  which  leads  tlie  al)lest  minds 
to  the  most  oj)posite  conclusions,  the  element  of  uncertainty 
entered,  and  punishment  was  felt  to  be  wrong  when  it  was  seen 
that  the  persecuted  iiti'fht  be  right. 


KALE  T  Gil, 


A  tjri'at  hut  ill-rcL'iihiti'd  luiiul. —//"//;»'. 

BiOgrapliy. — Horn  in  J)('Vonsliire,  in  l.").")-*,  tlie  youuLi'er  son 
(.)!'  a  fiimilv  richer  in  aiieient  lineage  than  in  patrimony;  enierc'd 
Oxford,  but   ijuil    It    shortly  lor  active   \\ii\  with   no  rcsoiii-cc   but 


352      FIRST  CREATIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

his  enterprise  and  his.  sword;  at  seventeen  a  valorous  leader  in 
the  Protestant  cause  of  France,  subsequently  in  the  Netherlands, 
then  in  Ireland;  from  the  art  of  war,  turned  to  the  art  of  naviga- 
tion, which  had  led  Columbus  to  discovery  and  Pizarro  to  con- 
quest; planned  an  expedition  to  North  America;  planted  colonies 
in  the  wilds  to  which  the  royal  maiden  had  eagerly  given  the 
name  of  Yii'(jinia,  but  failed,  the  colonists  returning  with  tobacco 
and  potatoes  instead  of  diamonds  and  gold;  rose  to  a  favorite  of 
the  Queen,  was  knighted,  was  her  chief  adviser  in  the  Spanish 
invasion  of  the  Armada,  was  active  in  its  destruction  and  ser- 
viceable in  Parliament ;  a  courtier  commatiding  the  Q)ueen's 
guard,  riding  abroad  with  her  in  his  suit  of  solid  silver,  or  at- 
tending the  Court  in  dress  gorgeous  with  jewels,  from  the  huge 
diamond  which  buttoned  his  feather  to  his  shoes  powdered  with 
pearls;  intrigued  with  a  maid  of  honor,  and  lost  the  favor  which 
had  been  the  pride  of  his  ambition;  married  the  maid,  and  was 
imprisoned  with  his  wife  in  the  Tower;  counterfeited  the  most 
romantic  despair  at  the  Queen's  displeasure,  and  obtained  his 
freedom,  but  was  banished  the  presence;  thought  to  dazzle  her 
imagination,  and  went  in  quest  of  the  El  Dorado,  fabled  to  be  in 
the  interior  of  South  America,  where  the  sands  glistened,  the 
rocks  shone,  and  the  houses  were  roofed,  with  the  precious  metal; 
returned,  and  wrote: 

'Of  the  little  remaining  fortune  I  had,  1  have  wasted  in  cflfect  all  herein.  I  have 
iiiiderLrone  many  eonstriictions,  been  accompanied  with  many  sorrows,  with  labor, 
hiiiiu:cr,  heat,  sickness,  and  i)eril.  From  myself  I  liave  deserved  no  thanks:  for  I  am 
returned  a  bej;;gar,  and  withered.' 

Restored  to  the  favor  of  his  mistress-sovereign  by  the  brilliancy 
of  his  maritime  enterprise,  he  was  discountenanced  by  James  I, 
whose  mind  had  been  poisoned  by  a  malignant  rival;  was  tried 
on  a  charge  f)f  treason,  condemned,  but  repi'ieved,  and  instead  of 
being  executed  was  committed  to  the  Tower,  where  he  was  con- 
fuuHl  for  twelve  years,  during  six  of  wliich  his  wife  was  ])ermitted 
to  bear  him  coiii))aiiy;  tempted  tlie  cupiditv  of  tlie  king  by  tlie 
vision  of  a  gold-mine  and  a  new  ein])ire  in  Guiana;  offered  to 
e<|ui])  a  fleet  for  the  adventure,  and  was  released  ])ut  not  jiar- 
doiied:  burned  a  Spanish  town,  got  notliing  of  value,  was  forced 
to  return  a  liaflled  dreamer,  under  tlu>  imputations  of  falsehood 
and    treaeliery  ;    and    to    satisfv    tlie    implacable    Spaniards,    was 


RALEIGH.  353 

executed,  in  1618,  on  the  old  sentence,  which  had  been  suspended 
over  his  head  like  the  pointed  sword. 

"Writing^. — His  prison-hours  were  made  memorable  by  the 
composition  in  his  cell  of  the  History  of  the  World.  He  begins 
with  the  Creator  and  the  creation  ;  discusses  fate,  fore-knowl- 
edge, and  free-will,  the  site  of  Paradise,  the  travels  of  Cain;  the 
several  floods,  whose  dates  are  pretty  certain;  Noah's  Ark,  which 
is  proved,  with  prodigious  labor,  not  to  have  rested  on  Ararat; 
descends,  through  sacred  story,  to  the  annals  of  Assyria,  Persia, 
Greece,  and  Rome;  closing  with  the  fall  of  the  Macedonian  Em- 
pire, B.C.  170;  and  infusing  into  his  voluminous  scroll  of  four 
thousand  years  the  foolish  and  the  wise  sayings  of  Pagan  and 
Christian  philosophers  and  poets,  dissertations  on  the  origin  of 
law  and  government,  digressions  on  slavery,  on  idolatry,  on  art,  all 
the  fables  that  were  believed  by  the  learned  and  the  unlearned 
alike,  all  that  his  own  eyes  had  observed  in  the  old  and  the  new- 
worlds,  and  whatever  the  peculiar  studies  of  each  individual  in 
his  cultured  circle  could  afford.  Whoever  can  have  patience  to 
wade  through  the  first  half  of  the  book,  will  find,  when  he  reaches 
the  second,  that  his  pains  are  not  unrewarded.  In  its  versatile 
pages  are  eloquent  and  stirring  passages,  embod3'ing  the  grave 
and  grand  idea  of  death  as  the  issue  throughout  —  oblivion,  dust, 
and  endless  darkness.      Thus: 

'We  have  left  Rome  flouri.--hing  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  having  rooted  up  or  cut 
down  all  that  kept  it  from  the  ej-es  and  admiration  of  the  world.  But,  after  ^^onie  con- 
tinuance, it  shall  beirin  to  lose  the  beauty  it  had;  the  storms  of  ambition  shall  beat  her 
great  bou;_'hs  and  branches  one  against  another;  her  leaves  sliall  fall  off,  her  limbs  wither, 
and  a  rabljle  of  barbarous  nations  enter  the  field  and  cut  her  down.' 

Again: 

'If  we  seek  a  reason  of  the  succession  and  continuance  of  this  boundless  ambition  in 
tnortal  men,  we  may  add  to  that  which  hath  been  already  said,  that  the  kings  and  priiicis 
of  the  world  have  always  lai<l  before  them  the  actions  but  not  the  ends  of  ibo-e  i:reat 
ones  which  preceded  them.  They  are  always  transported  with  the  glory  of  the  one,  hut 
they  never  mind  the  misery  of  the  f)ther,  til!  they  find  the  ex])erience  in  them-elve-. 
They  neglect  the  advice  of  God,  while  they  enjoy  life  or  hoiie  it;  l)ut  they  follow  the 
counsel  of  death  upon  his  first  approach.  It  is  he  that  puts  into  man  all  the  wi-dom  i.f 
the  world,  without  s|)eakinLra  word,  which  fiod,  with  all  tlie  words  of  IIi<  l.iw,  pnnni-es. 
or  threats,  doth  not  infuse.  Death,  which  hateth  and  (festroyetli  man.  is  believed:  (;<>il, 
which  hath  made  him  and  loves  him,  is  always  deferred.  ...  It  i-  De.ilh  alone  lli:it  ran 
suddenly  make  man  to  know  himself.  He  tells  the  jiroud  and  indolent  lli.it  tliey  Mre  hut 
abjects,  and  humbles  ihem  at  the  instant,  makes  them  cry,  coiiiplain,  and  rejieiit,  ye.i, 
even  to  hate  their  forei)ast  hajipiness.  He  takes  the  account  of  the  rich,  and  piii\e-  liiui 
a  beggar,  a  naked  begtrar,  which  bath  interest  in  nothiiii:  but  the  v'ra\el  th:it  ti!N  h:~ 
mouth.  lie  holds  a  glass  before  the  eyes  of  the  most  he:iutifiil,  and  makes  tlieni  see 
therein  their  deformity  and  rottenness,  and  they  acknowledge  it." 

23        ' 


354      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

This  was  his  great  literary  work;  but  his  miscellaneous  writ- 
ings are  so  various  that  they  have  been  classed  under  the  heads 
of  poetical,  epistolary,  military,  maritime,  geographical,  political, 
philosophical,  and  historical.  It  was  one  of  his  intentions  to 
write  an  English  epic;  but  his  busy  life  allowed  him  leisure  only 
for  some  scattered  and  fragmentary  efforts.  These,  however,  are 
affluent  of  grace  and  tenderness,  depth  of  sentiment  and  strength 
of  imagination.     Thus: 

'Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streams; 
The  shallow  nuirmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb; 
So,  when  affections  yield  discourse,  It  seems 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come. 
They  that  are  rich  in  words,  in  words  discover 
That  they  are  poor  in  that  which  makes  a  lover.' 

Or  his  reply  to  Marlowe's  Passionate  Shepherd: 

'If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young. 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold. 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
And  Pliilomel  becomcth  dumb; 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields: 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  bed  of  roses. 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  i)osies. 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, — 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, — 
All  those  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed; 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need; 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  livu  with  tliue  and  be  thy  love.' 

Or  the  justness  of  moral   perception   in  the  couplet,  profoundly 
true: 

'Of  death  and  juil<_'niont,  heaven  and  hell. 
Who  oft  doth  think,  must  needs  die  well.' 

And  the  noble  pathos  of  tlic  SouVs  Erro)i<l: 

'  Co,  Soul,  the  body's  guest.  Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 

Tpon  a  thankless  errand:  And  give  the  world  the  lie.  .  .  . 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best:  Tell  zeal  it  wants  devotion: 

The  trutli  shall  be  thv  warrant:  Tell  love  it  is  txit  lust: 


RALEIGH.  355 

Tell  time  it  is  but  motion;  Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness; 

Tell  flesli  it  is  but  dust;  .  .  .  Tell  nature  of  decay; 

Tell  age  it  daily  wastetli;  Tell  friendship  of  unkindnesa; 

Tell  honour  how  it  alters;  Tell  justice  of  delay: 

Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth;  And  if  they  will  reply, 

Tell  favour  how  it  falters.  .  .  .  Then  give  them  all  the  lie." 

Style. —  Easy,  vigorous,  elevated,  as  a  whole;  seldom  low, 
never  affected;  often  ornate,  with  an  antique  richness  of  imagery; 
showing,  when  most  careful,  the  artificial  structure  of  Sidney 
and  Hooker.  In  poetry,  simple,  sweet,  melodious  and  strong, 
Spenser  called  him  'the  summer's  nightingale.' 

£>ank. — In  tliat  brilliant  constellation  of  the  groat  which 
adorned  his  period,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  those  who 
added  eminence  in  letters  to  eminence  in  action.  Conspicuous  in 
an  era  prodigal  of  genius,  as  a  soldier,  a  statesman,  a  navigator, 
and  a  writer,  a  valorous  knight,  and  the  most  splendid  of  adven- 
turers. An  orator  whom  the  Queen,  we  are  told,  'took  for  a 
kind  of  oracle.'  An  experimentalist  in  natural  phenomena,  seek- 
ing the  philosopher's  stone  and  the  elixir  of  life.  In  political 
economy,  he  anticipated  the  modern  doctrine  of  Free  Trade;  in 
metaphysics,  Stewart's  fundamental  laws  of  human  belief.  He 
is  the  pioneer  in  the  department  of  dignified  historical  writing, 
and,  could  he  have  tamed  the  wild  fire  of  his  erratic  dreams, 
"would  have  won  a  foremost  place  among  the  famous  poets  of  his 
day. 

Cliaracter. — A  genius  versatile  as  ambitious.  What  strikes 
us  most  forcibly  is  his  restless  and  capacious  intellect, —  In's 
various  efficiency,  and  his  ])rompt  aptitude  for  whatever  absorbed 
him  at  the  moment;  his  superabundant  physical  and  mental 
vitality,  which  disj;)lavs  itself  equally  in  literature  and  in  action. 
Hauglity  in  prosperity,  base  in  humiliation.  With  vision  of  the 
moral  heights,  he  could  creep  in  crooked  politics,  or  intrigue  in 
dark  labyrinths,  and  was  an  adept  in  the  arts  of  bril)('ry  and  of 
flattery.  It  was  thus,  when  a  prisoner  for  his  love-treason,  that 
he  gallantly  raved  of  the  Queen,  aged  sixty: 

'I  was  worn  to  hchdlil  hi^r  ridiiiir  like  Ali-xandcr,  hnntiii?  like  Di:in:i.  wuIkiiiLT  likf 
Venus:  tlu'  gentle  wind  blowiiiir  her  f:iir  liair  iiliout  licr  pure  clicck^  likf  a  iiyinpli; 
sometime  sitting'  in  the  sliadc  like  a  Ljoddrss,  soinctiinc  siniriiiL'  like  an  ani.'rl," 

His  principal    defect,    even    when    his    ends    were    patriotic    and 
noble,  was  unserupulousness  as  to  the   means.      I3ut    we  will  re- 


356      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

member  that,  with  boundless  desires,  he  was  thrown  from  the 
first  upon  his  own  resources.  He  was  in  a  sense  to  be  the  archi- 
tect of  his  own  destinies,  and  was  in  a  measure  to  be  the  creature 
of  circumstances.  It  was  his  fate  to  make  headway  through 
subtle  and  plotting  factions. 

A  courtier  holding  'the  glass  of  fashion,'  a  daring  child  of 
fortune,  he  was  also  a  recluse  thinker,  equally  renowned  for  his 
contemplative  and  his  active  powers.  It  was  in  misfortune,  after 
all,  that  his  noble  self  was  asserted, —  never  more  grandly  than 
when,  the  night  before  he  was  beheaded,  he  wrote: 

'Even  such  is  time,  tliat  talies  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have. 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust; 
Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave. 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways. 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days; 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
>ly  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust!' 

His  wits  were,  on  all  occasions,  equal  to  his  reputation.  '  Traitor, 
monster,  viper,  spider  of  hell!'  cried  the  Attorney-General,  'I 
want  words  to  express  thy  viperous  treasons.' — 'True,'  said 
Raleigh  quietly,  'for  you  have  spoken  the  same  thing  half  a 
dozen  times  over  already,'  Dauntless  in  life,  reflection  had  taught 
him  how  to  die.  On  the  scaffold,  after  vindicating  his  conduct 
in  a  manly  speech  to  the  spectators,  he  desired  to  see  the  axe. 
When  tlie  headsman  hesitated,  he  said:  'I  pray  thee,  let  me  see 
it;  dost  thou  think  that  I  am  afraid  of  it?' — As  he  ran  his 
fingers  over  its  keen  edge,  he  smilingly  remarked:  'This  is  a 
sharp  medicine,  but  it  will  cure  all  diseases.'  When  ho  had 
extended  himself  for  the  stroke,  he  was  requested  to  turn  his 
head.  'So  the  heart  be  right,'  he  replied,  'it  is  no  matter  which 
way  the  head  lieth.'  When  he  had  forgiven  the  executioner  and 
had  ])rayed,  the  signal  was  made,  which  not  being  followed  im- 
mediately by  the  stroke,  he  said:  'Why  dost  thou  not  strike? 
Strike,  man  I ' 

Influence.  —  He  contributed  to  that  passion  for  adventure 
and  discovery  which  gave  at  this  period  an  unusual  impetus  to 
the  mind  of  man.  His  exploring  captains  discovered  a  virgin 
soil — \'irginia.  His  attemj)ts  at  colonization  were  indeed  fruit- 
less in  their  ostensiljle  aim,  but  were  instrumental  to  others  more 
successful   and    permanent;  just  as  this  man  plays  with  the  light- 


RALEIGH.  357 

ning  and  brings  nothing  to  pass,  while  his  son  after  him  flashes 
intelligence  through  the  air.  Through  the  gratitude  of  later  times, 
less  for  what  he  did  than  for  what  he  strove  to  do,  Raleigh  —  the 
capital  of  North  Carolina  —  preserves  his  romantic  name.  He 
formed  the  famous  Mermaid  Club  —  oldest  of  its  kind  —  where 
Shakespeare  brought  to  the  feast  of  wit  the  briglitness  of  his 
fancy,  and  Jonson  his  sarcastic  humor.  He  projected  an  oftice 
of  universal  agency,  and  thus  forecast  that  useful  information 
which  we  now  recognize  by  the  term  of  advertisement.  He 
joyed  to  pay  the  homage  of  his  protection  to  Spenser,  and  the 
severe  Milton  carefully  collected  his  maxims  and  his  counsels. 
And  so  this  restless  spirit,  who  seemed,  in  his  ceaseless  occupa- 
tions, to  have  lived  only  for  his  own  age  and  his  own  pleasure, 
was  the  true  servant  of  posterity,  who  hail  him  as  also  one  of  the 
founders  of  literature.  Had  his  life  been  devoted  to  letters  in- 
stead of  a  variety  of  pursuits,  his  success  would  have  been  brill- 
iant and  lasting;  his  writings,  no  longer  now  a  living  force,  would 
have  been  a  perennial  power.  A  universal  genius  is  not  likely 
to  reach  eminent  and  enduring  excellence  in  anytiiing.  The 
beams  of  a  thousand  suns  will  not  fire  the  softest  piece  of  timber 
when  radiating  freely.  Unity  of  effort  —  a  gathering  of  the  soul's 
energies  —  a  limitation  of  the  field  of  exertion  —  is  essential  to 
glorious  achievement.  This  shifting,  various  career  suggests  a 
second  truth  for  the  education  of  character, —  that  inattention  to 
the  outer  world  promotes  attention  to  the  inner;  that  the  circum- 
stance which  sunders  the  mind  from  external  things,  impels  it 
inward,  from  the  life  of  sensation  to  the  life  of  reflection.  It  was 
through  the  Traitor's  Gate  that  our  hero  passed  t<j  a  tranquillity 
and  thoughtfuliiess  impossible  outside.  Within  the  sombre  walls 
of  the  Tower  shone  the  celestial  light.  "When  the  body  is  im- 
prisoned, the  soul  may  be  most  free. 

'Then  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings. 
And  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light.' 


358      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


SPENSER. 

Who,  like  a  copious  river,  pour'd  his  song 

O'er  all  the  niuze:?  of  enchanted  groimd.—TTiotmon. 

We  must  not  fear  to  assert,  with  the  best  judges  of  this  and  former  ages,  that  Spen- 
ser is  still  the  third  name  in  the  poetical  literature  of  our  country,  and  that  he  has  not 
been  surpassed,  except  by  Dante,  in  any  othur. —IlaUam. 

Biography. — Born  in  London  in  155'2;  his  parents  poor  but  of 
ancient  fame;  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he  imbued  himself 
with  the  noblest  philosophies;  quit  the  university  to  live  as  a 
tutor  ill  the  North,  where  in  obscure  poverty  he  passed  through 
a  deep  and  unfortunate  passion;  driven  again  southward  by  the 
scorn  of  the  fair  'Rosalind';  wanted  to  dream,  and  sought,  with 
ceaseless  importunity,  the  patronage  of  wealth,  that  he  might 
live  in  the  free  indulgence  of  his  tastes;  was  sent  as  an  envoy 
to  France;  was  a  guest  of  the  chivalrous  Sidney,  in  the  castle 
where  the  Arcadia  was  produced;  gained  the  favor  of  the 
Queen,  but  obtained  only  inferior  employment;  went  to  Ireland 
as  a  private  secretary;  there  remained,  with  appointments  more 
honorable  than  lucrative,  on  a  grant  of  forfeited  estate,  in  a 
lonely  castle,  from  which  the  view  embraced  a  beautiful  lake,  an 
amphitheatre  of  mountains,  and  three  thousand  acres  of  barren 
solitude;   received  a  visit  from  Raleigh,  Avho  — 

''Gan  to  cast  great  lil-cing  to  my  lore. 
And  great  disliking  to  ?>uj  li/ckUss  lot, 
T/iaf  huHiKhed  had  myself,  like  rriglil  forlorn. 
Into  that  uaste  where  I  was  quite  forgot  ",• 

was  created  poet  laureate,  and  decreed  a  pension  of  fifty  pounds; 
visited  England  at  intervals  to  publish  poems,  or  to  find  a  situa- 
tion in  his  native  home,  still  the  persistent  court-suitor  moving 
round  the  interminable  circle  of  'hope  deferred';  tells  us  how  on 
a  summer's  day, — 

'I,  whose  sullen  care, 
TlirouLrh  discontent  of  my  long  fruilloss  stay 
In  primes'  court,  and  expectation  vain 
f)f  idle  liopes  whicli  still  do  lly  away. 
Ijke  einpty  sliadous,  did  afflict  my  lirain, 
Walked  fortli,  to  (-(ise  my  jjiiin, 
Along  tlie  sliore  of  silver- streaming  Thames'; 

banished,  as  Ik"  said,  to  his  vnidesired  and  savage  locality  as  often 
as  he  sued  to  leave  it,  whence  a  rebellion  expelled  him,  after  his 


SPENSER.  359 

house  and  youngest  child  had  been  burned  by  the  insurgents; 
died  three  months  later,  in  1599,  in  obscure  lodgings,  of  misery 
and  a  broken  heart;  buried,  close  by  Chaucer,  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  Poets  held  his  pall,  and  cast  their  elegies  into  his 
grave. 

Appearance. — Face  long  and  somewhat  spare,  beard  closely 
shaven,  moustache  full  and  arching,  nose  of  the  Grecian  type, 
forehead  well-formed,  hair  short  and  curling,  eyebrows  heavy, 
eyelids  drooping,  eyes  thoughtful  and  dreamy,  lips  full  enough 
to  denote  feeling,  firm  enough  to  prevent  its  riotous  overflow. 
To  the  commonplace  gossips,  he  Avas  only  'a  little  man  who  wore 
short  hair,  little  bands,  and  little  cuffs.' 

Writings. —  As  on  an  inexhaustible,  many-winding  stream, 
whose  end  is  never  reached,  Spenser  floated,  many  a  summer's 
day,  adown  the  gently-flowing  vision  of  the  Fairy  Queen.  To 
please  the  Court,  the  scene  is  laid  in  contemporary  England,  and 
includes  all  the  leading  personages  of  the  day  under  the  veil  of 
knights  and  their  squires  and  lady-loves: 

'Of  Faery  Land  yet  if  he  more  inquire, 
By  certain  signs,  here  set  in  sundry  places, 
He  may  it  find;  .  .  . 
And  thou,  O  fairest  princess  under  sky. 
In  this  fair  mirror  mayst  bcliold  tliy  face 
And  thine  own  rcahns  in  land  of  Faery.' 

To  please  posterity,  to  suit  this  wider  and  higher  application  of 
his  plan,  the  characters  double  their  parts,  and  appear  as  the 
impersonations  of  moral  attributes.     He  says: 

'I  have  uiidertaken  to  rci)res('iit  all  the  moral  virtues,  assiiruhii;  to  every  virtue  a 
kniuht  to  be  the  patron  and  defender  of  the  same:  in  whose  actions  and  fiats  of  arnw 
the  operations  of  that  virtue  whereof  he  is  the  ])roIeetor  are  to  be  ex|)ressed,  and  the 
vices  and  unruly  appetites  that  oppose  themselves  against  the  same,  to  bu  beaten  down 
and  overcome.' 

To  each  of  the  twelve  virtues,  each  embodied  in  a  representative 
patron,  was  to  be  devoted  a  book  of  twelve  cantos;  this,  if  well 
received,  to  be  followed  by  the  ex])Osition  of  tw(>lvo  othci-s,  tlie 
guardians  of  public  faith.  In  the  dedication  to  Iialeigli,  lie  tells 
us  that  'the  general  end  of  tlie  book  is  to  fusliioii  a  gcntleinan 
...  ill  virtuous  and  gentle  discipline.'  And  in  the  })ersoii  of 
tlie  Fairy  herself,  lie  iiifornis  us:  'T  mean  ///"/•//  in  my  ii-eneral 
intention,  but  in  my  particular,  I  conceive  the  most  exci-llent  and 


360       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

glorious  person  of  our  sovereign,  the  queen.''  In  the  legendary 
Arthur,  the  sun  of  the  whole  knightly  company,  man  was  to  be 
seen  perfected,  in  his  longing  and  progress  toward  the  Fairy 
Queen,  the  divine  excellence  which  is  the  true  end  of  human 
effort.  Thus  the  poem .  may  be  characterized,  in  its  intent,  as  a 
dream  of  idealism,  a  poem  of  the  human  soul  struggling  towards 
the  perfect  love,  which  is  God,  and  towards  the  perfect  beauty, 
which  consists  not  in  harmony  of  color  and  form,  but  in  the 
deathless  idea  which  shines  through  them.  Its  true  scene  is  not 
material  but  mental  space,  the  world  of  picture  and  illusion,  in 
which  the  actual  is  idealized  and  the  ideal  is  real.  In  this 
enchanted  region  two  worlds  are  harmonized  —  the  beauty  of 
energy  and  the  beauty  of  happiness,  Christian  chivalry  and  pagan 
Olympus,  mediaival  romance  and  classical  mythology;  the  second 
imaginary,  the  first  shadowy,  both  poetic;  each^  in  some  sort,  a 
mutilated  copy  or  suggestion  of  invisible  forces  and  ideas  —  the 
heaven  of  Plato.  At  this  elevation,  fancy  loses  itself,  invention 
overflows,  apparitions  abound,  phrases  are  expanded  into  periods, 
objects  are  traced  with  lingering,  infinite  detail.  A  wounded 
giant  falls  — 

'As  an  aged  tree, 
High  growing  on  the  fop  of  rocky  clift, 
Whose  heart-strings  with  keen  steel  nigh  hewen  be, 
The  mighty  trunk  half  rent  with  ragged  rift. 
Doth  roll  adown  the  rocks,  and  fall  with  fearful  drift. 
Or  as  a  castle,  reared  high  and  round. 
By  subtile  engines  and  malicious  slight 
Is  undermined  from  the  lowest  ground. 
And  her  foundation  forced,  and  feebled  quite. 
At  last  down  falls;  and,  with  her  heaped  height. 
Her  hasty  ruin  does  more  heavy  make. 
And  yields  itself  unto  the  victor's  might." 

All  this,  because  the  dream  is  pleasant,  and  the  dreamer  loves  to 
see  the  living  and  changing  figures  rise  and  display  themselves 
incessantly.  Now  consider  the  vastness  of  the  design,  which, 
when  completed,  was  to  comprise  not  less  than  a  hundred  thou- 
sand verses.  What  result?  Only  six  books  completed, —  alle- 
gories of  Holiness,  Temperance^  Cliastity,  Priendsliip,  Justice, 
and  Coiirtesi/,  whieli,  however,  form  one  of  tlie  longest  poems  in 
existence;  no  movement  of  the  whole;  like  a  train  whose  large- 
orbed  wlii^cls  spin  pleasantly  without  progress;  fancy  .strays,  the 
thread  is  lost  in  an  ecsta.^y  of  adornment;  features  blend,  posi- 
tions and  exploits  reappear,  imagery  fails,  and  the  first  book  sur- 


SPENSER.  361 

passes  all  the  others  in  consistency  and  splendor;  in  fact,  six 
separate  poems,  in  which  the  action  diverges,  then  converges, 
becomes  confused,  then  starts  again;  each  combining  the  imagin- 
ings of  antiquity  and  the  middle  age,  fair,  terrible,  and  fantastic; 
a  series  of  airy  shapes  that  waver  and  are  gone;  a  phantasmago- 
ria, one  part  allegory  and  nine  parts  beauty;  while  in,  under,  and 
over  all  is  a  sublime  spirituality,  the  heaven  without  rent  or 
seam,  where  no  ache  or  sorrow  of  spirit  can  enter,  the  extreme 
verge  where  the  realm  of  mind  and  the  realm  of  sense  unite, — 
the  everlasting  Ought  and  Possible  of  human  life. 

The  reader  will  perceive  the  impossibility  of  giving  the  plot 
in  full,  if  plot  it  may  be  called, — 

'That  shape  has  none, 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb.' 

The  true  use  of  these  magical  pages  is  as  of  a  noble  gallery  of 

art,  which,  without  stopping  long  enough  to  cloy  his  perceptions, 

one  visits  to  forget  himself,  for  solace  and  delight,  to  wonder,  to 

admire,  to  dream,  to  be  happy,  and  by  that  experience,  to  refine 

and  sweeten  his  tastes, — 

'Lifting  hinii^elf  out  of  the  lowly  dust 
On  golden  plumes  up  to  the  jnirest  sky.' 

Was  never  invention  more  prodigal  and  brilliant, —  on  earth  a  pil- 
grim, its  home  on  the  celestial  mountains.  Here,  in  a  description 
of  the  House  of  Morpheus,  is  a  suggestion  of  its  endless  grace, 
dreaming  pleasure,  and  picturesque  play: 

'--1  Wllfi  lowly  hermifage  if  was 
Down  ill  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forext'x  aide. 
Far  from  resort  oj'  people  tluit  did  pass 
In  travel  to  and  fro:    a  little  wide 
There  was  a  holy  cliapel  edified, 
Wherein  the  lieruiit  duly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  tilings  each  morn  and  eventide; 
Thereby  a  crystal  stream  did  gently  jday 
Which  from  a  sacred  fountain  welled  forth  alway. 

Arrived  there  the  little  house  they  (111, 
Nor  look  for  entertainment  where  none  was. 
R<'st  is  tlicir  feast,  and  all  things  at  their  will. 
The  noldexf  mind  the  l>est  contentment  h<ts. 
Willi  fair  discourse  tile  evening  so  they  jiass, 
For  that  old  man  of  pleasing  wonls  had  store. 
And  well  could  tile  his  tongue  as  smootli  as  glass: 
He  told  of  saints  and  liopes,  and  erennnre  ' 

He  streii'd  nn  Are  Maty,  after  and  Itefore. 

And  drooping  nitrlit  tiius  crrepetti  on  llii'in  fa-t; 
And  the  sad  Iniiuour,  loading  their  eye-lids, 


362       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

As  messenger. of  Morpheus,  on  them  cast 
Sweet  shiniberiiig  clew;   the  which  to  sleep  them  bids; 
L'nto  their  lodgings  then  his  guests  he  rids; 
Where,  when  all  drown"d  in  deadly  sleep  he  finds. 
He  to  his  study  goes,  and  there  amidl^' 
His  magic  books  and  arts  of  sundry  kinds, 
lie  seeks  out  mighty  charms  to  trouble  sle(])y  minds.  .  .  . 

And  forth  he  call'd  out  of  deep  darkness  dread 
Legions  of  sprites,  the  which,  like  little  llieg. 
Fluttering  about  his  ever  damned  head. 
Await  whereto  their  service  he  applies. 
To  aid  his  friends,  or  fray  his  enemies; 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  two 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true  seeming  lies; 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  to, 
The  other  by  himself  staid  other  work  to  do. 

He  maketh  speedy  way  through  spersed  air, 
And  through  the  norld  of  waters  wide  and  deep. 
To  ]Morpheus"  house  doth  hastily  repair. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steep. 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peep. 
His  dwelling  is;   t/iere  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  nash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steep 
In  silver  dew  his  ever-drooping  head. 
While  sad  night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spread. 

Whose  double  gates  he  findetli  locked  fast; 
The  one  fair  franrd  of  Ininiished  ivory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast; 
And  wakeful  dogs  l)efore  them /rtr  do  lie. 
Watching  to  banish  Care  tlieir  enemy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleep; 
By  them  the  sprite  dotli  pass  in  (juielly 
And  unto  Mripluus  comes,  whom  drowned  deep 
In  drowsy  tit  lie  liiuls;  of  nothing  he  takes  keep. 

And  more  to  bill  him  in  hts  slumber  soft, 

A  trickling  stream,  f  ron\  high  rock  tumbling  doirn. 

And  ever  drizzling  rain  upon  the  loft, 

Mi.v'd  n'illi  a  ynnrmnring  irind,  mnclt  like  the  soun 

Of  sn  arming  hees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swoun : 

No  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cries. 

As  still  arc  nont  to  annoy  the  nailed  toun. 

Might  tliere  be  heard ;  hut  careless  Quift  lies, 

Wrapt  in  eternal  silence,  far  from  enemies.^ 

Tn  the  ]iaradi.se  of  devices,  you  are  unconscious  of  the  sentiment, 
ami  wlieii  reiiiindcd  of  it,  jirefer  to  foro-et  it.  Yon  may  be  told 
tliat  Arcliimap'o,  a  hy))ocritical  ma<rician  (PTvpocri.sy)  lures,  be- 
cause lie  caniK)t  be  detected,  T'na  (Truth)  and  the  Red-cross 
Knip-ht  (Holiness)  into  his  aboch^:  that,  while  thev  are  asleep, 
he  sends  to  Morpheus  (the  ixod  Slce)i)  for  ;i  false  dream  to  pro- 
duce discord  between  them;  bnt  von  are  <lisenchanted,  and 
choose  rather  the  condition   of  reverie,   the  irentle  sway  of   the 


SPENSER.  363 

measure  that  floats  you  lullingly  from  scene  to  scene.  The  de- 
light of  the  eyes  is,  for  once,  finer  than  the  instruction  of  the 
understanding.  The  images,  in  their  ideal  life,  are  more  potent 
as  poetry,  living  beings  and  actions,  than  as  symbols  investing  a 
theology. 

With  this  ever-flowing  fertility  of  inspiration,  there  is  no  per- 
plexity, no  haze.  Every  object  is  defined,  complete,  separate. 
If  it  moves  a  thousand  leagues  from  the  actual,  so  do  we,  and 
are  not  the  less  interested,  because  it  is  not  flesh  and  blood.  It 
is  something  better,  something  beyond  the  importunate  trifles 
which  we  gravely  call  realities,  something  of  that  to-morrow, 
always  coming  and  never  come,  where  thought  and  fancy  are 
free.  We  take  pleasure  in  its  brilliancy  or  its  bravery,  without 
regard  to  whether  it  be  substantial.  We  are  upborne  by  associ- 
ation, and  g-row  credulous  and  lia})py  by  contagion.  When  Sir 
Guyon  is  led  by  the  tempter  Mammon  in  tlie  subterranean  realm, 
through  caverns,  unknown  abysses,  across  wonderful  gardens,  by 
glittering  palaces,  trees  laden  with  golden  fruits,  we  follow,  see 
behind  us  the  ugly  Fiend,  with  monstrous  gait,  ready  to  devour 
us  on  the  least  show  of  covetousness,  and  enter  the  infernal  edi- 
fice, where  hideous  figures  are  outlined  in  the  darksome  depths, 
and  the  shining  metal  lights  up  the  sliadowy  horror: 

'That  h()^ls('"^;  form  within  wa-^  riulc  and  strontr, 
Like  a  hii^^e  cnvv  liewn  out  of  rocky  clift. 
From  ivttOfe  rough  vaull  the  rarjrjed  hrunchen  hung, 
EmboM  With  iihihk!/  gold  of  (jloriOK^  gift. 
And  with  rich  metal  loaded  every  rift. 
That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat: 
And  over  tlicni  Arachne  hlirli  did  lift 
Her  ciinninu'  wch,  and  spread  lier  subtle  net. 
Enwrapped  in  foul  smoke,  and  clouds  more  black  than  jet. 

Both  roof  and  floor,  and  iral!--<  irere  all  of  golil. 
But  overgroini  iiith  dust  and  old  d>ca;/ 
And  hid  in  darkness,  tliat  none  could  b.hold 
T'hue  thereof:   for  view  of  cheerful  <hiy, 
Did  never  in  that  house  ilsidf  disi)lay. 
But  a  fa'nit  slindon-  of  uncertain  light: 
Such  as  a  lamp,  71/.  oo   life  does  fade  an-aij: 
Or  as  the  moon,  clolli'-d  nilh  cloudy  night. 
Does  shou'  to  him  that  iralks  in  fear  anil  sad  af right . 

In  all  that  room  wa<  nothiuL:  to  be  -.cen. 

But  liuL'e  uTcat  iron  clie<ts  and  coITit-^  stro?iL'. 

All  barr'd  with  double  band-;,  that  none  could  ween 

Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wroni:: 

On  every  side  they  i)laced  were-  aloiitr: 


364      FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

But  all  the  ground  with  skulls  was  scattered, 
And  dead  men's  bones,  which  round  about  were  flung. 
Whose  lives  (it  seemed)  whilome  there  were  shed. 
And  their  vile  carcasses  now  left  unburied.' 

The  train  of  scenery  never  ends.  Guyon  (Temperance)  after  the 
test  of  gold,  is  tried  by  that  of  pleasure.  Side  by  side  with  the 
gloomy  vaults  and  the  swarming  fiends  are  the  happy  gardens: 

'And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountain  stood 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  be, 
So  pure  and  shiny  that  the  crystal  flood 
Through  every  channel  running  one  might  see; 
Most  goodly  it  with  carious  imagery 
Was  overwrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boys. 
Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  jollity 
To  fly  about,  i)laying  their  wanton  toys, 
Whilst  others  did  themselves  embay  in  liquid  joys. 

And  over  all,  of  purest  gold  was  spread 
A  trail  of  ivy  in  his  native  hue; 
For  the  rich  metal  was  so  colored 
That  he  who  did  not  well  avised  it  view 
Would  surely  deem  it  to  be  ivy  true ; 
Low  his  lascivious  arms  adowu  did  creep 
That  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew 
Their  flcecj-  flowers  they  tenderly  did  steep. 
Which  drops  of  crystal  seemed  for  wantonness  to  weep. 

Infinite  streams  continually  did  well 
Out  of  this  fountain,  sweet  and  fair  to  see. 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell. 
And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantity 
That  likr  a  little  lake  it  seemed  to  be 
Whose  (U'plh  exceeded  not  three  cubits'  height, 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see 
All  pavurl  beneath  with  jasi)er  shining  bright, 
That  seemed  the  fountain  in  that  sea  did  sail  upright.  .  . 

Eftsoones  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound. 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  dainty  ear. 
Such  as  at  once  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  ])aradise,  be  heard  elsewhere: 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear 
To  read  what  manner  music  that  mote  be; 
For  all  that  i)leasing  is  to  living  <'ar 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony: 
Birds,  voices,  instruments,  winds,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempered  sweet; 
The  angelical,   soft,   trembling  voices  made 
To  the  instruments  divine  rcspondence  mete; 
The  silvcr-soiindiiii:  iiistrnuicntM  did  meet 
With  the  biisi'  nnirmur  of  the  water's  fall; 
The  water's  fall  witli  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call; 
The  gentle,  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all." 


SPENSER.  3G5 

Never  was  poetry  more  luxuriant  and  pictorial.  Never  was 
more  of  that  subtler  spirit  of  the  art,  which  painting  can  not 
express  —  thoughts  beyond  the  visible  proof  of  the  canvas. 
This  man  was  a  colorist  and  an  architect,  equally  of  the  graceful 
and  the  terrible.  Had  he  not  been  himself,  he  would  have  been 
a  Rubens  or  a  Raphael.  Pride,  in  the  throne  chamber  of  her 
palace,  built  over  human  carcasses,  is  thus  described: 

'  So  proud  she  sliono  in  her  princely  state. 
Looking  to  heaven,  for  earth  she  did  disdain, 
And  sitting  high,  for  lowly  she  did  hate: 
Lo!   underneath  her  scornful  feet  was  lain 
*  A  dreadful  Dragon  with  an  hideous  train ; 

And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  mirror  bright. 
Wherein  her  face  she  often  viewed  fain." 

Her  chariot  is  driven  by  Satan,  with  a  team  of  beasts  ridden  by 
the  Mortal  Sins,  one  of  whom  is  Gluttony: 

'His  belly  was  upblown  witli  luxury, 
And  eke  with  fatness  swollen  were  his  eyne. 
And  like  a  crane  his  neck  was  long  and  line. 
Wherewith  he  swallowed  up  excessive  feast. 
For  want  whereof  poor  people  oft  did  pine." 

And  another  Envy,  than  which  nothing  could  be  finer: 

'Malicious  Envy  rode 
Upon  a  ravenous  wolf,  and  still  did  chaw 
Between  his  cankred  teeth  a  venomous  toad. 
That  all  the  poison  ran  about  his   jaw. 
AH  hi  a  kirtle  of  discolored  sutj 
lie  clothed  was  ypainled  full  of  eyes. 
And  in  his  bosom  secretly  tluTc  lay 
An  hateful  snake,  the  which  his  tail  upties 
In  many  folds,   and  mortal  sting  implies." 

Who  has  ever  a])proaclied  the  horror  and  the  truth  of  the  fcilh^w- 
ing  description  of  the  Captain  of  the  Lusts?  Note  the  various 
images  which  set  forth  the  wasting  away  of  hotly  and  soul,  the 
coldness  of  the  heart,  consumed  l)y  unholy  fire,  the  kindling  of 
dire  impatience,  and  the  im])laiiting  of  thorny  ineradicable  griefs: 

'As  pale  and  wan  as  ashes  was  his  look: 
His  body  lean  and  nieaLrrc  as  a  rake; 
And  skin  all  withered  like  a  dried  rook; 
Thereto  as  cold  and  dreary  as  a  snake: 
That  seemed  to  tremble  evermore,  ami  quake: 
All  in  (I  canras  thin  he  irtis  bedight. 
And  giriled  uith  (i  belt  of  fiihted  brake : 
I'pon  his  head  he  wore  an  helmet  light 
Made  of  a  dead  man's  ^kull.' 


366      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 
He  is  mounted  upon  a  tiger,  and  in  his  hand  is  a  drawn  bow: 

'And  many  arrows  under  liis  right  side, 
Uuaded  with  flint,  and  fcatliers  bloody-dyed.' 

Beyond  the  wondrous  fairy  tale,  far  within  it,  often  escaping  the 
dazzled  eye,  is  an  inner  life,  steadily  beaming  there.  Everything 
is  referred  to  it,  and,  though  still  apprehensible, — 

'Suffers  a  sea-change 
Into  somctliing  rich  and  strange.' 

He  is  divine  who  instinctively,  in  Bacon's  phrase,  subordinates 
'the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind.'  Here  as  in 
Plato,  a  sense  of  the  presence  of  the  Deity,  as  the  vital  principle 
in  all  things,  great  or  small,  runs  in  a  solemn  undercurrent  be- 
neath the  stream  of  visions.  If  a  nymph  is  beautiful,  it  is 
because  she  has  been  touched  with  this  heavenly  light,  with 
these  angels'  tints: 

'  Iler  face  so  fair,  as  flesh  it  seemed  not, 
But  lieavcnly  portrait  of  briglit  angels'  hue. 
Clear  as  the  sky,   withouten  blame  or  blot. 
Through  goodly  mixture  of  complexion's  dew; 
And  in  her  cheeks  the  vermeil  red  did  show 
Like  roses  in  a  bed  of  lilies  shed, 
The  which  ambrosial  odors  from  tlicm  throw, 
And  gazers'  sense  with  double  pleasure  fed. 
Able  to  Ileal  the  sick  and  to  revive  the  dead. 

In  her  fair  eyes  two  living  lami)s  did  flame. 

Kindled  above  at  th'  Heavenly  Maker's  light. 

And  darted  firie  beams  out  of  the  same. 

So  passing  persant,  and  so  wondrous  bright. 

That  quite  bereav'd  the  rasli  l)eholder's  sight: 

In  them  th(!  blinded  god  his  lustful  tire 

To  kindle  oft  assayed,  but  had  no  might; 

For  with  dread  majesty  and  awful  ire, 

Sh('  bnjke  his  wanton  darls,  and  quenched  base  desire. 

Her  ivory  forehead,  full  of  bounty  brave. 

Like  a  broad  table  did  itself  dispread, 

For  Love  his  lofty  trium|)hs  to  engrave. 

And  write  the  battles  of  his  great  godhead: 

All  good  and  honour  might  therein  be  read: 

For  there  their  dwelling;  was.     And,  when  she  spake. 

Sweet  words,  like  dropping  honey,  she  did  shed; 

And  "twixt  the  ix-arls  and  rubies  softly  l)rake 

A  silver  sound,  that  heavenly  music  seeme<l  to  make.' 

As  Dante  was  drawn  up  from  heaven  to  heaven  by  the  eyes  of 
Beatrice,  through  -which  he  could  look  into  the  far  Infinite,  so 
was    Spenser   lifted    away    from    the    earthly   by   those    of    that 


SPENSER.  367 

unique,  imperishable  Beauty  which,  above  all  created  forms,  a 
noble  woman  reveals.      In  holy  rapture  of  Una,  he  exclaims, — 


Afifain: 


'O  happy  earth, 
Whoreon  thy  innocent  feet  do  ever  tread.' 

'As-  bright  a:*  doth  the 'morning  s^tar  appear 
Out  of  tlie  East,  with  tlaming  locks  bvdight. 
To  tell  that  dawning  day  is  drawing  near, 
And  to  the  world  does  bring  long- wished  light: 
So  fair  and  fresh  that  Lady  show'd  herself  in  sight.' 

In  wilderness  and  wasteful  desert,  she  seeks  her  knight,  who  has 
been  beguiled  from  her  by  the  subtle  art  of  the  enchanter: 

'One  day  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way, 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight. 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow  far  from  all  men's  sight: 
From  her  fair  head  her  (illet  she  undight 
And  laid  her  stole  aside:  her  ungeis  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  hearai  r^hlned  bright. 
And  muile  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly. 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage;  blood: 
Soon  us  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily. 
To  have  at  once  devour'd  her  tender  corse; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh. 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse. 
And  with  the  sight  amaz'd,  forgot  his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kiss'd  lier  weary  feet. 
And  liek'd  her  lily  hand  with  fawning  tongue; 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  meet. 
O  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong. 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong!' 

The  loftiest,  deepest,  most  angelic  element  in  this  genius  is 
reverence  for  woman  —  whicli  is  only  a  worship  of  the  supernal 
charm  and  attraction  rendered  visible  in  her.  All  the  wealth 
of  his  respect  and  tenderness  is  ]ioured  out  at  the  feet  of  his 
luM'oines.  In  his  adoration,  he  lifts  them  up  to  lieiolit.s  wlierc 
no  mortal  fleck  is  visible.  In  this  exalted  mood  he  sings  of 
his  bride,  in  the   Kpitltohtmiov,  his  marriag<>-song: 

'Behold,  while-  she  bcfiire  the  altar  stanils, 
Ileariiii:  the  holy  i)rii'st   that  to  her  speaks. 
And  blesselh  her  with  his  two  happy  liands, 
How  the  red  roses  llusli  up  in  her  cheek-^, 
And  the  pure  >now  witli  troixily  vermeil  ~tain 
Like  crimson  dved  in  grain: 


368      FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 

About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground. 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty. 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 

Why  blush  ye,  Love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand. 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band? 

Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  Allelujah  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echoes  ring!' 

Spenser  made  many  miscellaneous  attempts  in  sonnets,  pastorals, 
elegies,  and  hymns,  all  fairy-like  or  mystic,  all  stamped  with  the 
ruling  idea,  and  all  striving  to  express  it, —  moral  sublimity  and 
sensuous  seduction. 

Versification. —  Spenser  came  to  the  Fairy  Queen  with  his 
head  full  of  Ariosto  and  the  romantic  poets  of  Italy.  His  exqui- 
site ear  had  felt  the  melody  of  their  heroic  metre  —  the  ottava 
rima,  to  which  he  added  a  grace  of  his  own,  the  Alexandrine. 
The  order  of  rh^'mos,  it  will  be  observed,  is:  1,  3;  2,  4,  5,  7;  6, 
8,  9.  This  gave  to  his  stanza  a  fuller  cadence,  'the  long,  majestic 
march,'  well  suited  to  the  sober  sublimity  of  his  genius. 

Style. — Luxuriant  and  spacious,  yet  simple  and  clear;  seldom 
rivalled  in  the  charm  of  its  diffusion,  the  orient  flush  of  its  diction, 
and  the  music  of  its  recurrent  chimes.  Many  passages,  it  may 
be  needless  to  observe,  are  beautifully  harnK)nious,  combining  a 
subtle  perfection  of  phrase  with  a  happy  coalescence  of  meaning 
and  melody.  The  last,  indeed,  is  often  an  essential  part  of  the 
sentiment;  and.  Avith  'many  a  bout  of  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,'  lures  the  thought  along  its  pleasant  paths.  The 
modulation  is  made  spirited  and  energetic  by  the  variety  of 
pauses.     There  is  tio  shnnberous  monotony  in  these  lines: 

'■But  liP  rn\i  Vion,  and  tny  nohlf  lord. 
How  (Iocs  he  liiid  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her  tliiit  liiiii  'ovcl,  and  cxcr  most  ador"d 
Ax  the  (ifxl  of  rnij  life?    Why  liath  he  me  abhorr'd?' 

Xor  any  languor   in   this: 

'Come  hither,  come  hither,  oil,  come  hastily!' 

Six-nscr's  language,  of  one  sul)stance  with  the  splendor  of  liis 
fancv,  would  seem  to  have  been  chosen  rather  for  its  richness  of 


SPENSER.  369 

tone  than  for  its  intensity  of  meaning.  Like  all  masters  of 
speech,  he  is  fond  of  toying  with  it  a  little.  Sometimes  his 
alliteration  is  tempted  to  excess;   as, — 

'Eftsoones  her  shallow  ship  away  did  slide, 
More  swift  than  swallow  shears  the  liuuid  sky." 

Generally,  however,  the  initial  assonances  are  scattered  at  adroit 
intervals,  rarely  obtrusive,  but  responsive  to  the  idea.  For  in- 
stance: 

'In  woods,  in  waves,  in  wars,  she  wonts  to  dwell; 
And  will  be  found  with  peril  and  with  pain.' 


Or,- 
Or,- 


'A  world  of  waters. 

Horrible,  hideous,  roaring  with  hoarse  cry.' 

'All  the  day,  before  the  sunny  rays. 
He  used  to  slug  or  sleep,  in  slothful  shade.' 


Hank. — There  had  been  mucli  poetry,  and  not  a  little  poet- 
ical power,  since  Chaucer;  but  the  F'airy  Queen  was  the  first 
production  that  might  challenge  comparison  with  the  Canter- 
hury  Tales.  It  was  received  with  a  burst  of  general  welcome. 
The  '  new  poet '  became  almost  the  recognized  title  of  its  author. 
]t  portrayed,  indeed,  the  wonder  and  mystery  of  the  new  life, 
the  incongruous  life  of  the  Kenaissance,  moulding  into  liarmoni- 
ous  form  its  warring  ideals  and  contrasted  im]nilses.  All  the 
past,  with  its  imagery,  its  illusion,  its  glory, —  and  the  present, 
with  its  rougli  romantic  beauties  and  gorg'eous  pageantry, —  dv- 
scended  upon  the  Fairv  of  Spenser,  and,  in  tlie  mellow  light  of 
his  imagination,  lost  the  passion  of  conflict,  tlie  grossness  of  lust, 
and  the  tarnish   of  physical  contact. 

His  invention  was  extraordinary,  and  its  mode  unitpie.  Shape 
after  shape,  scene  after  scene,  monstrous  ami  anomalous,  or  im- 
possible and  beautiful,  rose  from  the  unfathomable  (le])ths,  to 
embody  some  shade  of  emotion  or  an  idea;  while,  in  the  midst 
of  the  rising  and  commingling  visions,  he  was  un])crturbed  and 
serene,  never  hurrying,  rarely  if  ever  passionate.  Next  to 
Dante  among  the  Italians,  next  to  \'irgil  among  the  aiic-icnts, 
Milton  surpasses  him  in  tlu^  scvcritv  of  his  greatness,  Sliakt^- 
speare  in  the  sweep  and  condensation  of  his  power.  I)aring 
elevations,  whcm  tlicv  occur,  indicate;  the  strength  of  his  genius 
rather  than  the  habit  of  his  mind.  lie  lacked  executive  etli- 
ciencv, —  the  co(5rdinating,  centralizing  (juality  ul  the  highest 
24 


370      FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

order  of  imagination.  But  grandeur,  intensity,  and  reflection 
aside,  he  is  the  most  purely  poetical  of  our  writers.  In  the  union 
of  musical  expression,  fanciful  conception  of  thought,  and  the 
exquisite  sense  of  beauty,  he  excels  them  all.  Eminent  in  wis- 
dom, like  every  other  greatest  poet,  he  is  also  the  finest  dreamer 
that  ever  lived,  and,  as  such,  is  the  inheritance  of  all  future  gen- 
erations. He  repels  none  but  the  anti-poetical.  His  'better 
parts'  will  ever  interest  the  lovers  of  the  beautiful,  unchange- 
able amid  the  changes  of  taste,  as  long  as  riches  are  sought  in 
the  regions  of  the  unknown. 

Character. —  Magnificently  imaginative.  Captivated  with 
beauty;  above  all,  with  beauty  of  soul,  which  is  the  source  of 
all   outward  charms, — 

'For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take; 
For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make.' 

The  true  glory  of  all  material  things  is  in  the  immortal  idea 
which  irradiates  them;  and  they  are  lovable  only  as  they  are 
rendered  thus  nobly  luminous: 

'For  that  same  goodly  hue  of  white  and  red, 
With  wliich  the  cheeks  arc  sprinkled,  shall  decay; 
And  tliose  sweet  rosy  leaves,  so  fairly  spread 
Upon  the  lips,  shall  fade  and  fall  away 
To  that  tliuy  were,  even  to  corrupted  clay: 
That  golden  wire,  those  sparkling  eyes  so  bright. 
Shall  turn  to  dust  and  lose  their  goodly  light. 

But  that  fair  lamp,  from  whose  celestial  ray 
That  liglit  proceeds,  which  kindleth  lover's  tire. 
Shall  never  be  e.xtingui.shed  nor  decay; 
But,  when  the  vital  spirits  do  expire. 
Upon  lier  native  planet  sliall  retire; 
For  it  is  heavenly  born,  and  cannot  die. 
Being  a  parcel  of  tlie  purest  sky.' 

The  seen  is  but  the  seml)lance;  the  unseen  is  the  reality,  ever 
fairer  as  you  ascend  the  graduated  scale.  Ineffably  fair  is  the 
spirit's  dim  but  still  enraptured  vision  of  the  absolute  Beauty  — 
God,  who,  in  the  ol^jects  of  sense, — 

'Daily  doth  display 
And  shew  Himself  in  tli'  image  of  His  grace. 
As  in  a  lookinf/rjlax-i  thrbugli  whicli  He  may 
Be  seen  of  all  His  creatures  vile  and  base. 
That  are  unable  else  to  see  His  face." 

This  is  eminentlv  Platonic.  The  bent  of  his  mind  was  ever  thus 
toward  a  supermundane  sphere,  in  whose  untrammelled  ether  it 


SPENSER.  371 

might  expatiate  freely,  joyously.  To  this  sublime  summit  he 
carried  everything,  and  thus  subtleized  everything  at  a  touch. 
Where  most  men  see  only  the  perishable  form  and  color  of  the 
thing,  he  saw  the  joy  of  it,  the  soul  of  eternal  youth  that  is  in 
it.  Yet,  with  a  purity  like  that  of  driven  snow,  he  had  no  lack 
of  warmth.  He  is,  of  all  our  poets,  the  most  truly  sensuous; 
but  so  chaste  and  ardent,  that  when  he  painted  sentiment  and 
passion,  or  material  loveliness,  he  could  not  but  make  them  'of 
glorious  feature.' 

Such  a  one  does  not  wait  to  get  into  the  next  stage  of  exist- 
ence to  begin  to  enter  it.  He  sees  that  the  Infinite  Life  is  the 
world  of  essence;  that  it  is  the  meaning  which  glows  through  all 
matter;  that  out  of  it  flows  all  goodness,  all  trutli,  all  enduring 
happiness  on  this  side  of  the  grave: 

'And  is  there  care  in  Heaven?  and  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move? 
There  is:   else  much  more  wretched  were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts:  but  O,  the  exceeding  grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  Ilis  creatures  so, 
And  all  His  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace. 
That  blessed  angels  He  sends  to  and  fro. 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  His  wicked  foe! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave. 
To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor  want! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  i)inions  cleave 
The  tleeting  skies  like  flying  pursuivant. 
Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant; 
They  for  us  figlit,  they  watch  and  duly  ward. 
And  their  bright  squadrons  round  al)out  us  plant; 
And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward; 
O,  why  should  heavenly  God  to  men  have  such  regard?' 

Thus  it  is  that,  while  Ih^  himself  was  outwardly  vexed  with  dis- 
content, fretted  witli  neglect,  his  poetry  breathes  the  very  soul 
of  contentment  and  cheer.  It  is  not  the  gladness  of  mirtli,  l)ut 
the  deep  satisfaction  of  the  seer;  for  to  such  as  have  gained  the 
point  of  changeless  being,  beyond  the  changing  and  pluMionie- 
nal, — 

'Their  joy,  tiieir  comfort,  tlieir  desire,  their  gain. 
Is  fixed  all  on  that  whicli  now  tliey  see; 
All  oUi(>r  sights  but  fained  shadows  be.' 

Sensitive,  tender,  grateful,  devout,  learned,  wis«\  and  introspect- 
ive, with  'the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine,'  his  own  words  are 
applicable  to  him: 


372       FIRST  CKEATIVE  PEKIOl) — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

'The  noble  heart  that  harbors  virtuous  thought 
And  is  with  child  of  glorious-great  intent, 
Can  never  rest  until  it  forth  have  brought 
The  eternal  brood  of  glory  excellent.' 

Influence. — He  threw  into  English  verse  the  soul  of  har- 
mony, and  made  it  more  expansive,  more  richly  descriptive,  than 
it  ever  was  before.  More  than  any  other,  by  his  ideal  method  of 
treatment,  and  the  splendor  of  his  fancy,  he  contributed  to  the 
transformation  of  style  and  language.  One  so  largely  and  so 
ardently  admired,  must  have  had  many  imitators.  Browne  and 
the  two  Fletchers  were  his  professed  disciples.  Cowley  said 
that  he  became  '  irrevocably  a  poet '  by  reading  him  when  a  boy. 
Gray  was  accustomed  to  open  him   when  he  would  frame  — 

'Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn.' 

Wordsworth,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  show  traces  of  him. 
Thomson  wrote  the  most  delightful  of  his  own  poems  in  his 
stanza.  Dryden  claimed  him  for  a  master.  Milton  called  him 
'our  sage  and  serious  poet,  whom  I  dare  be  known  to  think  a 
better  teacher  than  ^Scotus  or  Aquinas.''  How  so?  Because  lie 
revealed,  in  lowly  aspect,  the  ideal  point  of  view;  gave  to  souls 
a  consciousness  of  tlieir  wings;  sowed  in  them  the  seeds  of  a 
noble  discontent  with  pKosaic  views  of  life;  fastened  the  atten- 
tion upon  necessary  uncreated  natures  —  Ideas,  into  whose  divine 
atmosphere  no  man  can  be  lifted,  without  becoming,  in  some 
degree,  himself  divine.  This  is  the  inestimable  value  of  such  a 
character, —  that  he  forms  a  standing  protest  against  the  tyranny 
of  commoii])lace,  against  the  limitary  tone  of  P]nglish  thought, 
enslaved  to  the  five  mechanic  powers.  He  and  his  culture  are 
nee<led  to  with.stand  the  encroachments  of  artificial  manners,  to 
counteract  the  materializing  tendencies  of  physical  science,  to 
sway  and  purifv  tlie  energies  that  are  too  much  confined  to  gain 
and  pleasure  and  show.  The  end  of  a  moral  being  is,  not  food 
or  raiment  or  estate,  but  soul-ex])ansif)n;  and  th(i  parent  of  all 
noblest  improvement  is  love  —  the  outflow  of  desire  toward  the 
true,  beautiful,  and  good,  which  exists  in  thought,  action,  or  ])er- 
soii,  not  our  own.  Whoever  aets  admiral)lv  \\\)0\\  the  imagina- 
tion, administers  to  this  effect.  Whoever  gives  the  world  a  pic- 
torial uir,  contributes  to  our  emancipation.  Whoever  makes  us 
tnore  intenselv  and  comprehensively  imaginative,  exalts  us  into 
tlie  possession   of    incorruptible  goods.      In  vain  will   philosophy 


THE   THOUSAND-SOULED.  373 

and  fashion  and  utilitarianism  oppose  such  a  one.  They  fare  as 
servants;  he  is  sought  after,  and  entertained  as  an  angel.  The 
ages  esteem  visions  more  than  bread.  Centuries  hence,  men  will 
be  touched — the  more  powerfully,  the  more  they  are  advanced — 
by  this  artist  and  his  art.  His  is  the  ceaseless  fertility  of  the 
great  Mother,  the  universal  Love  which  was  the  prayer  of  his 
life,  of  which  all  loves  are  but  the  frail  and  fleeting  blossoms: 

'So  all  the  world  by  thee  at  first  was  made, 
And  da}-ly  yet  thou  doest  the  same  repayre; 
Ne  ought  on  earth  that  merry  is  and  glad, 
Ne  ought  on  earth  that  lovely  is  and  fayre. 
But  thou  the  same  for  pleasure  didst  prepayre: 
Thou  art  the  root  of  all  that  joyous  is: 
Great  God  of  men  and  women,  queene  of  th'  ayre. 
Mother  of  laughter,  and  welspring  of  blisse, 
O  graunt  that  of  my  love  at  last  I  may  not  misse ! ' 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Mellifluous  Shakespeare.— //cyii'ooci. 

The  thousand- souled. — Coleridge. 

His  thoughts,  passions,  feelings,  strains  of  fancy,  all  are  of  this  day  as  they  were  of 
his  own;  and  his  genius  may  be  contemporary  with  the  mind  of  every  generation  for  a 
thousand  years  to  come.— /Vo/.  Wilson. 

Biog^apliy. — Born  in  Stratford,  in  1o(j4;  removed  from  school 
at  an  early  age  by  the  reverses  of  his  father,  once  a  prosperous 
tradesman  and  ofhcial,  now  (yi  the  verge  of  ruin;  applied  himself, 
in  a  desultory  uuinner,  to  business;  to  keej)  up  the  reputation  of 
his  little  town,  took  part  in  scrapes  and  frolics;  at  eighteen,  mar- 
ried a  farmer's  daughter,  Aunt;  Hathaway,  aged  twenly-six,  to 
whom  he  was  to  Ixniueatli  only  his  'second  best  bed  with  furni- 
ture'; fjuit  home,  for  London,  fell  into  theatrical  socii'tv,  and 
became  an  actor  .iiid  a.  ))laywright,  serving  an  aj)prenticesliip  in 
the  revision  of  dramas  ;  six  vears  later,  was  ajiplauded  by  the 
gifted  and  the  noble;  added  to  th(^  trad<>s  of  plavcr  and  author 
those  of  manager  and  tlirector  of  a  theatre;  accjuinMl  sliarr,-^  in 
the  Blackfriars  and  the  Globe;  invested  in  land,  farmed  tithes, 
Ijouglit  the  finest  house  in  Stratford,  whcrt^  hi.s  wife  ami  ihn'i^ 
children   continu(Ml   to   live;    tinallv   retired   to   hi.s   native   villa^-e, 


374       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

like  a  country  gentleman  and  a  landlord  with  a  good  rent-roll; 
wrote  for  the  stage,  took  an  active  interest  in  the  public  welfare, 
made  an  occasional  visit  to  the  metropolis,  lent  money,  managed 
his  fortune,  lived  like  a  cheerful  shop-keeper,  and,  without  the 
care  or  the  time  to  collect  and  publish  his  works,  died  on  the 
anniversary  of  his  birth-day,  April  23,  161G. 

Meanwhile,  he  had  projected  himself  into  all  the  varieties  of 
human  character ;  had  mingled  with  men  of  vigorous  limbs, 
strong  appetites,  impetuous  passions,  and  keen  intellect  ;  had 
felt  the  fascinations  of  the  stormy  and  irregular  Marlowe;  in  the 
company  of  fashionable  young  nobles,  had  fed  his  senses  on 
examples  of  Italian  pleasures  and  elegances;  had  tasted  misery, 
felt  the  thorn  of  care  and  discredit;  had  seen  himself  under- 
valued, named,  along  with  Burbage  and  Greene,  as  one  of  'His 
Majesty's  poor  players"';  had  said  in  the  bitterness  of  humilia- 
tion : 

'Alas,  'ti^i  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there. 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 
Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear." 

And  again: 

'When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope. 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed. 
Desiring  this  man"s  art,  and  tliat  man's  scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising. 
Happily  I  think  on  thee,— and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  tlay  arising 
,  P'rom  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 

For  thy  sweet  love  remeinbred,  such  wealth  brings. 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  witli  kincrs.' 

One  of  his  daugliters  married  a  pliysician,  the  other  a  wine  mer- 
chant. The  second  could  not  write  her  name.  His  only  son, 
Haniiu't,  died  when  eleven  years  of  age.  So  few  are  the 
recorded  incidents  in  the  outward  career  f)f  the  best  head  in  the 
imiverse.  IJke  Plato,  he  drew  up  the  ladder  after  him;  and 
tlie  new  age  has  sought  in  vain  for  a  history  of  his  house-and- 
street  life.  His  biogra])hy,  like  Phito's,  is  internal;  and  the 
})sychologist  sheds  the  light  of  whi^h  tlie  antiquary  despairs, 
whieli  it  most  imports  us  to  have. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


375 


"Writings. — The  poems  of  Shakespeare  are  Venus  and  Ado- 
nis, -Lucrtet,  The  Passionate  Pilgrim^  and  iSonnets.  His  plays, 
to  several  of  which  his  title  is  disputed,  are  in  iniinber  thirty- 
seven,  and,  according  to  the  sources  from  which  the  dramatist 
drew  his  materials,  may  be  grouped  as, — 


Henry  VI,  Part  I, 
Henry  VI,  Part  II, 
Henry  VI,  Part  III, 

RiCUARU   II, 
KiCUARU    III, 

King  John, 
IIknby  IV,  Part  I, 
Hknry  IV,  Part  II, 
Henry  V, 
Henry  VIII, 


Titus  Andronicus, 
Hamlet, 
KiNCi  Lear, 
Macbeth, 

Jl'LlUS   C^SAR, 

Antony  and  Cleopatra, 

coriolanus, 

c'ymbeline, 


1.  Historical. 


Tragedy, 


SOURCES. 

Denied;  attributed  to  Marlowe. 

Older  play. 

Older  play. 

Holiiished's  Chronicles. 

More"s  History. 

Older  play. 

Older  play. 

Older  play. 

Older  play. 

ChroiiieleH  of  Ilall  and  Holins'hed. 


3.  Semi-historical. 


Tragedy, 


Vornedy  (?) 

S.  Fictional. 


Love's  Labor  Lost, 

Comedy  of  Errors, 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 

Midsum.mer's  Nioht's  Uream, 

Merchant  of  Venice, 

Ro.MEO  AND  Juliet, 

Much  Ado  About  Xothinc, 

Twelfth  Xicht, 

As  You  Like  It, 

Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

Pericles, 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 

Measure  for  Measure, 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well, 

TiMoN  OF  Athens, 

Othello. 

TUOILUS    AND    CKESSIDA, 

Winters  Talk, 
Tempest, 


Comedy^ 


Tragfdy, 
Comedy. 


Tragedy, 
Comedy, 


Perhaps  by  Marlowe. 

Saxo's  Chronicle  of  Scandinavia. 

Holinshed. 

Ilolinshed's  Scotland. 

Plutarch's  hires. 

Plutarch's  Lires. 

Plutarch's  Lives. 

Holinshed  and  Boccaccio. 


Italian  play. 

I'lantn-i. 

An  Old  romance. 

Chancer. 

O'estd  Romunoriiin. 

Boccaccio. 

Italian  romance. 

Italian  romance. 

Lodf^e's  Homance. 

Older  I)lay. 

(lower. 

OM  t.'ile. 

Hocc;iccio. 

Plntarcli  ami  others 

Old  talc. 

Chaucer. 

(;reene. 

Ttnlian  romance. 


In   those   ]>crformancos,    he   oxliausts   all    human   ('x))f'riotifo.   and 
imagines   more;    searches   the   heart,    lays   bare   il.s  streii^'tli   and 


376       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

weakness,  its  excesses  and  its  rages;  divines  the  secret  impulses 
of  humanity;  depicts  all  manners  and  conditions,  high  and  low, 
such  as  the  world  will  always  find;  shines,  like  the  sun,  on  the 
evil  and  the  good;  runs  without  effort  the  round  of  human  ideas, 
records  his  convictions  on  the  questions  that  knock  at  the  gate 
of  every  brain,  on  life,  love,  trial,  death,  immortality,  freedom, 
fate, —  the  ends  of  existence  and  the  means.  In  so  vast  a  field, 
we  must  select.  Nor,  amid  so  many  portraitures,  in  so  great 
variety  of  moods,  in  such  profusion  of  sentiments,  can  the  critic 
choose  more  than  fragments,  entreating  the  reader  to  divine  the 
rest.  The  importance  of  this  wisdom  and  this  beauty  sinks 
form,  chronology,  analytic  completeness,  out  of  notice. 

Nowhere  is  the  wonderful  range  of  power  more  visible  than  in 
the  varied  types  of  female  characters.  Some  are  but  babblers, — 
each  the  representative  of  a  species;  vulgar  minds  that  forget  and 
spare  nothing,  ignorant  that  conversation  is  but  a  selection,  that 
every  story  is  subject  to  tlie  laws  of  dramatic  poetry, — festinat 
ad  eventiim.  Thus  Mrs.  Quickly  reminds  Falstaff  of  his  promise 
of  marriage: 

'Thou  didst  swear  to  me  tipoii  a  purcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin-chamber,  at 
the  round  table,  by  a  sea- coal  fire,  upon  Wednesday  in  Whitsun  week,  when  the  prince 
broke  thy  liead  for  liking  his  father  to  a  singing-man  of  Windsor,  thou  didst  swear  to  me 
tlien,  as  I  was  washing  thy  wound,  to  marry  me  and  make  me  my  lady  thy  wife.  Canst 
thou  deny  it?  Did  not  goodwife  Keech,  the  butcher's  wife,  come  in  then  and  call  me 
gossip  Quickly?  coming  in  to  borrow  a  mess  of  vinegar;  telling  us  she  had  a  good  dish 
of  prawns;  whereby  thou  didst  desire  to  eat  some."' 

She  is  held  in  thraldom  to  the  order  and  circumstances  in  which 

her    perceptions   were    originally   acquired.     Better    still    is    the 

example   of    the    nurse    in   Romeo    and  Juliet,    a    never-ending 

gossip,  smelling  of  the  kitchen,  impudent,  immoral,  but  faithful 

and  affectionate^  like  a  dog.      The  involuntary  associations  of  her 

thoughts  are   iinpefative.      She  would  advance,   but   repeats  her 

steps;  or,   struck  with   an   image,  wander.s  from   the  point.      She 

brings  Juliet  news  of  Ikt  lover: 

^ Nurse.    I  am  aweary,  '_'ive  me  leave  awhilo: 

Fie,  how  my  l)ones  ache!  what  a  jaunt  have  I  had! 
Jul.     I  would  thou  hadst  my  bones  and  I  thy  news. 

Nay,  come,  I  i)ray  thee,  speak;    good,  irood  nurse,  sj)eak. 
ynrgf.     Jesu,  what  haste?   ran  you  not  stay  awhile? 
Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  out  of  breath? 
■Jill.     How  art  thou  out  of  breath  when  thou  hast  breath 
To  say  to  me  that  thou  art  out  of  breath? 

'  Ihintj  7\\  Par'  //. 


SHAKESPEARE.  377 

The  excuse  that  thou  dost  make  in  this  delay 
Is  longer  than  the  tale  thou  dost  excuse. 
Is  thy  news  good  or  bad?  answer  to  that; 
Say  either,  and  Til  stay  the  circumstance: 
Let  me  be  satisfied,  is"t  good  or  bad? 
Nurse.    Well,  you  have  made  a  simple  choice;  you  know  not  how  to  choose  a  man: 
Someo!   no,  not  he;  though  his  face  be  better  than  any  man's,  yet  his  leg  excels  all 
men's;  and  for  a  hand,  and  a  foot,  and  a  body,  though  they  be  not  to  be  talked  on,  yet 
they  are  past  compare:  he  is  not  the  flower  of  courtesy,  but,  I'll  warrant  him,  as  gentle 
as  a  lamb.    Go  thy  ways,  wench  :  serve  God.    What,  have  you  dined  at  home? 
Jul.    Ko,  no:  but  all  this  did  I  know  before. 

What  says  he  of  our  marriage?  what  of  that? 
Nurse.    Lord,  how  my  head  aches!   what  a  head  have  I! 
It  beats  as  it  would  fall  in  twenty  i)ieces. 
My  back  o'  t'other  side,— O,  my  back,  my  back! 
Beshrew  your  heart  for  sending  me  about. 
To  catch  my  death  witli  jaunting  up  and  down! 
Jul.    I'faith,  I  am  sorry  that  thou  art  not  well. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  nurse,  tell  me,  what  says  my  love? 
Nurse.    Your  love  says,  like  an  honest  gentleman,  and  a  courteous,  and  a  kind,  and 
a  handsome,  and,  I  warrant,  a  virtuous,— Where  is  your  mother? 
Jul.    Where  is  my  mother!   why,  she  is  within; 

Where  should  she  be?    How  oddly  thou  repliest! 
"Your  love  says,  like  an  honest  gentleman. 
Where  is  your  mother?''' 

But  his  heroines  are  of  finer  mould.  They  are  the  possible  of  the 
female  mind,  seen,  for  the  first  time,  as  in  a  dream,  yet  —  unlike 
Spenser's  —  warm  breathing  realities.  They  are  all  eharmin<^  or 
fascinating.  Rosalind,  sprightly  but  modest,  coquettish  and 
voluble,  like  a  warbling  and  pretty  bird,   her  tongue  running 

'With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning.' 

When  Orlando  promises  to  love  her  '  for  ev'er  and  a  day,'  she 
says,  with  pretended  cruelty: 

'Say  a  day  without  the  ever,  no,  no,  Orlando,  men  are  April  wlicii  they  woo,  Decem- 
ber when  they  wed;  maids  are  May  when  they  arc  maids,  but  the  sky  changes  when 
they  arc  wives:  I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen; 
more  clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain:  more  new-fansled  tlian  an  ajie :  more  giddy 
in  my  desires  than  a  monkey;  I  will  weep  for  nothiiii;,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I 
will  do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry;  I  will  laugh  like  a  liven,  and  that  when 
you  are  inclined  to  sleep.' 

'But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so?' — 'l?v  mv  life,  she  will  do  as  1  do.' 
Or,  'What  would  voti  sav  to  nie  now,  an  I  wvvv  your  vtM'v,  vt>rv 
Rosalind?'  Miranda,  whose  .soid  shines  upon  Ferdinand  through 
her  innocent  eyes,  and  he  asks  in  a  rajiture  of  wonder: 

'I  do  beseech  you 
(Cliictly  that  I  misht  set  it  in  my  prayer-*) 
What  is  your  name''' 


378       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Imogen,  the  most  artless  of  all, — 

'So  lender  of  rebukes  that  words  are  strokes, 
And  strokes  death  to  her.' 

Accused  of  inconstancy  b}'  her  husband,  and  discarded,  she  dis- 
guises herself  in  order  to  be  near  him;  finds,  as  she  thinks,  his 
dead  body,  and  refuses  to  quit  the  spot  till  — 

'With  wild-wood  leaves  and  weeds,  I  ha'  strcw'd  his  grave. 
And  on  it  said  a  century  of  praj'ers."' 

Jachimo,  dared  by  her  husband  to  make  trial  of  her  fidelity,  hides 
in  her  chamber  in  order  to  bring  away  pretended  proofs  against 
it.     He  notes  the  furniture,  removes  her  bracelet,  soliloquizing: 

'Fresh  lily. 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets!   that  I  niiglit  touch  I 
But  kiss;  one  kiss :  .  .  . 

'Tig  her  breathing  thai 
Perfumes  (he  chamber  thus:  —  the  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  towards  her;  and  would  under-peep  her  lids, 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  those  windows,  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tint.' 

Desdemona,  guileless  victim  of  a  foul  conspiracy, — 

'A  maiden  never  l)old: 

Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet  that  her  motion 
Blushed  at  ilself."2 

Cleopatra,  voluptuous,  ostentatious,  haughty,  dazzling,  child  of 
air  and  fire: 

'The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne. 
Burnt  on  the  water;   tlie  poop  was  beaten  gold. 
Purple  tiie  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick."' 

What  a  picture!  — 

'.•\L'e  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety.    Other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies.' 

Cordelia,  whose  hallowed  tears  are  — 

'The  holy  watrr  from  her  heavenly  eyes."* 

When  lier  father,  aged,  irritable,  half  insane,  a.sks  her  how  she 
love.s  him,  she  cannot  protest,  is  ashamed  to  ]iarade  her  tender- 
ness, as  her  sisters  have  done,  in  order  to  buy  a  dowry  by  it;  is 
disinherited,  expelled;   afterwards,  when   slie  finds  him    forsaken 

'  L'ljtnbcitne.  *  Othello.  '■>  Antoiiy  un<i  Cleopatra.  *  Lear. 


SHAKESPEARE.  379 

and  mad,  goes  on  her  knees  before  him,  caresses  him,  weeps  over 
him,  prays  for  him: 

'O  yon  kind  godc, 
Cure  this  great  breach  in  his*  abused  nature: 
The  untuned  and  jarring  senses.    O,  wind  up 
Of  thiis  child-changed  father!  .  .  . 
O  my  dear  father!     Restoration,  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips;   and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made  I  .  .  .  Was  this  a  face 
To  be  opposed  against  the  warring  winds*  .  .  . 
Mine  enemy's  dog. 
Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stoo<l  that  night 
Against  my  fire.  ... 
How  does  my  royal  lord?    How  fares  your  majesty?" 

Ophelia,  sincere  and  constant,  feeliiig  deeply  but  saying  little, 
and  that  quietly;  delighted  when  she  discovers  that  her  love  is 
reciprocated,  yet  chary  of  her  words;  separated  from  her  lover, 
yet  bearing  her  cruel  fortune  patiently;  singing  herself  to  rest, 
when  reason  is  dethroned.  What  can  be  more  beautiful  than 
the  words  of  the  Queen  on  throwing  flowers  into  her  grave?  — 

'Sweets  to  the  sweet,  farewell."' 

A  true  Northener.  Juliet,  deep  though  easily  moved,  constant 
though  ecstatic,  pure  though  impulsive,  uniting  sweetness  and 
dignity  of  manners  with  passionate  violence.  When  Komeo  first 
sees  her,  in  the  midst  of  elegance  and  splendor,  he  inquires: 

'What  lady's  that  which  doth  enrich  the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight?  .  .  . 

0  she  doth  teacli  tlie  torches  to  burn  bright. 
Her  beauty  luiiigs  u]K)n  the  cheek  of  niglil. 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  ^Ellu()p"s  ear." 

She  is  overcome  by  the  i)ressure  at  her  heart,  and  apologizes 
thus  for  her  maiden    boldness: 

'O  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  lov(!  ])ron()unce  it   faithfully; 
Or  if  thou   lliiiik  I  am  too  quickly  won 
I'll  frown  and  he  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay. 
So  thou  wilt  woo:    but  else  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montatrue,  I  am  too  fond: 
And  therefore  thou  niay'st   Ihink  my  'havior  light; 
But  trust  nie,  gentleman,  I'll  prove   mure  true 
Than  those  that  have   more  cunning  to  be  strange. 

1  should  have  been  more  strange.  I   iuu>l  coiifiss, 
But  that  thou  over-hcard'st,  ere  I  was  ware, 

>Iy  true  love's  pas.-ion  :    therefore,  pardon   nie. 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love. 
Which  the  (lark  night   hatli  so  discovered.' 

I  I  1< unlet. 


380      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Of  the  same  sort  —  heart  fluttering  ever  between  pleasure,  hope, 
and  fear  —  is  the  soliloquy  after  marriage: 

'Come,  Romeo  I   come,  thou  day  in  night; 
For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  niglit 
Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back.  .  .  . 
Come,  gentle  night;   come,  loving,  black-brow'd  night. 
Give  me  my  Romeo:   and  when  he  shall  die. 
Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars. 
And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  flue, 
That  all  the  world  shall  be  in  love  with  night, 
And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun.' 

This  is  the  true  Southerner.  Lady  Macbeth,  finally,  than  whom 
nothing  could  be  more  fearful  and  appalling;  ambitious,  com- 
manding, inexorable,  never  to  be  diverted  from  a  wicked  pur- 
pose, when  once  formed.  One  obstacle  stands  between  her  family 
and  a  throne  —  Duncan;  and  on  hearing  of  his  fatal  entrance 
under  her  battlements,  she  exclaims: 

'  Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here: 
And  All  me,  from  the  crown  to  th'  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty;  make  thick  my  blood. 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse, 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it.     Come  to  my  woman's  breasts. 
And  lake  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murthering  ministers, 
Whenever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief.     Come,  thick  night  I 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell. 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes. 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark. 
To  cry,  hold,  hold!' 

If  you  seek  the  passions  of  an  animal  and  the  imagination  of 
a  man  of  wit,  you  will  find  them  exemplified  in  FalstafF,  profane, 
dissolute,  corpulent,  voluble,  and  jolly;  a  jester,  a  drunkard,  and 
a  glutton,  who  sleeps  among  tavern  jugs,  and  wakes  to  brag,  lie, 
and  steal.  Yet  lie  does  not  offend  you,  he  delights  you.  He  is 
himself  openly,  without  malice  or  hypocrisy.  He  says  to  the 
prince,  who  berates  liim: 

'Dost  thou  hear,  Ilal?  thou  knowest  in  the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell;  and  what 
should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in  the  days  of  villainy?  Thou  s(5est  I  have  more  flesh  than 
another  man,  and  therefore  more  frailty.'' 

He  is  an  Epicurean   sy.stematically,  and,  though  a  coward,   pulls 

out   his   bottle  on   the  field  of   battle  to  show  his  contempt  for 

glory  and  danger.      He  is   never  at  a  loss,  and  devises  a  shift  on 

i  Henry  I\\  Part  I. 


SHAKESPEARE.  381 

every  occasion,  at  a  moment's  warning,  with  monumental  impu- 
dence. Arrested  for  an  old  debt  by  Mrs.  Quickly,  he  persuades 
her  to  pawn  her  plate  to  lend  him  ten  pounds  more.  Insults, 
oaths,  and  boastings  flow  from  him  naturally,  unceasingly,  in 
geometrical  progression.  He  pretends  to  have  encountered  two 
robbers, —  has  fought  them  alone;  and  presently,  as  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  own  valor  increases  with  the  narrative,  the  number  is 
four,  then  eleven,  then  fourteen.  He  is  always  good-natured, 
unconquerably  self-possessed.  Exposed  or  insulted,  ho  laughs, 
retorts  in  coarse  words,  but  owes  no  grudge.  '  Gallants,  lads, 
boys,  hearts  of  gold.'  'What,  shall  we  be  merry?'  A  frank, 
embossed  rascal,  without  thought  of  being  just  or  unjust.  If  his 
vices  gratify  himself,  they  amuse  others,  without  infecting  them. 
Here  he  is,  embodied  and  palpable: 

'■  Fal.  Bardolph,  am  I  not  fallen  away  vilely  since  this  last  action?  do  I  not  bate?  do 
I  not  dwindle?  Why,  my  skin  hangs  about  ine  like  an  old  lady's  loose  gown;  I  am  with- 
ered like  an  old  apple -John.  Well,  I'll  repent,  and  that  suddenly,  while  I  am  in  some 
liking;  I  shall  be  out  of  heart  shortly,  and  then  I  shall  have  no  strength  to  repent.  'An  I 
have  not  forgotten  what  the  inside  of  a  church  i.s  made  of,  I  am  a  peppercorn,  a  brewer's 
horse:  the  inside  of  a  church!  Company,  villanous  company,  hath  been  the  spoil  of  me. 

Bard.      Sir  John,  you  are  so  fretful,  you  cannot  live  long. 

Fal.  Why,  there  is  it:  come  sing  me  a  bawdy  song;  make  me  merry.  I  was  as  vir- 
tuously given  as  a  gentleman  need  to  be;  virtuous  enough;  swore  little;  dicednot  above 
seven  times  a  week;  went  to  a  bawdy-house  not  above  once  in  a  quarter  —  of  an  hour; 
paid  money  that  I  borrowed,  three  or  four  times;  lived  well  and  in  good  compass:  and 
now  I  live  out  of  all  order,  out  of  all  compass. 

Bard.  Why,  you  are  so  fat,  Sir  John,  that  you  must  needs  be  out  of  all  compass,  out 
of  all  reasonable  compass.  Sir  John. 

Fal.  Do  thou  amend  thy  face,  and  I'll  amend  my  life:  thou  art  our  admiral,  thou 
bearest  the  lantern  in  the  poop,  but  'tis  in  the  nose  of  thee;  thou  art  the  Kniglit  of  the 
Burning  Lamp. 

Bard.    Why,  Sir  John,  my  face  does  you  no  harm. 

Fal.  No,  I'll  be  sworn;  I  make  as  good  use  of  it  as  many  a  man  doth  of  Deatli's- 
head  or  a  memento  mori:  I  never  see  thy  face  but  I  think  upon  hell-lire  and  Dives  tliat 
lived  in  purple:  for  there  he  is  in  his  robes,  burning,  burning.  If  thou  wert  any  way 
given  to  virtue,  I  would  swear  by  thy  face;  my  oath  should  l)e  "By  Iliis  lire,  lliafs  tiod's 
angel:"  but  thou  art  altogether  given  over:  and  wert  indeed,  but  for  tlie  light  in  thy 
face,  the  son  of  utter  darkness.  When  thou  rannest  up  (iad's  hill  in  the  night  lo  catch 
my  horse,  if  I  did  not  think  thou  hadst  been  an  ignis  fatuus  or  a  ball  of  wildfire,  tliere's 
no  purchase  in  money.  O,  tliou  art  a  perpetual  triumph,  an  everlastiuL'  bonlirelight : 
Thou  hast  saved  me  a  thousand  marks  in  links  and  torches,  walking  with  tlue  in  the 
night  betwi.xt  tavern  and  tavern.  .  .  . 

Bard.     'Sblood,  I  would  niy  f.icc  were  in  your  belly  I 

Fal.     God-a-mcrcyl  so  should  I  be  sure  to  be  heart-burned.' 

An  acute  head  and  a  calloused  heart,  with  a  (lelil)er;itc  and 
absorbing  preference  of  evil,  constitute  the  })erf('ct  villain.  lauo 
is  a  demon  in  human  form;  a  trooper  and  a  liypocrite.  witii  the 
philosophy  of  a  cynic,  the   maxims  of  a  detective,  and  tiic   .•^inril 


382      FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

of  an  assassin.  'O  my  reputation,  my  reputation!'  cries  the  dis- 
graced Cassio,  '  As  I  am  an  honest  man,'  says  lago,  '  I  thought 
you  had  received  some  bodily  wound;  there  is  more  sense  in  that 
than  in  reputation.'  '  '  What  wouldst  thou  write  of  me,  if  thou 
shouldst  praise  me  ? '  says  Desdemona  : 

'O  gentle  lady,  do  not  put  me  to't; 
For  I  am  nothing,  if  not  ciitieal.' 

She  insists,  and  bids  Iiim  draw  the  portrait  of  a  perfect  woman 
He  does  it  characteristicall}': 

'■lago.    She  that  was  ever  fair  and  never  proud, 

Had  tongue  at  will  and  yet  was  never  loud. 

Never  lack'd  gold  and  yet  went  never  gay, 

Fled  from  her  wish  and  yet  said  "Now  I  may," 

She  that  being  angcr'd,  her  revenge  being  nigh. 

Bade  her  wrong  stay  and  her  displeasure  fly. 

She  that  in  wisdom  never  was  so  frail 

To  change  the  cod's  head  for  the  salmon's  tail. 

She  that  could  think  and  ne'er  disclose  her  mind. 

See  suitors  following  and  not  look  behind. 

She  was  a  wight,  if  ever  such  wight  were, — 
Deif.    To  do  what? 
lago.     To  suckle  fools  and  chronicle  small  beer.' 

To  this  impotent  and  sinister  conclusion,  all  optimism  is  reduced. 
He  speaks  only  in  sarcasms.  He  is  an  inveterate  misanthrope, 
and  has  a  rancorous  delight  in  the  worst  side  of  everything.  His 
coolness,  dexterity,  and  profound  dissinndation  appear  admirably 
where  he  first  enters  upon  the  execution  of  his  design  to  set 
Othello  and  Desdemona  at  fatal  issue: 
'■lago.  My  noble  lord. 
Othello.  What  dost  thou  say,  lago? 

lago.    Did  Michael   Cassio,  wlicn  you  woo'd  my  lady. 
Know  of  your  love? 
Othello.     He  did,  from  fir-t  to  last. 

Why  dost  tliou  ask? 
lago.     But  for  a  satisfaction  of  my  thought, 
No  further  harm. 
Othello.  Why  of  thy  thought,  lago? 

lago.    1  did  not  think  he  had  been  acquainted  with  her. 
Othello.    O  yes,  and  went  between  us  very  oft. 

lago.  Indeed? 

Othello.    Indeed:    ay,  indeed.    Discern'st  thou  ought  in  that? 
Is  he  not  lioiicst? 
logo.  Honest,  my  lord? 

Othello.  Ay,  honest? 

lago.    My  lord,  for  aught  I  know. 
Othello.     What  dost  thou  think? 

lago.  Think,  my  lord? 

Othello.  Think,  my  lord?  By  heaven,  he  echoes  me, 
,!.<  if  tliere  iras  some  mnn.'>ter  in  his  thought 
Too  tilOeous  to  be  shown.' 

1  Othello. 


SHAKESPEARE.  383 

Like  Mephistopheles,  he  can  justify  himself  by  cogent  reasoning. 
When  he  gives  the  advice  which  is  to  be  the  ruin  of  the  innocent 
and  trusting,  he  likens  the  atrocious  crime  to  virtue: 

'And  whafs  he  then  that  says  I  play  the  villaiu* 
When  this  advice  is  free  I  give  and  honest, 
Probal  to  thinking  and  indeed  the  course 
To  win  the  Moor  again?    For  'tis  most  easy 
The  inclining  Desderaona  to  subdue 
In  any  honest  suit:   she's  framed  as  fniitful 
As  the  free  elements.    And  then  for  her 
To  win  the  Moor, —  were't  to  renounce  his  baptism. 
All  seals  and  symbols  of  redeemed  sin, — 
His  soul  is  so  enfetter'd  to  her  love, 
That  she  may  make,  unmake,  do  what  she  list. 
Even  as  her  appetite  shall  play  the  god 
With  his  weak  function.    How  am  I  then  a  villain?' 

His  ease  arises  from  the  torture  he  inflicts;  his  joy,  from  the 
success  of  his  treacherous  plots.  When  Othello  swoons  for  grief, 
he  rubs  his  hands  for  bliss:  '  Work  on,  my  medicine,  work  !  Thus 
credulous  fools  are  caught.'  M'^hen  Othello  recovers,  he  inquires, 
with  diabolical  but  natural  indifference:  'How  is  it,  General? 
Have  you  not  hurt  your  head?' 

In  Lear,  passion,  unrestrained  and  terrible,  rises  into  colo.ssal 
proportions.  The  poor  old  king,  to  whom  patience  is  unknown, 
is  the  subject  of  prolonged  and  vast  agony.  His  daughters,  who 
turn  against  his  age  and  weakness,  are  the  one  rooted  idea  in  the 
desert  of  his  mind;  and  their  incredible  treacheries  gradually, 
through  transports  of  fury  and  convulsions  of  misery  ever  deep- 
ening and  growing,  drive  him  mad.  Nothing  can  exceed  the 
awful  beautv'  of  the  meeting  between  him  and  Cordelia,  when, 
through   her  tender  care,  he  revives  and  recollects  her: 

'■Cor.     How  does  my  royal  lord?    How  fares  your  miiji'styl 
Lear.    You  do  me  wron<r,  to  take  me  out  of  the  grave: 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss:  l)iit  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 
Cor.  Sir.  do  you  know  me'? 

Lear.    You  are  a  spirit  I  know:    when  did  you  die';^ 
Cor.    Still,  still  far  wide! 
Phyfiician.     He's  scarce  awake;    let  him  aloite  awliilc. 

Lear.     Where  have  I  been'?     Wliere  am  I'r     Fair  daylight' 
I  am  miirbtily  abused.     1   should  even  die  with  pity. 
To  see  another  thus.     I  know  not  what  to  say. 
T  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands; — let's  see; 
I  feci  this  piu  jirick.     Would  I  were  assur'd 
Of  my  condition. 
Cor.  O,  look  u|)on  me,  sir. 


384      FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

And  hold  your  handi^  in  benediction  o'er  me:  .  .  . 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 
Lear.  Pray  do  not  mock  me: 

I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upward; 

Not  an  hour  more,  nor  less:   and  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  T  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful;  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is;   and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night:   do  not  laugh  at  me; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 
Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am  ! ' 

Lear,  who  thought  himself  omnipotent,  finds  himself  helpless; 
and,  once  pleased  with  false  professions  of  love,  now  clings  to 
that  which  is  tranquil  because  of  its  depth  and  fulness.  Thus 
they  console  each  other  when,  after  the  triumph  of  their  ene- 
mies, they  are  led  to  prison: 

'■Cor.  We  are  not  the  first. 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurr'd  the  worst. 
For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  down; 
Myself  could  else  out- frown  false  fortune's  frown. — 
Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters,  and  these  sisters? 

Lear.     No,  no,  no,  nol    Come,  let's  away  to  prison: 
We  too  alono  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage: 
When  thou  dost  ask  my  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down. 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness:   so  we'll  live, 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  i)oor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news;   and  we'll  talk  with  them  too  — 
Who  loses,  and  who  wins;   wlio's  in,  who's  out; — 
And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  tilings, 
As  if  we  were  (iod's  spies:   and  we'll  wear  out, 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs,  and  sects  of  great  ones. 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon.' 

The  history  of  iMacbetli  is  the  story  of  a  moral  poisoning. 
Frank,  sociable,  and  generous,  though  tainted  from  the  first  by 
ba.se  and  ambitious  tliouglits,  he  is  urged  on  to  his  ruin  by  the 
prophetic  warnings  f)f  tlio  Avitehcs,  by  golden  opportunity,  and 
the  instigations  of  his  wife.  He  has  physical  but  lacks  moral 
courasje.  The  suffo-ostion  of  a  possible  crown  haunts  him.  He 
•struggles,  but  he  is  a  lion  in  the  toils.  He  feels  the  resistless 
traction  of  fate,  sees  himself  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss,  and  his 
brain  is  filled  with  phantoms  : 

'Wliy  do  T  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  untix  my  hair 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs. 


SHAKESPEARE.  385 

Against  the  use  of  nature?    Present  fears 

Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings: 

My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical, 

Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man  that  function 

Is  smother'd  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is 

But  what  is  not.' 

To  act,  he  must  be  sudden  and  desperate.  When  the  deed  is 
done,  he  is  horrified,  shudders  to  think  of  it,  starts  at  every 
sound,  is  disturbed  by  a  supposed  wOrd  from  the  sleepers  in  an 
adjoining  room: 

'One  cried,  "God  bless  us  I"  and  "Amen,"  the  other; 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  "Amen," 
When  they  did  say,  "God  bless  us  I".  .  . 
But  wherefore  could  I  not  pronounce  "Amen"? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  "Amen" 
Stuck  in  my  throat.' 

Having  murdered  one,  he  must  murder  others,  in  order  to  pre- 
serve the  fruits  of  his  crime: 

'I  am  in  blood 

Steep'd  in  so  far  that,  should  I  wade  no  more. 

Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er.' 

He  has  Banquo  murdered,  and  thereafter  is  in  continual  deadly 
terror  of  the  ghost  that  'will  not  down': 

'Prithee,  see  there!    Behold!  look  I   lol   how  say  yon? 
Why,  what  care  I?    If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too. 
If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  .  .  . 

The  times  have  been 
That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end;   but  now  they  rise  again. 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns. 
And  push  us  from  our  stools:  .  .  . 
Avaunt!  and  quit  my  sight!  let  the  earth  hide  thee! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with!' 

A  habit  of  slaughter,  mechanical  smiles,  and  a  fixed  belief  in 
destiny  are  all  that  remain: 

'Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage. 
And  then  is  heard  no  more:   it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 
Signifying  nothing.' 

Yet  we  sympathize  with   him   in   that   fine   close   of   thoughtful 
melancholy: 
25 


386       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

'My  way  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  t-he  soar,  tlie  yellow  leaf; 
And  that  wliich  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honor,  love,  obedience,  troop;*  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but  in  their  stead. 
Curses  not  loud  but  deep,  moutli-honor,  breath 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  but  dare  not.' 

Hamlet  is  a  metaphysician  and  a  psychologist;  a  soul  of  sensi- 
bility, hope,  refinement,  and  thought,  with  every  kind  of  culture 
except  the  culture  of  active  life,  forced  from  its  natural  bias  by 
extreme  misfortune.  He  has  seen  only  the  beauty  of  humanity, 
and  at  once  sees  all  its  vileness  in  his  mother: 

'O  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew' 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  lix'd 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter  I   O  God!  O  God! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat  and  unproflttible, 
Seem  to  nie  all  the  uses  of  this  world  I 
Fie  on'tl    ah  fie  I   'tis  an  unweeded  garden, 
That  grows  to  seed;   tilings  rank  and  gross  in  nature 
Possess  it  merely.    That  it  should  come  to  this! 
But  two  months  dead:   nay,  not  so  much,  not  two: 
So  excellent  a  king,  ...  so  loving  to  my  mother, 
That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth!  .  .  . 

And  yet,  williin  a  month, — 
Let  7ne  not  think  on't, — Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman!  — 
A  little  month,  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 
With  which  slie  follow'd  my  poor  fatlier's  body,  .  .  . 
Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  her  galled  eyes. 
She  married.' 

Then  appears  the  ghost  in  the  night,  to  inform  him  of  the  fratri- 
cide, and  enjoin  him  to  avenge  the  crime: 

'Hold,  hold,  my  heart. 
And  you  my  sinews,  srrow  not  instant  old, 
But  l)ear  me  stiffly  up!     Remember  ttiee ! 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  scat 
In  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  tliee ! 
Yea,  from  the  t;il)le  of  my  memory 
I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past,  .  .  . 
And  thy  (•ommandiiieiit  all  alone  shall  live.'' 

nciiceforth  he  is  a  sc('])tic.  His  distress  is  transfermd  to  th(» 
general  account.  The  universe  is  tinged  with  the  color  of  his 
own  ideas.      Sadness  clings  to  him  like  a  malady: 

'I  Imve  of  l.iti — but  wlicrcfciri'  1  know  licit  — lost  all  my  mirth,  forcL'onc  all  custom 
of  exercises,  and  indeed  it  goes  so  Inavily  with  my  dis])osition  that  this  <;oodly  frame, 
the  earth,  seems  to  m(>  a  stirile  iirmnoiilory,  tliis  most  excellent  canopy,  the  air,  look 
you.  this  brave  o'crhjuiL'inir  firm.'itnent,  tliis  ma.iestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire,  why, 
it  ai)pear>  no  other  thing  to  me  than  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vajwrs.     Wiiat 


SHAKESPEARE.  387 

a  piece  of  work  is  man  I  how  noble  in  reason !  how  infinite  in  faculties !  in  form  and 
moving  how  express  and  admirable !  in  action  how  like  an  angel  I  in  apprehension  how 
like  a  god  I  the  beauty  of  the  world  I  the  paragon  of  animals !  And  yet,  to  me,  what  is 
this  quintessence  of  dust?  man  delights  not  me:  no,  nor  woman  neither.' 

He  doubts  everything,  doubts  immortality,  even  doubts  Ophelia, 
asks  her,  'Are  you  honest?'  Doubts  himself,  says  to  her:  'We 
are  arrant  knaves,  all;  believe  none  of  us.'  To  a  hopeless  phi- 
losophy, the  world  is  a  dull  blank,  and  man  a  grinning  skull.  In 
this  mood,  the  unconscious  Hamlet  stumbles  on  the  destined 
grave  of  Ophelia,  and  pauses  to  muse  on  death  and  decay.  He 
comments  on  the  skulls  which  the  grave-digger  throws  up.  This 
may  be  the  'pate  of  a  politician,  one  that  would  circumvent 
God';  or  of  a  courtier,  'which  could  say,  "Good  morrow,  sweet 
lord!  "'     This  may  be  a  lawyer's: 

'Where  be  his  quiddities  now,  his  quillets,  his  cases,  his  tenures,  and  his  tricks? 
why  does  he  suffer  this  rude  knave  now  to  knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a  dirty 
shovel,  and  will  not  tell  him  of  his  action  of  battery?' 

Here  is  another.     It  is  Yorick's: 

'A  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy:  he  hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a 
thousand  times;  and  now,  how  abhorred  in  my  imagination  it  is  I  my  gorge  rises  at  it. 
Here  hung  those  lips  that  I  have  kissed  I  know  not  how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now? 
your  gambols?  your  songs?  your  flashes  of  merriment,  that  were  wont  to  t^et  the  table 
on  a  roar?  Not  one  now,  to  mock  your  own  grinning?  quite  chap-fallen?  Now  gel  you 
to  my  lady's  chamber,  and  tell  her,  let  her  paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favor  she  must  come; 
make  her  laugh  at  that.' 

The  base  affinities  of  tiie  body  are  irresistibly  attractive  to  his 
curiosity.  Did  Alexander  look  like  this?  Even  so.  The  high- 
est are  but  animate  clay,  and  return  to  basest  uses.  '  Wliy  may 
not  imagination  trace  the  noble  dust  of  Alexander,  ti/l  Ite  find  it 
stopping  a  hung  ■hole?''  This  surplus  of  imagination  disqualifies 
Hamlet  for  action.  He  is  forever  analyzing  his  own  emotions 
and  motives,  and  does  notliing  because  he  sees  two  ways  of  doing 
it.  He  is  continually  diverted  from  his  purpose  by  liis  scruples. 
He  spares  his  uncle  l>ecause  he  finds  liim  praying,  and  waits  for 
some  more  fatal  op]iortuiiitv,  'that  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in 
it.'  He  is  conscious  of  liis  defect,  reproves  himself  for  it,  tries  to 
reason  himself  out  of  it: 

'IIow  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me. 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge!    What  is  a  man. 
If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Bo  lint  to  sleep  and  feed?  .  .  . 

T  do  not  know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say,  this  thing's  to  do;  .  .  . 

O,  from  this  time  fortli. 
My  thouglits  be  bloody  or  be  nothing  wortli.' 


388      FIRST  CREATIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

He  only  alternates  between  enthusiasm  and  inactivity.  His  tri- 
umphs in  words  are  rocket-bursts  of  momentary  splendor.  Of 
deliberate  energy  he  is  not  capable.  If  he  plunges  a  sword  into 
a  breast,  he  does  it  in  a  fit  of  excitement,  on  a  sudden  impulse 
from  without.  So  his  strength,  in  the  moment  of  its  final  extinc- 
tion, leaps  up  to  accomplish  the  punishment  of  the  malefactor. 
It  was  thus  that  he  had  killed  Polonius,  his  brooding  bitterness 
leaving  him  without  remorse: 

^King.    Now  Hamlet,  Where's  Polonius? 
Hamlet.    At  supper. 
King.    At  supper!  where? 

Hamlet.  Not  where  he  eats,  but  where  he  is  eaten:  a  certain  convocation  of  politic 
worms  are  e'en  at  him.' 

Hamlet  is  an  enigma,  never  wholly  explicable  and  forever  sug- 
gestive. 

The  real  is  one  great  field  of  Shakespeare's  power;  the  fan- 
tastical is  another, —  the  supernatural  world,  the  world  of  appari- 
tions. We  have  elsewhere  seen  a  variety  of  this  life  in  tiie 
witches  of  Macbeth.  Never  were  so  exquisitely  imagined,  sus- 
tained, or  expressed,  the  nimble  genii,  the  bodiless  sylphs,  the 
dreamy  population  of  the  moonlit  forests.  Prospero's  enchanted 
isle  is  full  of  — 

'Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twanging  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears,  and  sometimes  voices, 
That  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 
Would  make  me  sleep  again;   and  then  in  dreaming, 
The  clouds  mcthought  would  open,  and  show  riclies 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me:    when  I  wak'd 
1  cried  to  dream  again.'' 

Ariel,  delicate  as  an  aVjstraction  of  the  dawn  and  vesper  sun- 
lights, flies  around  shipwrecked  men  to  console  them,  spreads 
glowing  visions  before  lovers,  and  executes  his  mission  with  the 
swiftness  of   thouglit: 

'Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I: 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie.  .  .  . 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough.  .  .  . 
I  drink  the  air  before  rac,  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.'  - 

When  Titania,  Queen  of  the  Fairies,  contends  with   Oberon,  her 

husband,   for  the   retention   of    her   favorite   page,   of   whom    he 

>  Tempest.  ^Ibid. 


SHAKESPEARE.  389 

seeks  to  deprive  her,  the  frightened  elves  hide  in  the  acorn  cups. 

Oberon  comes  off  second  best,  and,  by  way  of  retaliation,  drops 

upon  Titania's  sleeping  eyes  the  juice  of  a  magic  flower,  which 

changes  her  heart: 

'What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  wake 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take; 
Love  and  languish  for  his  sake: 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair, 
In  thy  eye  that  shail  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  tliy  dear; 
Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  Is  near.' ' 

The  result  is,  that  she  finds  herself  enamored  of  Bottom,  a  stupid 
fellow  with  an  ass's  head: 

'Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go: 
Thou  shall  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no.  .  .  . 
I"ll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep. 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so. 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go.' 

She  calls  her  fairy  attendants: 

'Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman, 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes; 
Feed  him  witli  apricocks  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries: 
The  honey-b;igs  steal  from  the  humble-bees. 
And  for  night  tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes. 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies. 
To  fan  the  moon -beams  from  his  sleeping  eyes.'  .  .  . 

'Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy 
And  stick  musk-roscs  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head. 
And  kixs  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy.'' 

To  all  tliis  divine  tenderness,  her  love  makes  characteristic  reply: 

'■Rot.    Where's  Peas-blossom? 

Peas.    Ready. 

Bot.    Scratch  my  head.  Peas-blossom.    Where's  Monsieur  Cobweb? 

Cob.    Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb,  good  monsieur,  get  up  your  weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill 
me  a  red-hipped  hwnble-bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle:  and,  good  monsieur,  bring  me  the 
honey-bag.  Do  not  fret  yourself  too  much  rvith  the  action,  monsieur ;  and,  good  mon- 
sieur, liave  a  care  the  honey-bag  break  not;  T  would  be  loth  to  hare  yon  orerfoicn  irith  a 
honey-bag,  signlor.    Where's  Monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

.^f|>.'it.     Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  fist.  Monsieur  Mustard-seed.  Pray  you,  leave  your  courtesy, 
good  iiionsicur. 

Mi'st.     Wliafs  your  will? 

'  Midsinnmer  Xighl's  Dream. 


Then; 


390      PIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Bot.    Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  Cavallero  Cobweb  to  scratch.    I  must  to 
the  barber's,  monsieur;  for  methinks  I  am  marvellous  hairy  about  the  face ;  and  I  am 
8uch  a  tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  ticlile  me  I  must  scratch. 
7\t.    What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love? 
Bot.    I  have  a  reasonable  ear  in  music:  let  us  have  the  tongs  and  the  bones. 
Tit.    Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirest  to  eat. 

Bot.    Truly  a  peck  of  provender.    I  could  munch  yotir  good  dry  oats.    Methinks  I 
have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle  of  hay.    Good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 
Tit.    1  have  a  venturous  fairy,  that  shall  seek 

The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 
Bot.    I  had  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas :  —  hwt,  I  pray  you,  let  none 
of  your  people  stir  me ;  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 
Tit.    Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  begone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  entwist: — the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  tliee :    How  I  dote  on  thee ! ' 

Was  ever  such   extent  of  action?    such  diverse  creation?    such 
mastery  of  situation  and  form  ? 

It  is  this  poet's  prerogative  to  have  thought  more  finely  and 
more  extensively  than  all  other  poets  combined.  Not  the  least 
of  the  emblazonries  upon  his  shield  is  his  teeming  fertility  of  fine 
ideas  and  sentiments,  universally  intelligible,  and  applicable  to 
the  circumstances  of  every  human  being.  For  instance,  as 
merest  suggestions  of  the  golden  bead-roll  that  might  be  gath- 
ered from  his  works: 

'"Tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich.' 

'How  ill  white  hairs  become  a  fool  and  jester!' 

'Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field.' 

'Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not  escape  calumny.' 

'Violent  delights  have  violent  ends. 
And  in  tlieir  triumph  die.' 

'Our  doubts  are  traitors, 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win. 
By  fearing  to  attempt.' 

'Good  name,  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord. 
Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls.' 

'For  aught  that  ever  T  could  read. 
Could  ever  hear  by  talc  or  history, 
Tlie  course  of  true  lf)V('  never  did  run  smooth." 

'The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together:  our  virtues  would 
be  proud  if  our  faults  whii)ped  tlieiu  not :  and  our  crimes  would  despair  if  they  were  not 
clierished  by  our  virtues.' 

'Never  durst  poet  touch  a  i)cii  to  write 
Until  his  ink  were  temixi'd  witii   love's  sighs; 


SHAKESPEARE.  391 

O,  then  his  lines  would  ravage  savage  ears. 
And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility.' 

'  "Tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content. 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  glistering  grief. 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow." 

'There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st. 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. 
Still  quiring  to  the  young- eyed  cherubins; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it." 

'The  cloud-capp"d  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temple,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit  shall  dissolve; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind." 

'Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod;   and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick- ribbed  ice; 
To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  about 
The  pendent  world;   or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lav/less  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling  1 — 'tis  too  horrible  1' 

Perhaps  there  is  a  mood  in  the  life  of  every  thoughtful  person 
when  he  feels,  and  in  a  sense  truly,  that  human  existence  is  a 
little  tract  of  feverish  vigils,  islanded  by  a  shoreless  ocean  of 
oblivion: 

'We  are  such  stufE 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

Still,  in  his  high(>r,  serener  altitudes,  he  will  bid  us  do  our  dream 
duties: 

'To  thine  own  self  be  true; 
And  it  must  follow  as  the  night  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  then  bo  false  to  any  man." 

And  still  he  believes  in  the  immortal  essence  of  the  dreamer; 
and  will  say  with  Hamlet,  of  the  ghost,  though  his  teeth  chatter: 

'I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee; 
And  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  thaf, 
Heint;  a  thing  iininortal  as  itself?" 

When,  too,  a  man  has  tried  wearily  but  vainly  to  adjust  the 
infinite  part  of  him  to  tlu;  finite,  or,  in  learning  to  prescribe  a 
narrower  boundary  for  the  things  he  expected  to  oljtaiu,  has  felt 


392      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

stealing  upon  him  an  unwelcome  conviction  of  the  vanity  of 
human  hopes,  he  may  think, — 

'There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-how  them  how  wc  will." ' 

Or  this?  — 

'That  we  would  do, 
We  should  do  when  we  would;  for  this  would  changes. 
And  hath  abatements,  and  delays  as  many 
As  there  are  tongues,  are  hands,  are  instruments.' 

But,  with  a  truer  insight,  he  will  confess  this  to  be  but  a  frag- 
ment, a  partial  account,  of  our  complex  nature: 

'Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven;  the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope,  only  doth  backward  push 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull.'* 

Lately  Tyndall,  of  the  advanced  materialists,  declared  at  Bir- 
mingham that  'the  robber,  the  ravisher,  and  the  murderer  offend 
because  they  can  not  help  offending,'  But  three  hundred  years 
before,  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  a  far  greater  than  Tyndall  pro- 
claimed in  words  that  will  never  die: 

'This  i.<  the  excellent  foppery  of  the  world,  that,  when  we  are  sick  in  fortune, — 
often  the  surfeit  of  our  own  behavior,— we  make  guilty  of  our  disasters  the  sun,  the 
moon,  and  the  stars:  as  if  ire  were  villains  by  necessity;  fools  by  heavenly  compulsion; 
knaves,  thieves,  and  treachers  by  spherical  predominance;  drunkards,  liars,  and  adulter- 
ers, by  an  enforced  obedience  of  planetary  influence;  and  all  that  we  are  evil  in,  by  a 
divine  thrusting  on:  an  admirable  evasion  of  abominable  man,  to  lay  his  goatish  dispo- 
sition to  the  charge  of  a  starl  .  .  .  Tut,  I  should  have  been  that  I  am,  had  tlie  maidenliest 
star  in  the  firmament  twinkled  on  my  birth.' ^ 

Lord  Bacon  wished  that  a  science  of  the  human  passions  might 
be  elaborated.  lie  could  havc^  found  it  in  Shakespeare.  The 
parts  are  there,  needing  only  to  be  combined  into  a  consistent 
whole.  Underlying  and  ])enetrating  them  is  the  Moral  Law. 
They  discloso  a  constantly  recurring  emphasis,  a  pervading 
agency,  of   tiif    two  grand  factors   in   moral  being, —  the   motive 

'  Hamlet.  M.  Taiiif,  iiitt  iit  iiiion  the  confirmation  of  a  theory,  would  have  Shake- 
speare define  man  as  a 'nervous  nKichiiic '  led  at  random  by  (h'tcrniitiatc  and  complex 
circiimstaTices.  I5iit  \\w  eminent  I''renchinaii,  more  l)rilli,nii  tliaii  profomul,  lias,  in  the 
passages  he  cites,  not  only  '_'eiieralize<l  from  inadeiiuate  d.-ita,  l«it  lias  failed  to  discrimi- 
nate between  drain.-itic  ;im<1  |)liiloso|)liic;.l  or  llieoloirieal  sii;iiilic:iiice.  It  is  wlien  we  hav(! 
divested  ourselves  of  our  projier  hiimunitv  that  life  lii'comes  a  walking  shadow  —  an 
automaton.     Did  M.  Taiiie  note  this/— 

'Hefrain  to-nii.'lit. 

Ami  tliai   -lial)  lend  a  kind  of  easiiie>^s 

To  Ilie  next  abstinence:    the  next  more  easy; 

For  use  almost  can  chjiiige  tlie  stani]!  of  nature. 

And  eitlier  curb  tlie  devil,  or  tlirow  him  out. 

With  wondrous  potency." 

•Kills  Well  that  I-:„d.f  IJV//.  -^KiiHi  Uar. 


SHAKESPEARE.  393 

force  and  the  perceptive  faculty, — Free -Will  and  Conscience. 
Let  us  hear  a  few  of  the  observations  which  this  anatomist  of  the 
heart,  by  the  simple  exposition  of  human  conduct,  has  made  in 
the  sphere  of  the  latter.  For  example,  of  the  monitory  function 
of  conscience,  the  collision  and  struggle  of  opposite  impulses: 

'Conscience  is  a  thousand  swords.' • 

Or,- 

'■First  Murd.    How  dost  tliou  feel  tiiysclf  now? 

Second  Murd.    'Faith,  some  certain  dregs  of  conscience  are  yet  within  me. 

First  Murd.    Remember  our  reward,  when  the  deed  is  done. 

Second  Murd.     "Zounds,  he  dies:  I  had  forgot  the  reward. 

F^rst  Murd.    Where  is  thy  conscience  now? 

Second  Murd.    In  the  Duke  of  Gloucester's  purse. 

First  Murd.    So  when  he  opens  his  purse  to  give  us  our  reward,  thy  conscience  flies  out. 

Second  Murd.    'Tis  no  matter.    Let  it  go;  there's  few  or  none  will  entertain  it. 

First  Murd.    Ilow  if  it  come  to  thee  again  ? 

Second  Murd.  I'll  not  meddle  with  it:  it  is  a  dangerous  thing:  it  makes  a  man  a  cow- 
ard: a  man  cannot  steal,  but  it  accuseth  him;  a  man  cannot  swear,  but  it  check  him; 
.  .  .  "tis  a  blushing  shamefaced  spirit  that  mutinies  in  a  man's  bosom;  it  tills  one  full  of 
obstacles:  it  made  me  once  restore  a  purse  of  gold  that  by  chance  I  found;  it  beggars  any 
man  that  keeps  it:  it  is  turned  out  of  all  towns  and  cities  for  a  dangerous  thing.  .  .  . 

First  Murd.  "Zounds,  it  is  even  now  at  my  elbow,  persuading  me  not  to  kill  the 
duke.' 2 

Or,- 

'Macb.    If  it  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
Tt  were  done  quickly:   if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch 
Witli  his  surcease  success;   that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here, 
But  here,  upon  this  l)ank  and  shoal  of  time. 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come.     But  in  these  cases 
We  still  have  judgment  here;   that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor:  ... 

This  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  oflice,  that  his  virtues 
Will  i)lead  like  angels,  trumpet -tougued,  against 
The  deej)  damnation  of  his  taking-off; 
And  i)ity,  like  a  naked  new-born  bat)o. 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven"s  cherubim,  horse 
I'pon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.    I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  th(!  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaiilting  ambition,  which  o"erleaps  itself.'' 

More  powerful   still, — 

'Since  Caseins  first  did  whet  me  against  Ca-sar, 
I  have  not  slept. 
Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 

i  liichard  III.  'Ibid.  ^Marbef/i. 


394      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Lilce  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream: 
The  genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 
Are  then  in  council;  and  the  state  of  man, 
Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 
The  nature  of  an  insurrection.' ' 

The  timidity  of  guilt,  its  mental  and  physical  effects, —  the  soul 
accusing  itself: 

'Suspicion  always  haunts  the  guilty  mind.'» 

'How  is't  with  me  when  every  noise  appals  me?'' 

'Guiltiness  will  speak,  though  tongues  were  out  of  use?'* 

'Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  ''Sleep  no  more! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep;"  .  .  . 
Still  it  cried,  "Sleep  no  more!''  to  all  the  house: 
"Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more ;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more."  ' 

And  so  Lady  Macbeth,  at  whose  heart,  when  royalty  crowns  her 

and  royal  robes  enfold  her,  gnaws  the  undying  worm: 

'Naught's  had  — all's  sjjent 
Where  our  desire  is  had  without  content. 
'Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 
Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy.' 

The  boldness  of   innocence: 

'What  stronger  breastplate  than  a  heart  untainted? 
Thrice  is  he  armed  that  hath  his  quarrel  just. 
And  he  but  naked,  though  locked  up  in  steel, 
Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted.'^ 

Its  peaceful,  cheering,  commanding  effect: 

'  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities  — 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience."  •■ 

To  sum  up  all: 

'Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  mo. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  tliee,  fling  away  ambition: 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels;   how  can  man.  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it? 
Love  thyself  last:    cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee; 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  pence. 
To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not: 
Let  all  the  ends  tliou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's  and  truth's.' ' 

What  altitudes  did  this  man  not  reach  ?  What  depths  did 
not  his  phimmet  sol^nd?  What  domain  of  consciovisness  did  he 
not  extend  ? 

^  Cmar.      ■' Henry  IV.      'Macbeth.      *  Ibid.      ^  Henry  Vf.      *  Henry  VIII.      ''Ibid. 


SHAKESPEARE.  395 

Originality.  —  A  few  years  ago  the  most  eminent  living 
writer'  of  Holland  said  to  a  congress  of  authors  and  publishers 
at  Brussels  :  '  For  nearly  forty  years  I  have  lived  principally  by 
robbery  and  theft.'  He  justified  his  practice  by  the  example 
of  Virgil,  Dante,  Tasso,  Milton,  Voltaire,  Schiller,  and  others. 
Every  man  is  receptive.  The  greatest  are  the  most  indebted, 
Chaucer's  opulence  has  fed  many  pensioners,  but  he  was  himself 
a  huge  borrower,  using  Govver  and  the  Italians  like  stone- 
quarries.  Shakespeare,  like  every  master,  is  at  once  heir  and 
dispenser.  He  has  no  credit  of  design.  His  materials,  as  the 
table  shows,  were  already  prepared.  He  absorbed  all  the  light 
anywhere  radiating.  Ho  borrowed  not  only  the  plot,  but  often 
and  extensively  the  very  terms.  Read  Plutarch's  Lives  for  the 
originals  oi  Jul  ins  C(esar.  Out  of  0,043  lines  in  Iltnry  VJ,  1,TT1 
were  written  by  some  antecedent  author;  2,373  by  Shakespeare 
on  the  foundation  laid  by  his  predecessors  ;  and  only  1,809  by 
himself  alone  !  ^  Ready-made  plots,  solitary  thoughts,  fortunate 
expressions  were  at  hand,  but  he  organized,  enriched,  and  vivi- 
fied them.  Of  little  value  where  he  found  them,  they  were 
priceless  where  he  left  them.  'Thought,'  says  Emerson,  'is  the 
property  of  him  who  can  entertain  it ;  and  of  him  who  can 
adequately  place  it.' 

Versification. —  He  had  no  system,  no  mannerism,  but  the 
true  secret  of  blank  verse  —  the  adaptation  of  words  and 
rhythms  to  the  sense  contained  in  them.  Thought  runs  before 
expression  and  moulds  it  to  its  own  peculiar  uses.  Hence  the 
defective  and  redundant  lines,  and  other  rin-thmic  variations,  as 
the  various  distribution  of  the  time-values  within  a  bar,  by  which 
Shakespeare  out  of  the  bare  type  of  blank  verse  has  brought 
such  marvellous  and  subtle  music. 

Style. —  His  versification  is  powerful,  sweet  and  varied,  natu- 
rally and  enduringly  musical.  It  was  tlie  sweetness  of  his  utter- 
ance that  gave  to  his  first  readers  their  chief  delight.  To  them, 
he  was  the  '  honey-tongued.'  His  diction  is  appropriate  to  the 
persons  who  use  it,  and  to  tlie  idea  or  sentiment  it  eonvevs. 

Tlie  dominant  feature  of  his  style  is  impassioned  luxuriance. 
It  is  the  translation  of  abstract  thoughts  into  visible  images, — 

'  Vnn  Lcmu'p.  2>t.,]oiic's  computation. 


396      FIRST  CKEATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

thoughts  that  come  of  themselves,  thrown  out  from  the  furnace 
of  invention  by  the  seething,  whirling  energies  of  passion,  crowd- 
ed and  contorted;  images  that  unfold  like  a  series  of  paintings, 
involuntarily,  in  mingled  contrasts,  copious,  jumbled,  flaming. 
Thus  Hamlet  to  the  queen's  question,  'What  have  I  done?' 
answers  as  if  his  brain  were  on  fire: 

'Such  an  act 
That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty, 
Calls  virtue  hypocrite,  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love, 
And  sets  a  blister  there,  makes  marriage-vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths:    O,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul,  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words;   heaven's  face  doth  glow: 
Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 
With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom. 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act.' 

Whatever  the  situation,  he  is  exuberant  because  he  is  buried  and 
absorbed  in  it.  All  objects  shrink  and  expand  to  serve  him,  are 
transfigured  by  his  rapture.     Thus, — 


Or,- 

And, — 


'The  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 
Melting  tlie  darkness." 

'How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleejjs  upon  this  bank!' 

'The  strong  based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 
The  pine  and  cedar.' 


To  the  excited  soul,  metaphor  is  a  necessity.  It  thinks  of  no 
rules,  and  requires  none.  It  studies  not  to  be  just  or  clear,  but 
attains  life.  It  seizes  ideas  and  figiires  without  a  consciousness 
of  its  movements,  and  hurls  them  with  an  energy  like  to  the 
supernatural.  Its  condensation  and  confusion  abide  no  criticism, 
and  lieed  none.  As  the  result  of  inspiration,  they  mark  the 
suddenness  and  the  breaks  of  the  inner  and  divine  afflatus. 

Rank. — To  excel  in  pathos,  in  wit,  or  in  humor;  in  sub- 
limity, as  Milton;  in  intensity,  as  Chaucer;  or  in  remoteness,  as 
Spenser, — would  form  a  great  poet;  but  to  unite  all,  as  Shake- 
speare has  done,  is — 

'  To  get  the  x/arf  of  the  inajestic  world, 
And  bear  the  palm  alone  .'^ 

Otlirrs  have  equalled  or  surpassed  him  in  some  particular  excel- 
lence, but  no  man  ever  had  at  once  such  strength  and  variety  of 


SHAKESPEARE.  397 

imagination.  He  has  grasped  all  the  diversities  of  rank,  sex,  and 
age.  His  imperial  muse  has  swept  the  poles  of  existence  —  the 
human  and  the  superhuman.  His  characters  are  legion;  but  — 
whether  sage  or  idiot,  king  or  beggar,  queen  or  nurse,  hero  or 
clown,  plotting  villain  or  sportive  fairy  —  all  are  distinct,  all 
speak  and  act  with  equal  truth,  all  are  inspired  by  the  artist's 
animation.  No  other  ever  saw  the  world  of  nature  and  of  mind 
from  so  many  points  of  view.  He  is  all  that  he  imaginatively 
sees.  Thus  his  figures  acquire  a  relief  and  color  which  create 
illusion.  They  are  so  consistent  and  vital  that  we  seem  to  know 
them,  not  by  description,  but  by  intercourse. 

If  we  seek  to  refer  this  preeminence  to  the  possession  of  any 
peculiar  quality,  we  think  it  may  be  found  in  the  superior  power 
of  grouping  men  in  natural  classes  by  an  insiglit  of  general  laws. 
His  penetrative  genius  discerns  the  common  attributes  of  indi- 
viduals; his  dramatic  genius  gathers  them  up  into  one  concep- 
tion, and  embodies  that  in  a  type;  his  poetic  genius  lifts  it  into 
an  ideal  region,  where,  under  circumstances  more  propitious,  it 
may  find  a  free  and  full-  development.  Each  character  is  thus 
the  ideal  head  of  a  •family.  Each  is  rooted  in  humanity.  Each 
is  an  impassioned  rejyresentative.  Each,  therefore,  is  a  species 
individualized.  You  will  find  many  that  resemble  it,  but  none 
identical  with  it.  In  actual  existence,  there  is  no  Falstaff, 
though  there  be  multitudes  like  him.  Vital  (jeneralization  is 
thus  the  secret  of  Shakespeare's  transcendent  superiority  over  all 
other  writers.  His  personages  are  of  no  locality,  no  sect.  They 
belong  to  all  regions,  and  to  all  ages.  This  is  the  essential  prin- 
ciple of  highest  literature, —  that  it  is  addressed  to  man  as  man, 
not  to  men  as  they  are  parted  into  trades  and  professions.  Its 
audience-chamber  is  the  globe.  Its  touches  of  nature  make  the 
whole  world  kin. 

We  are  not,  however,  to  think  of  Shakespeare  as  having 
achieved  his  work  by  the  power  of  his  single  genius.  He  mas 
fortunately  horn.  The  tide  of  thoughts  and  events  was  at  its 
flood.  Contemporary  ideas  and  necessities  forced  him  on.  He 
stood,  like  every  greatest  man,  where  all  hands  pointed  in  the 
direction  in  which  he  should  go.  Generations  pioneered  his  road. 
Noble  conceptions  and  a  noble  school  of  execution  awaited  him. 
Filled    with    the    power   of    that    spirit   which    prevailed    widely 


398       FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

around  him  and  formed  his  environment,  he  carried  them  to  the 
summit  of  excellence.  The  topstone  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument 
is  highest  only  because  it  rests  on  every  block  underneath;  the 
lowest  and  smallest  helps  to  hold  it  there. 

Character. —  Norman  by  the  father,  Saxon  by  the  mother, 
Shakespeare  had  the  English  duality.  He  combined  the  Oriental 
soaring  of  the  first  with  the  grip  and  exactitude  of  the  second. 
Imperfectly  educated,  he  had  as  much  culture  as  he  wanted,  and 
of  whatever  kind  he  wanted.  All  the  classicism  then  attainable 
he  got  cheap  —  ready-made.  Like  Goethe,  he  set  little  store  by 
useless  learning.  Yet  who  can  reckon  all  that  he  knew  of  man 
and  of  history?  Such  minds  have  no  need  to  be  taught;  they 
are  full,  and  overflow,  by  the  revelations  of  their  seer's  madness. 

A  nature  affectionate  and  kind,'  witty  in  conversation,  brill- 
iantly gay;  extreme  in  joy  and  pain;  so  exquisitely  sensitive, 
that,  like  a  perfect  harp,  it  vibrated  at  the  slightest  touch;  with 
an  imagination  so  broad,  tliat  it  grasped  all  the  complexity  of 
human  lot,  its  laughter  and  its  tears;  so  copious,  that  he  never 
erased  what  lie  had  written;  so  glowing,  that  it  set  at  defiance 
the  Unities  which  imprisoned  it,  and  produced  in  their  stead  a 
fantastic  pageant, —  a  medley  of  forms,  colors,  and  sentiments; 
with  sympathies  so  embracing,  so  urgent,  that  he  became  trans- 
fused into  all  that  he  conceived,  and  gave  to  a  multitude  of 
diverse  individualities  each  a  separate  soul. 

AVithout  doubt,  in  his  youth,  he  was  not  a  pattern  of  pro- 
priety. His  I'^enus  and  Adonis  is  little  else  than  a  debauch.  As 
a  dramatist  he  is  ccrtainlv  neither  a  professed  religionist,  nor  a 
pronounced  reformer.  He  copies  at  random  the  high  and  the 
low.  He  holds  tlie  mirror  up  to  all  that  is  —  the  whole  reality. 
While  the  lower  half  of  the  far-spread  glass  is  therefore  blotched, 
we  believe  that  the  upper  half  is  his  ultimate  and  essential  self. 
AVith  advancing  years,  he  cvideiitlv  dwells  more  upon  the  gr(>at 
characters  of  his  tragedies,  and  gives  increased  light  to  moral 
issues.  More  and  more,  as  he  grows  older,  he  tightens  the 
strands  in  tlio  colossal  harp  of  his  nature  and  strikes  the  reso- 
nant wires  witli  a  firmer  plectrum.  Deeper  and  (leej)er  sink  the 
pangs  of  affection  misplaced,  the  memory  of  hours  misspent. 
Conscienci'    is    ill    at    ease    with    tho    world.       Thus    again    and 

'  'My  darling  Shakuspearc,'  'Sweet  swan  of  Avon."— //en  Jonson. 


SHAKESPEARE.  399 

again  he  alludes  to  the  infamy  of  his  marriage.     If  the  fact, 
without  tiie  form,  exists  before  — 

'All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  ministered, 
No  sweet  aspersion  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow;   but  barren  hate. 
Sour-eyed  disdain  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both;  therefore  take  heed 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you.' 

Joy  alternates  with  sadness,  transports  with  melancholies: 

'That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold. 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day, 
As  after  sun-set  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away. 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  tire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  deatli-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  witli  that  whicli  it  was  nourishd  by. 
This  thou  percriv'st,  winch  makes  thy  love  more  strong. 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long." 

Here  are  the  la.st  notes  struck  within  the  hearing  of  this  world: 

'I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God,  my  Creator,  lioping  and  assuredly  be- 
lieving, through  the  only  merits  of  Jesus  Christ,  my  Savior,  to  be  made  i)artaker  of  life 
everlasting.'  ' 

InflUGnce. — Upon  universal  sympathy,  ujion  historical  in- 
quiry, upon  linguistic  development,  he  has  left  a  potent  and 
enduring  impress.  His  works  and  the  Bible,  both  models  of 
Teutonic  simplicity,  are  the  great  conservators  of  English  speech. 

Ho  infused  into  the  early  drama  a  spirit  of  high  art;  gave  it 
order,  .symmetry,  elevation;  informed  it  with  tru«^  airy  wit  and 
rich  l)ut  subtle  humor;  made  it  an  opulent  and  unfailing  fount 
of  entertaiinnent  and  instruction. 

He  has  revealed,  in  fresii,  familiar,  signiilcant,  and  ])recise 
details,  the  complete  condition  of  civilization:  and  thus  to  attain 
nature  truthfully  in  the  lialance  of  motives  and  the  issues  of 
action,  is  in  the  most  vital  of  all  ways  to  be  moral;  to  l)e  a  prop- 
agator, though  by  indirection,  of  the  morality  that  g'overns  and 
illuminates  the  world;  else  is  nature  immoral  and  in  fellowshiji 
with  impurity. 

'  Shakespeare's  will. 


400      FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Consider  the  mental  activity  of  which  he  is  the  occasion;  how 
far,  and  for  how  many,  he  has  enlarged  the  circle  of  study  and 
reflection;  the  fund  of  maxims,  observations,  and  sentiments, 
that  relate  to  whatever  is  interesting,  important,  or  lofty  in 
human  life,  and  whose  infinite  variety  age  cannot  wither  nor  cus- 
tom stale.  Art,  science,  history,  politics,  physics,  philosophy, 
shall  tax  him  for  illustration  while  the  tide  of  human  feelings 
and  passions  shall  continue  its  course. 

Shakespeare  is  like  a  great  primeval  forest,  whence  timber 
shall  be  cut  and  used  as  long  as  winds  blow  and  leaves  are  green. 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER   VII. 


FEATURES. 


Man  is  explicable  by  nothing  less  than  all  his  history. — Emerson. 

Politics. — European  civilization  had  merged  in  two  essential 
facts, — free  inquiry  and  centralization  of  power;  the  first  pre- 
vailing in  religious  society,  the  second  in  civil.  Before  these 
two  could  be  reconciled,  a  struggle  between  them  was  inevitable. 
On  the  one  hand,  royalty  declared  itself  superior  to  the  laws;  on 
the  other,  the  spirit  of  liberty  was  passing  from  the  public  mind 
to  the  state.  When,  in  1G03,  James,  the  Sixth  of  Scotland  and 
the  First  of  England,  ascended  the  throne,  the  decisive  hour  was 
fast  approaching  when  either  the  king  must  become  absolute, 
or  the  parliament  preponderant.  He  alternately  enraged  and 
alarmed  them  by  his  monstrous  claims,  and  excited  their  scorn 
by  his  concessions;  kept  discontent  alive  by  his  fondness  for 
worthless  and  tyrannical  favorites;  provoked  derision  bv  his 
cowardice,  his  pedantry,  his  ungainly  person,  and  his  uncouth 
manners.  The  dignity  of  government  was  weakened,  loyalty  was 
cooled,  and  revolution  was  fostered.  Under  his  son  and  successor 
Charles  I,  the  struggle  went  on.  He  inherited  his  father's  the- 
ories, with  a  stronger  disposition  to  carry  them  into  effect.  He 
imposed  and  collected  illegal  taxes,  made  forced  loans;  was  art- 
ful, capricious,  and  winding;  entered  intof  compacts  which  he 
had  no  intention  of  observing;  was  perfidious  from  habit  and  on 
principle.  Tiie  commons  put  on  a  sterner  front.  Parliament 
after  parliament  was  dissolved,  each  more  intractable  than  the 
former.  Then  he  attem]->ted  to  rule  without  one,  and  for  eleven 
years  —  an  interval  utterly  without  precedent  —  tlie  Houses  were 
not  convoked.  Yielding,  at  length  to  the  pressure  of  necessitv, 
he  summoned  them  in  1G40,  but  quickly  dismissed  them  when 
they  would  have  considered  tlie  grievances  of  the  nation.  The 
26  401 


402  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

opposition  grew  fiercer.  In  November  of  the  same  year,  without 
money,  without  credit,  without  authority  even  in  his  own  camp, 
he  yielded  again;  and  then  met  the  ever-memorable  body  known 
as  the  Long  Parliament.  Again  he  broke  faith  with  his  council, 
with  his  people;  and  in  August,  1642,  the  sword  was  drawn. 
Charles,  driven  to  Scotland  and  by  the  Scots  surrendered  to  his 
English  subjects,  expiated  his  crimes  with  his  blood.  The  soul 
of  the  revolutionary  party  was  Cromwell,  whose  warrior  saints, 
devotedly  attached  to  their  leader,  were  bent  on  the  establish- 
ment of  a  free  and  pious  commonwealth.  Having  destroyed  the 
king,  they  vanquished  in  turn  the  Parliament,  which,  having  out- 
lived its  usefulness,  and  forgetting  it  was  the  creature  of  the 
army,  exasperated  the  latter  by  its  dictation.  The  victorious 
chief  became  king  in  everything  but  name.  The  government, 
though  in  form  a  republic,  was  in  truth  a  military  despotism;  but 
the  despot  was  wise  and  magnanimous,  and  the  glory  of  Eng- 
land, grown  dim  in  the  two  preceding  reigns,  shone  again,  with 
a  brighter  lustre  than  ever.  Cromwell's  death,  in  1G58,  brought 
the  rule  of  Puritanism  to  an  end.  The  master  had  been  a  tem- 
porary necessity.  His  system,  acknowledged  by  all  to  be  neces- 
sary, was  acceptable  to  none.  The  soldiers,  against  whom,  while 
united,  plots  and  risings  of  malcontents  were  ineffectual,  now 
released  from  the  control  of  that  mighty  spirit,  separated  into 
factions.  Weary  of  strife,  and  terrified  at  the  prospect  of  re- 
newed civil  warfare,  the  country  sought  again  the  shelter  of  the 
monarchy,  and  invited  the  return  of  its  exiled  prince.  Charles 
II  was  proclaimed,  and  the  Restoration  was  accomplished. 

From  1G41  dates  the  corjiorate  existence  of  the  two  great 
parties  which  have  ever  since  contended  for  the  direction  of 
public  aiTairs.  The  royalists,  comprising  the  nobles,  the  gentry, 
and  the  prelacy,  wen;  called  Cavaliers,  from  their  gallant  bear- 
ing and  equestrian  skill.  The  opposition,  comprising  a  few  of 
the  peers,  the  bulk  of  citizens  and  yeomen,  and  the  Nonconform- 
ists, were  called  lioiindheach,  from  the  Puritan  fashion  of  wear- 
ing closely  cropped  hair.  The  names  Avere  afterwards  changed 
to  Tory  and  Whu/,  and  these,  still  later,  to  Conservative  and 
Liberal:  but  the  principles  have  remained  essentially  the 
same.  The  watchword  of  the  first  is  Order;  that  of  the  second. 
Progress. 


CHANGES   IK   SOCIETY   AND   MANNERS.  403 

Society. — In  the  midst  of  light,  the  thick  darkness  of  the 
middle-age  rested  on  Ireland.  Only  the  heavy  hand  of  a  single 
despot  could  deliver  her  from  the  local  despotism  of  a  hundred 
masters.  Cromwell's  conquest  was  a  series  of  awful  massacres. 
*I  am  persuaded,'  he  says,  'that  this  is  a  righteous  judgement 
of  God  upon  these  barbarous  wretches  who  have  imbrued  their 
hands  in  so  much  innocent  blood,  and  that  it  will  tend  to  pre- 
vent the  effusion  of  blood  for  the  future.'  She  was,  as  ever 
since,  undisguisedly  governed  as  a  dependency  won  by  the 
sword. 

Scotland,  joined  to  her  neighbor  on  the  most  honorable  terms, 
preserved  her  dignity  in  retaining  her  constitution  and  laws. 
Her  people,  however,  had  always  been  singularly  turbulent. 
They  had  butchered  their  first  James  in  his  bed-chamber;  had 
rebelled  repeatedly  against  the  second;  had  slain  the  third  on 
the  field  of  battle;  had  broken  the  heart  of  the  fifth  by  their 
disobedience  ;  had  imprisoned  Mary,  and  led  her  son  captive. 
The  border  was  a  chaos  of  violence;  and  along  the  line  between 
the  Highlands  and  Lowlands  raged  an  incessant  predatory  war. 

England  had  long  been  steadily  advancing.  Men  had  become 
accustomed  to  peaceful  pursuits,  and  irritation  did  not  now  so 
readily  as  in  former  ages  take  the  form  of  rebellion.  From  the 
rising  of  the  northern  earls  against  Elizabeth,  to  the  memorable 
reckoning  against  Charles  I,  seventy  years  had  elapsed  without 
intestine  hostilities.  The  national  wealth  had  greatly  multiplied, 
and  civilization  had  greatly  increased. 

Still,  we  shall  not  forget  the  difference  between  the  rude  and 
thoughtless  boy  and  the  refined  and  accomplished  man.  Masters 
habitually  beat  their  servants,  teachers  their  pupils,  and  hus- 
bands their  wives.  Tlie  offender  in  the  pillory  was  happy  to 
escape  with  life  from  the  shower  of  brickbats  and  paving  stones. 
If  tied  to  the  cart's  tail,  the  officer  was  implored  to  make  him 
howl.  Pleasure  parties  were  arranged  for  the  purpose  of  seeing 
wretched  women  whipped.  Fights,  in  which  gladiators  hacked 
each  other  to  pieces,  were  the  delight  of  multitudes.  At  the 
Restoration,  the  glorious  leaders  of  the  Puritan  faith  were  cut 
down  alive  from  the  gallows,  and  quartered  amidst  insults;  while 
others  —  Cromwell  among  them  —  were  dug  up,  and  exposed  on 
the  gribbet. 


404  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

The  police  were  in  constant  collision  with  ruffians  who  wore 
rapiers  and  daggers.  At  night  bands  of  dissolute  youth  domi- 
neered over  the  streets,  which  were  buried  in  profound  darkness. 
It  was  these  pests  of  London  that  suggested  to  Milton  the  lines: 

'And  in  luxurious  cities,  wiien  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  tlieir  loftiest  towers, 
And  injury  and  outrage,  and  wlien  night 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the  sons 
Of  Belial,  flown  with  insolence  and  wine.' 

In  the  outcast  quarters  of  the  city,  even  the  warrant  of  the  Chief 
Justice  could  not  be  executed  without  a  company  of  musketeers. 
Sanguinary  encounters  with  robbers  were  frequent.  Mounted 
highwaymen  infested  all  the  great  approaches  to  the  metropolis. 
With  the  decline  of  enthusiasm  and  respect,  courtly  manners 
degenerated  into  a  base  sensualit\\  An  arch  of  triumph  under 
James  I  often  represented  obscenities.  On  one  occasion,  the 
king  and  his  royal  brother  of  Denmark  were  carried  to  bed 
drunk.  Hear  a  description  of  the  entertainment  —  the  masque 
of  the  Queen  of  Sheba: 

'The  ladies  abandon  their  sobriety,  and  are  seen  to  roll  about  in  intoxication.  .  .  . 
The  lady  wlu)  did  play  the  Queens  part  .  .  .  did  carry  most  precious  gifts  to  both  tlieir 
Majesties;  but,  forgetting  tlie  stepi)es  arising  to  llie  canopy,  overset  her  caskets  into  liis 
Danisli  Majesties  lap,  and  fell  at  his  feet,  tho  rather  1  think  it  was  in  his  face.  Much 
was  the  hurry  and  confusion;  clothes  and  napkins  were  at  hand,  to  make  all  clean.  His 
Majesty  then  got  up  and  would  dance  with  the  Queen  of  Sheba;  but  lie  fell  down  and 
humbled  liiniself  before  hei',  and  was  carried  to  an  inner  chamber  and  laid  on  a  bed  of 
state;  wliicli  was  not  a  little  defiled  with  the  presents  of  the  Queen  which  had  been 
bestowed  on  his  garments:  such  as  wine,  cream,  jelly,  beverage,  cakes,  spices,  and  other 
good  mtitters.  The  entertainment  and  show  went  forward,  and  most  of  the  presenters 
Went  backward,  or  ftOl  down;  wine  did  so  occupy  their  upper  chambers.  Now  did 
ai)pear,  in  iic!i  (hcss,  Ilojie,  Faith,  and  Charity:  Hope  did  assay  to  speak,  but  wine  ren- 
dered lur  endeavors  so  feeble  that  she  withdrew,  and  hoped  the  king  would  excuse  her 
brevity:  Faitli  .  .  .  left  tlie  court  in  a  staggering  condition.  .  .  .  They  were  botli  sick 
and  sijcwing  in  llic  lower  hall.  Next  came  Victory,  who  .  .  .  by  a  strange  medley  of 
versiluatioii  .  .  .  and  after  much  lamentable  utterance,  was  led  away  like  a  silly  cai)tive, 
and  laid  to  slee])  in  the  outer  -^teijs  of  the  ante-chamber.  As  for  Peace,  she  most  rudely 
made  war  witii  lier  olive  l)rancli,  and  laid  on  tlie  pates  of  those  wlio  did  oppose  licr 
comini:." 

Farther  on  we  .shall  .see  how,  underneath   the  disorderly  l)ubl)les 
at  the  surface,  Puritanism  was  rai.sing  the  national  morality. 

Religion. —  The  Reformation  was  incomplete.  It  had  ])een 
made  in  acconlance  with  the  interests  of  its  leaders, —  the  king* 
and  the  jirelates,  wlio  divided  between  themselves  the  riches  and 
power  of  wliifli  tliev  had  despoiled  the  ])opes.  Bv  a  large  body 
of  Protestants  tiie  alliance  was  regarded  as  a  scheme  for  serving 


PURITAlf  TRIUMPH.  405 

two  masters.  It  had  closed  reform,  while  the  greater  part  of  the 
abuses  which  induced  them  to  desire  it  were  continued.  They 
denounced  its  pretensions,  complained  of  its  tyranny.  They 
had  not  thrown  off  one  yoke  in  order  to  receive  another.  They 
were  not  afraid  to  dissent  from  those  who  had  themselves  dis- 
sented. To  no  purpose  were  they  fined,  imprisoned,  pilloried, 
mutilated;  their  ministers  dismissed,  tracked  by  spies,  prosecuted 
by  usurping  and  rapacious  courts.  They  flourished  in  spite  of 
the  efforts  to  destroy  them,  because  they  lived  honestly,  sustained 
by  the  powerful  ideas  of  God  and  conscience.  Private  life  was 
transformed.  Enthusiasm  spread.  From  individual  manners, 
the  movement  extended  to  public  institutions.  When  the  Long 
Parliament  assembled,  they  were  able  to  resort  to  arms.  Every 
week  the  Commons  occupied  a  day  in  deliberating  on  the  prog- 
ress of  religion.  The  external  and  natural  man  was  abolished. 
Recreations  and  ornaments  were  abandoned.  To  wear  love-locks, 
to  starch  a  ruff,  to  read  the  Fairy  Queen,  were  sins.  Law  was 
changed  into  a  guardian  of  morals: 

'Though  the  discipline  of  the  church  was  at  an  end,  there  was  nevertheless  an  un- 
common spirit  of  devotion  among  people  in  the  parliament  quarters ;  the  Lord's  day  was 
observed  with  remarkable  strictness,  the  churches  being  crowded  with  numerous  and 
attentive  hearers  three  or  four  times  in  the  day ;  tlie  officers  of  the  peace  patrolled  the 
streets,  and  shut  up  all  publick  houses;  there  was  no  travelling  on  the  road,  or  walking 
in  the  fields,  except  in  cases  of  absolute  necessity.  Religious  exercises  were  set  up  in 
private  families,  as  reading  the  Scriptures,  family  prayer,  repeating  sermons,  and  singing 
of  psalms,  which  was  so  universal  that  you  might  walk  through  the  city  of  London  on  the 
evening  of  the  Lord's  day,  without  seeing  an  idle  i)erson,  or  hearing  anything  but  the 
voice  of  prayer  or  praise  from  churches  and  private  houses.' 

All  the  outlets  of  instinctive  nature  were  closed.  In  1G44  it  was 
ordained: 

'That  no  person  shall  travel,  or  carry  a  burden,  or  do  any  worldly  labour,  upon  pen- 
alty of  10s.  for  the  traveller  and  5s.  for  every  burden.  Tliat  no  person  shall  on  the  Lord's 
day  use,  or  be  present  at,  any  wrestling,  shootins:,  fowling,  ringing  of  bells  for  i)leasure, 
markets,  wakes,  church-ales,  dancing,  games  or  sports  whatsoever,  ui)on  penalty  of  .")s.  to 
every  one  al)ove  fourteen  years  of  age.  Ami  if  children  are  found  olTending  in  tlie  prem- 
ises, their  parents  or  guardians  to  forfeit  13d.  for  every  offense.  If  tlie  several  fines  above 
mentioned  cannot  be  levied,  the  offending  party  shall  be  set  in  the  stocks  for  the  space  of 
three  hours.' 

One  ordinance  directed  tliat  all  the  May-poles  in  England  sliould 

he  cut  down.      Later  they  attacked  the  stage.      Theatres  were  to 

be  dismantled,   the  spectators  fined,  the   actors  whipjiod  at  the 

cart's-tail.     They  persecuted  pleasure,  the  more  surely  to  jnmish 

crime.      In  the  army  tliere  was  a  like  theory  and  a  like  jiractirc 

Cromwell's  Ironsides  were  organized  upon  the   principle  that   a 


406  PHILOSOPHIC   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

perfect  Christian  makes  a  perfect  soldier.  A  quartermaster, 
convicted  of  blasphemy,  was  condemned  to  have  his  tongue  bored 
with  a  red-hot  iron,  his  sword  broken  over  his  head,  and  himself 
to  be  dismissed.  During  the  expedition  in  Ireland,  soldiers  passed 
their  leisure  hours  in  reading  the  Bible,  in  singing  psalms,  in 
religious  controversy. 

Into  the  primeval  forests  of  America,  exiles,  from  conscience, 
they  carried  the  same  fixed  determination,  the  same  fervent 
faith,  the  same  stoical  spirit.  A  rigid  morality  was  raised  into 
a  civil  law,  and  the  Bible  was  the  basis  of  the  state.  It  was 
enacted  in  New  Hampshire: 

'That  if  any  person  shall  in  the  night  time  hreak  and  enter  any  dwelling-house  in 
this  State,  with  intent  to  kill,  rob,  steal,  or  to  do  or  perpetrate  any  felony,  the  person  so 
offending  being  thereof  convicted  shall  suffer  death.' 

Again: 

'That  no  person  shall  travel  on  the  Lord's  day  between  sun-rising  and  sun-setting, 
unless  from  necessity,  or  to  attend  public  worship,  visit  the  sick,  or  do  some  office  of 
charity,  on  penalty  of  a  sum  not  exceeding  six  dollars,  nor  less  than  one.' 

And: 

'If  any  person  shall  openly  deny  the  being  of  a  God,  or  shall  wilfully  blaspheme  the 
name  of  God,  Jesus  Christ,  or  the  Holy  Ghost,  or  shall  curse  or  reproach  the  word  of 
God,  ...  he  shall  be  punished  by  fine  not  exceeding  fifty  pounds,  and  may  be  bound  tO' 
good  behavior  for  a  term  not  exceeding  one  year.' 

In  Maryland  the  law  declared: 

'That  if  any  person  shall  hereafter,  within  this  province,  wittingly,  maliciously,  and 
advisedly,  by  writing  or  speaKing  blaspheme  or  curse  God,  or  deny  our  Saviour,  Jesus 
Christ,  to  be  the  Son  of  God,  or  shall  deny  the  Holy  Trinity,  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy 
Ghost,  or  the  Godhead  of  any  of  the  three  persons,  or  the  unity  of  the  Godhead,  or  shall 
utter  any  profane  words  concerning  the  Holy  Trinity,  or  any  of  the  persons  thereof,  and 
shall  thereof  be  convicted  by  verdict,  he  shall,  for  the  first  offence,  be  bored  through  the 
tongue,  and  fined  £20  to  be  levied  of  his  body.  And  for  the  second  offence,  the  offender 
shall  be  stigmatized  by  burning  in  the  forehead  with  the  letter  B,  and  fined  £40.  And 
that  for  the  third  offense,  the  offender  shall  suffer  death  without  the  benefit  of  clergy.' 

In  Massachusetts,  a  man  was  publicly  whipped  for  singing  a 
profane  song.  A  girl,  wlio  gave  some  roasted  chestnuts  to  a 
boy,  adding  ironically  that  they  would  put  him  into  Paradise, 
was  sentenced  to  ask  pardon  three  times  in  church,  and  to  be 
imprisoned  three  days.  So  does  personal  asceticism  develop 
into  public  tyranny. 

Such  were  the  'Precisians'  or  'Puritans' — Protestant  dissent- 
ers, precise  and  combative  minds,  who,  with  the  fundamental 
honesty  of  the  race,  demanded  of  the  Anglicans  a  more  search- 
ing and  extensive  reform,  resolved  to  do  all  and  to  bear  all  rather 


PURITAN   INFLUENCE.  407 

than  be  false  to  their  convictions,  firm  in  suffering  as  scrupulous 
in  belief,  and,  amid  all  the  fluctuations  of  fortune,  leavening  the 
temper  of  the  times  with  a  new  conception  of  life  and  of  man. 
If  this  ideal  was,  in  the  end,  warped  and  overwrought,  think  of 
its  genesis.  Puritanism  was  the  product  of  war.  Hence  the 
rigor  of  its  precepts,  its  social  austerity,  its  unbending  creed. 
The  general  intoxication  forced  it  into  total  abstinence.  Only 
thus  could  it  withstand  laxity  and  license.  To  become  belliger- 
ent was  to  become  severe. 

Each  party  —  Royalists  and  Episcopalians  in  alliance  against 
the  Puritans — was  in  turn  oppressed  by  the  other.  The  latter, 
in  the  day  of  its  power,  was  as  intolerant  as  had  been  the  former. 
We  hate  with  a  will,  when  we  can  hate  at  once  God's  enemies 
and  our  own.  How  will  it  be  when  power  is  restored  to  the  sup- 
porters of  the  throne  and  Established  Church,  embittered,  not 
instructed,  by  misfortune,  and  fretting  under  restraints  like  a 
checked  and  flooded  stream  ? 

If  now  it  be  asked  what  was  the  worth  and  meaning  of  this 
heroic  sternness,  the  answer  is, —  it  accomplished  much,  and  we 
walk  smoothly  over  its  results.  It  enthroned  purity  on  the 
domestic  hearth,  labor  in  the  workshop,  probity  in  the  counting- 
house,  truth  in  the  tribunal;  developed  the  science  of  emigration, 
fertilized  the  desert,  practised  the  virtues  it  exacted;  above  all,  it 
saved  the  national  liberty,  against  the  predominating  Church, 
who,  seeking  to  realize  in  England  the  same  position  as  Roman- 
ism had  occupied  in  Europe,  flung  herself  on  every  occasion  into 
the  arms  of  the  Court,  and  taught  that  no  tyranny  however  gross, 
no  violation  of  the  constitution  however  flagrant,  could  justify 
resistance.'  Little  culture,  indeed;  no  philosopliy,  no  sentiment 
of  harmonious  beauty;  but  solid  and  convincing  reasoners,  ener- 
getic men  of  action.  We  can  excuse  the  fanaticism  of  those 
who,  when  the  battle-instinct  is  yet  strong,  are  so  intent  on  the 
essence  of  things,  against  others  intent  on  semblances  and  forms 
divorced  from  reality. 

Not  unmixed  good,  certainly.  The  sun  flings  out  impurities, 
gets  balefully  inerusted  with  spots.  Ideals  can  never  be  com- 
pletely embodied  here.      Not  to  reiterate  what  has  already  been 

'  'Eternal  diimnation  is  prepared  for  all  impenitent  rebels  in  hell  with  Satan,  the  first 
founder  of  rebellion." 


408  PHILOSOPHIC   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

noticed,  one  effect  of  Puritanism  was  to  inflame,  by  its  gloomy 
tenets,  the  zeal  against  witches.  In  the  short  space  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, more  of  these  unfortunates  perished  than  in  the  whole 
period  before  and  after.  In  Suffolk  sixty  were  hung  in  a  single 
year, —  a  barbarity  to  which  Butler  alludes  in  Iluclibras : 

'Hath  not  this  present  parliament 
A  leger  to  the  devil  sent 
Fully  empowered  to  treat  about 
Finding  revolted  witches  out? 
And  has  not  he  within  a  year 
Hanged  three-score  of  them  in  one  shire?' 

The  superstition  grew  into  a  panic.  In  Scotland,  controlled  by  a 
system  of  religious  terrorism,  it  obtained  an  absolute  ascendancy. 
In  solemn  synod,  every  minister  was  enjoined  to  appoint  two  of 
the  elders  of  his  parish  as  'a  subtle  and  privy  inquisition,'  who 
should  question  all  parishioners  upon  oath  as  to  their  knowledge 
of  witches.  If  the  witch  —  commonly  a  half-doting  woman  — 
was  obdurate,  the  first  method  of  extorting  confession  was  to 
'  wake  her.'  Across  her  face  was  bound  an  iron  hoop  with  four 
prongs,  .which  were  thrust  into  her  mouth.  It  was  fastened 
behind  to  the  wall,  in  such  a  manner  that  the  victim  was  unable 
to  lie  down;  and  in  this  position  she  was  sometimes  kept  for  sev- 
eral days,  carefully  prevented  from  closing  her  eyes  for  a  moment 
in  sleep.  To  discover  the  insensible  mark,  which  was  the  sure 
sign  of  guilt,  long  pins  were  thrust  into  her  body.  If  this  was 
ineffectual,  other  and  worse  tortures  were  in  reserve  —  a  kind  of 
thumb-screw,  or  a  frame  in  which  the  lower  limbs  were  inserted, 
then  broken  by  wedges  driven  in  by  a  hammer.  The  seeds  of 
the  superstition  were  carried  to  New  England  by  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers.  It  flourished  with  frightful  vigor  in  Massachusetts. 
Cotton  Mather  proclaimed  it,  and  created  a  commission.  Those 
who  ventured  to  oppose  the  prosecutions  were  denounced  as 
Sadducees  and  iiifidols.  Multitudes  were  imprisoned,  others  fled, 
twenty-seven  were  executed.  An  old  man  of  eighty  was  pressed 
to  death.  The  clergy  of  Boston  drew  u]-»  an  address  of  thanks  to 
th(»  coiuniissioners,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  their  zeal  would 
never  be  relaxed. 

Vet  this  was  orthodoxv  once,  attested  bv  an  amount  of  evi- 
deiiee  so  variefl  and  so  ani]ile  as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of 
doubt  I     You  who  would  stifle  the  voice  of  reason,  vou  who  deem 


DEVELOPMENT  —  POETRY.  409 

another  a  heretic  because  his  views  are  different  from  your  own, 
you  who  would  stigmatize  the  professors  of  other  creeds  as  idol- 
atrous,—  consider  the  lesson  of  history.  What  is  truth?  Has  it 
any  absolute  criterion?  Your  opinions  are  imagined  to  be  con- 
clusive and  final;  but  have  not  the  finalities  of  yesterday  yielded 
to  the  larger  generalizations  of  to-day?  What  assurance  that,  in 
the  onward  march  of  the  collective  soul,  your  doctrines  shall  not 
wane  and  vanish  like  the  scattered  dreams  of  your  ancestors? 
Your  faith  assumes  to  be  perfect;  but  what  is  perfection?  The 
realized  anticipations  of  the  present.  But  is  humanity  tottering 
into  the  grave,  or  yet  crawling  out  of  the  cradle  ?  Who  shall  set 
a  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength  ?  Is  not  man  forever 
defining  himself?  Does  he  not  mould  himself  incessantly  in 
thoughts,  sentiments,  acts?  And,  as  incessantly  progressing  by 
these  determinations,  does  he  not  successively  burst  his  environ- 
ments as  he  assumes  them,  only  to  pass  into  new  ones,  from 
which  he  will  again  escape  in  his  unflagging  and  indefinite 
ascent  ?  Through  the  ages  to  be,  as  through  the  ages  gone,  it 
shall  be  asked,  'Brethren,  what  of  the  night?'^  while  to  each 
and  to  all  the  same  answer  shall  be  returned,  '  Lo,  the  morning 
Cometh.' 

Poetry. — We  have  seen  its  ardent  youth  and  its  early  man- 
hood; not  preoccupied,  as  we  are,  with  theories;  happy  in  con- 
templating lovely  objects,  dreaming  of  nothing  else,  and  wishing 
only  that  they  might  be  the  loveliest  possible;  not  that  things 
were  more  beautiful  then,  but  that  men,  in  the  vernal  freshness 
of  the  senses,  found  them  so.  Now  prettiness  takes  the  place  of 
the  beautiful.  To  the  impassioned  succeeds  the  agreeable.  It 
is  no  more  the  overflow  of  images,  compelling  relief  in  words,  but 
the  sentiment  of  gallantry,  turning  a  delicate  compliment  and  a 
graceful  phrase.  The  literary  exhaustion  is  manifested  in  verses 
like  these  of  Wither  : 

'Shall  I,  wastiiifr  in  despair, 
Dif  ln'caiise  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  niaki'  jjalc  my  chciks  with  care 
"Cause  another's  rosy  are'/ 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 
Or  tlie  tlowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  thinks  not  well  of  me, 
Wliat  care  I  hoir  fair  she  be'?  .  .  . 
Great,  or  p)od,  or  kind  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair: 


410  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

If  she  love  me  (this  believe), 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 
If  she  Slight  me  when  1  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be?' 

But  if  like  the  rest,  he  is  a  reader  and  a  versifier  rather  than  a 
seer,  he  keeps  close  to  the  best  he  knows,  pure  enough  to  have 
delight  in  nature,  reverent  enough  to  give  praise: 

'Now  the  glories  of  the  year 
May  be  viewed  at  the  best, 
And  the  earth  doth  now  appear 
In  her  fairest  garments  dress'd: 
Sweetly  smelling  plants  and  flowers 
Do  perfume  the  garden  bowers; 
Hill  and  valley,  wood  and  field. 
Mixed  with  pleasure  profits  yield.' 

Withal,  he  has  the  dominating  bent, —  the  serious  thought  of  the 
long  sad  sleep  beyond  the  dark  gulf  into  which  we  plunge,  un- 
certain of  the  issue: 

'As  this  my  carnal  robe  grows  old, 
Soil'd,  rent,  and  worn  by  length  of  years. 
Let  me  on  that  by  faith  lay  hold 
Which  man  in  life  immortal  wears: 
So  sanctify  my  days  behind. 
So  let  my  manners  be  refined. 
That  when  my  soul  and  flesh  must  part, 
There  lurk  no  terrors  in  my  heart.' 

These  are  the  words  of  a  Puritan.  We  must  expect  even  less 
substance  in  wits  of  the  court,  cavaliers  of  fashion, —  Carew, 
Herrick,  and  Suckling.  If  the  first  is  destitute  of  noble  ideas, 
he  gives  us  smooth  and  flexible  verse,  mere  perfume  and  dainty 
form,  with  hardly  a  gem  amid  the  rubbish-heap  of  trivialities: 

'He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek. 
Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  <tjir-likc  eyes  doth  seek 
Fuel  fo  maintain  his  fires, 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay. 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  lhon<;lits  and  calm  desires. 
Hearts,  with  love  combined. 
Kindle  never-dying  fires: 
Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  checks  or  lips  or  eyes." 

No  fire  in  the  second,  but  light;  no  passion,  but  sensuous  reverie, 
with  a  radical  indelicacy  of  fancy  and  a  garrulous  egotism.     Let 


POETRY  —  HERRICK  —  SUCKLING.  411 

US  hear  the  exquisite  who  wrote  twelve  hundred  little  poems  in 
Arcadian  repose,  while  public  riot  was  drowning  the  voices  of 
some  and  driving  others  to  madness: 

'Sbme  aBk'd  me  where  the  Rubies  grew: 
And  nothing  did  I  say. 
But  with  my  finger  pointed  to 
The  lips  of  Julia. 

Some  ask'd  how  Pearls  did  grow,  and  where: 
Then  spoke  I  to  my  girl. 
To  part  her  lips,  and  shew  me  there 
The  quarrelets  of  Pearl." 

Again: 

'Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry, 
Full  and  fair  ones;  come  and  buy: 
If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 
They  do  grow?  I  answer,  there 
Where  my  Julia's  lips  do  smile; — 
There's  the  land,  or  cherry-isle, 
Whose  plantations  fully  show 
All  the  year  where  cherries  grow.' 

It  is  not  the  inner  character  of  things  which  moves  him,  but  the 
sense  of  bodily  loveliness,  which  is  perilously  acute,  nor  easily 
restrained  within  bounds  by  artistic  tact.  Where  is  the  mount- 
ing melody  of  Burns  or  Shelley  ?  Even  at  his  prayers,  his  spirit 
is  mundane: 

'Wlien  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drown'd  in  sleep. 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope,  l)ut  of  his  fees, 
And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill, 
Has,  or  none,  or  little  skill. 
Meet  for  nothing  but  to  kill. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  1 ' 

The  third,  handsome,  rich,  and  prodigal,  was  a  Royalist  gentle- 
man, and  as  such,  wishing  to  try  his  hand  at  imagination  and 
style,  was  able  to  write  in  liquid  numbers  a  love-song  that  was 
in  sympathy  with  the  age: 

'Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail? 
Prithee,  why  so  jiale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 
Prithee,  why  so  mute? 


412  PHILOSOPHIC   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

<\'ill,  when  speaking  well  can"t  win, 
Saying  nothing  do't? 
Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame,  this  will  not  move: 

This  cannot  talic  lier. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her  I* 

He  has  none  of  the  penetrating  faculty  which  opens  the  invisible 
door  of  obscure,  endless  depths,  leads  us  to  the  centre,  and  leaves 
us  to  gather  what  more  we  may  of  the  treasure  of  pure  gold.  He 
has  only  fancy,  which  stays  at  externals.     Thus  : 

'Ilcr  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  ami  out, 
As  if  tlicy  feared  the  light," ' 

Again: 

'Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin. 
Compared  with  that  was  next  her  chin, 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly."  2 

The  real  bright  being  of  the  lip  is  there  in  an  instant,  but  it  is  all 
outside;  no  expression,  no  mind.     Now  hear  imagination  speak: 

'Lamp  of  life,  thy  lips  are  burning 
Through  the  veil  that  seems  to  hide  them. 
As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 
Through  thin  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them."' 

There  is  no  levity  liere.  He  who  sees  into  the  heart  of  things 
sees  too  far,  too  darkly,  too  solemnly,  too  earnestly,  to  smile. 

A  second  mark  of  decadence  is  the  affectation  of  poets,  their 
involved  obscurity  of  style,  their  ingenious  absurdities,  their 
conceits.  They  desire  to  display  their  skill  and  wit  in  yoking 
together  heterogeneous  ideas,  in  justifying  the  unnatural,  in  con- 
verting life  into  a  luizzle  and  a  dream.  They  are  characterized 
by  the  pliilosophizing  s{)irit,  the  activity  of  the  intellect  rather 
than  that  of  tlie  emoti(jns.  The  prevalent  taste  is  to  trace  re- 
seiiil)lances  that  are  fantastic,  to  strain  after  novelty  and  surprise. 
Thus  Donne,  eui-licst  of  tlie  school,  says  of  a  sea-voyage: 

'1"hiTc  ncitc  they  the  ship"s  sicknesses,— the  mast 
Sii:ikc<l  witli  nn  aLTiie,  and  the  hold  and  waist 
With  a  salt  drop-^y  clogged." 

When  a  flea  bites  him  and  his  mistress,  he  says: 

'Tlii-  (lea  is  yon  ancl  T,  and  this 
Our  iiiarriaLTi'  bed  and  marriage  temple  is. 
ThoiiL'li  Parent^  Lrriidt:!-,  and  yon,  \v"are  met, 

UJallud  upon  u  Wid'/ing.  '-I/Ad.  3  Shelley. 


POETRY — DONNE  —  HERBERT.  413 

And  cloyster'd  in  the  living  walls  of  jet. 
Though  use  make  you  apt  to  kill  mc, 
Let  not  to  that  selfe-nuirder  added  be, 
And  sacrilege,  three  sins  in  killing  three.' 

We  find  little  to  admire,  and  nothing  to  love.  We  see  that  far- 
fetched similes,  extravagant  metaphors,  are  not  here  occasional 
blemishes,  but  the  substance.  He  should  have  given  us  simple 
images,  simply  expressed;  for  he  loved  and  suffered  much:  but 
fashion  was  stronger  than  nature.  Much  in  this  manner,  though 
never  in  so  light  a  humor,  is  the  poetry  of  Herbert,  whose  quaint- 
ness  is  vitally  connected  with  essential  beauty  and  sweetness  of 
soul.     Let  him  live  in  these  tender  and  beautiful  lines: 

'Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright. 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky; 
The  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night. 
For  thou  must  die.' 

And  in  these,  than  which  no  profounder  were  uttered  in  the 
Elizabethan  age: 

'More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he"ll  take  notice  of;   in  every  path 
He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him. 
When  sickness  makes  him  pale  and  wan 
O  mighty  Love  I   Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him.' 

To  the  same  class  of  verse  —  concoctions  of  novel  and  remote 
analogies,  belongs  Tlie  Purple  Island  of  Fletcher,  five  cantos  of 
allegorical  anatomy  and  one  of  psychology,  a  languid  sing-song 
of  laborious  riddles.  Other  instances  of  the  change,  equally 
frigid  if  less  extravagant,  are  Wottoii's  Character  of  a  Happy 
Life,  Bacon's  X//e  of  31a u,  Brook's  Treatise  of  Mel ig ion,  which. 
are  noticed  only  as  indications  that  the  sentiment  of  truth  was 
encroaching  upon  the  sentiment  of  beauty,  that  the  imaginary 
figures  of  art  were  giving  way  to  the  precise  formulas  of  logic. 

Apart  from  the  crowd  of  sedulous  imitators,  is  one  who, 
preserving  something  of  the  energy  and  thrill  of  the  original 
inspiration,  refuses  to  be  perverted;  a  Scot, —  Drummond  of 
Hawthornden, —  whose  private  happiness  was  sudcUnily  niiiK'd, 
and  whose  public  hopes  were  slowly  wasted;  a  brooding,  silent, 
tragic  soul,  altogether  too  serious  to  be  artificial,  with  the  funda- 
mental Saxon  idea  of  man  and  of  existence: 

'This  world  a  hunting  is. 

The  i>rey  poor  man,  the  >'iinrod  fierce  i^  death; 
His  speedy  greyhounds  are 


414  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Lust,  sickness,  envy,  care. 

Strife  tliat  ne'er  falls  nniiss, 

Willi  all  those  ills  which  haunt  us  while  we  breathe. 

Now  if  by  chance  we  fly 

Of  these  the  eager  chase. 

Old  age  with  stealing  pace 

Casts  up  his  nets,  and  there  we  panting  die.' 

There  are  moments  when  the  greatest  must  feel  and  speak  thus, 
troubled  by  the  infinite  obscurity  that  embraces  our  short,  glimmer- 
ing life,  which  seems  then  but  a  madness,  a  sorrow,  a  phantom: 
behind,  a  submerged  continent;  before,  oblivion  and  dust: 

'If  crost  with  all  mishaps  be  my  poor  life. 
If  one  short  day  I  never  spend  in  mirth, 
If  my  sprite  with  itself  holds  lasting  strife, 
If  sorrow's  death  is  but  a  new  sorrow's  birth; 
If  this  vain  world  be  but  a  sable  stage 
Where  slave-born  man  i)lays  to  the  scoffing  stars; 
If  youth  be  toss'd  witli  love,  with  weaicness  age. 
If  knowledge  servo  to  hold  our  thoughts  in  wars; 
If  time  can  close  the  hundred  mouths  of  fame. 
And  make  what  long  since  past  like  that  to  be; 
If  virtue  only  be  an  idle  name. 
If  I,  when  I  was  born,  was  born  to  die; 
Why  seek  I  to  prolong  these  loathsome  days? 
The  fairest  rose  in  shortest  time  decays.' 

At  the  end  of  one  intellectual  epoch,  and  at  the  beginning  of 
another,  appeared  one  of  the  most  illustrious  of  these  brain-poets, 
Abraliam  Ccwley,  a  marvel  of  precocity,  widely  known  at 
fifteen,  and,  like  Reynolds  the  painter,  accidentally  determined  to 
a  particular  direction: 

'How  this  love  of  jwietry  came  to  be  produced  in  me  so  early  is  a  hard  question.  I 
))elieve  I  can  tell  the  particular  little  chance  which  filled  my  head  first  with  such  chimes 
of  verse  as  have  never  since  left  ringing  there;  for  I  remember  when  I  began  to  read,  and 
to  take  some  pleasure  in  it,  thiTe  was  wont  to  lie  in  my  mother's  parlor  (I  know  not  by 
what  accident,  for  she  lurself  never  in  lur  life  read  any  book  but  of  devotion)  .  .  . 
Spenser's  works;  this  volume  I  liapi)ene(l  to  fall  upon,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with 
the  stories  of  the  knights,  monsters,  giants,  and  brave  houses  which  I  found  everywhere 
there  (though  my  understanding  had  very  little  to  do  with  all  this),  and  by  degrees,  with 
the  tinkling  of  the  rhymes  and  the  danee  of  tlio  numbers,  I  had  read  him  all  over  before 
I  was  twelve  years  old,  and  wa>  thus  made  a  jKJct  almost  immediately.' 

Ho  read  much,  Icanicd  iiuuli,  wrote  much;  but  wliile  he  is  always 
either  ingenious  or  ])rofouiul,  he  is  usually  wearisome.  Alwavs 
on  the  watch  for  novelty,  lie  is  seldom  natural,  nev(»r  jiathetic,  if 
ever  sublime.  Ills  bc'^t  pcrforinances  are  his  translations  from 
Aiiacfpon,  wliicli  art"  but  tlic  litcratttrc  of  pleasure  —  tlio  idle  joys 
of  tlie  banquet  and  the  wine  circle.  Still,  it  is  refreshing  to  see 
the  beholder,  once  a  2)artaker,  aljandoned  to  the  fresh   impulses 


POETRY  —  CHANGE    IN   THE    DRAMA.  415 

of  an  eager  delight,  quite  forgetful  of  the  skele'^on  that  stands 
there  to  scare  him  from  his  roses  and  his  cups: 

'The  thirsty  earth  Hoaks  up  the  rain. 
And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again. 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair. 
The  sea  itself,  which  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink. 
Drinks  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 
So  flll'd  that  they  o'erflovv  the  cup. 
The  busy  sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By  its  drunken  fiery  face  no  less) 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he's  done. 
The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun. 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light. 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  nature's  sober  found. 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high. 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there,  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I, 
Why,  man  of  morals,  tell  me  why?' 

It  is  the  waste  of  power  in  these  men,  not  the  want  of  it;  the 
abuse  of  talent,  not  the  absence  of  it,  which  we  lament.  To  this 
they  owe  their  poetical  effacement  with  posterity.  He  who  pays 
court  to  temporary  prejudices,  must  content  himself  with  'a 
deciduous  laurel,  of  which  the  verdure  in  its  spring  may  be 
bright  and  gay,  but  which  time  will  continually  steal  from  his 
brows.' 

The  Puritan  conception  of  life  was  not  one  to  nourish  the 
eloquence  of  a  'divine  madness';  yet,  Puritanism,  in  its  higher 
attributes,  in  its  moral  elevation,  was  to  have  its  monument,  the 
work  of  a  mighty  and  superb  mind, —  Milton,  the  prince  of 
scholars,  the  impassioned  devotee  of  virtue,  a  poetic  seer  of  the 
antique  type,  with  a  strong  affinity  for  the  genius  of  Greece 
and  of  Rome,  and  able  to  estimate  all  tlie  Renaissance  could 
tell  or  teach. 

The  Muses  had  taken  sanctuary  in  the  theatres.  England, 
indeed,  was  not  to  produce  another  Ilamlct.  Such  heiglits 
could  not  be  maintained.  As  the  unknown  was  explonul,  the 
romantic  ideal  was  fading.  Puritanism  was  hardening  and  nar- 
rowing, while  it  was  ennobling,  life.  Imagination  was  losing  its 
buoyancy  and  bloom.  The  natural  was  giving  place  to  th<»  arti- 
ficial. But  the  infection  that  tainted  lyric  and  didactic  pot>trv, 
affected  in  a  less  degree  the  drama,  which  even  in  its  decay  was 


416  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

still  magnificent,  and,  with  an  altered  tone  and  manner,  retained 
much  of  the  warmth,  mellowness,  and  reality  of  painting.  Only 
at  intervals  does  the  chorus  equal  the  solo  of  their  matchless 
leader.  The  great  elements  in  their  natures  are  imperfectly  har- 
monized. All  grope  amid  qualified  successes.  All  are  noble  in 
parts  but  without  any  general  effect  of  nobleness.  Jonson,  the 
foremost,  is  but  partial.  He  paints,  not  the  whole  of  human 
nature,  but  a  feature.  His  characters  are  not  men  and  women 
as  they  are,  but  as  they  may  be  when  mastered  by  a  special  bias 
or  humor. 

However,  to  be  tenacious  of  what  is  grand  and  lofty  is  more 
praiseworthy  than  to  delight  in  what  is  low  and  disagreeable. 
None  refuse  wholly  the  color  of  the  low  world  around  them. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  '  studiously  indecent.'  The  object 
is  to  excite,  at  any  cost,  the  passions  of  an  audience  craving  crudi- 
ties and  horrors.  Their  young  men  are  the  '  bloods  '  of  the  Stuart 
Court.  The  older  and  graver  are  foul.  If  they  paint  a  bad  woman, 
she  is  monstrous;  if  a  good  one,  she  is  unreal,  as  if  the  one  ex- 
treme were  to  compensate  or  atone  for  the  other.  We  are  willing 
to  accept  this  transcendental  conception  of  goodness  as  a  redeem- 
ing merit;  for  that  stature  appears  in  everything  which  we  pro- 
foundly revere  and  love,  and  only  by  a  certain  infinitude  which 
belongs  to  it  are  \\g  drawn  into  perpetual  aspiration.  These  two 
writers  were  fellow-laborers,  brothers  in  heart  as  well  as  brothers 
in  work;  the  first,  slow,  solid,  and  painstaking;  the  second,  rapid, 
volatile,  and  inventive.  The  first  is  the  smoother,  sweeter;  the 
second,  the  more  fertile  and  forceful.  Both  agree  in  impurity, 
the  one  deliberately  impure,  the  other  heedlessly  so.  Of  the 
fifty-two  plays  in  the  collection  that  bears  their  names  jointly, 
there  is  scarcely  one  that  has  not  marks  of  blight  —  haste,  extrav- 
agance, or  grossness.  If  we  seek  for  a  burst  of  passion,  a  beauti- 
ful sentiment,  a  brilliant  dialogue,  or  a  vivid  jncture,  we  shall 
find  it.  Amid  tavern-rackets,  the  clash  of  swords,  and  the  howl 
of  slaughter,  they  cut  life  into  scenes  of  shame  and  terror,  yet 
carry  before  the  footlights  touching  and  poetical  figures  that 
would  seem  to  place  them  on  the  open  borders  of  the  infinite. 
Thus  Pliilaster,  speaking  of  Bellario,  wliom  he  has  taken  for  a 
page,  but  wiio  is  no  other  tlian  a  maiden  that  has  disguised  her- 
self in  order  to  be  near  him,  savs: 


POETRY  —  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  417 

'I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain-side, 
Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself, 
Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay. 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  one:    But  ever  when  he  turned 
His  tender  eyes  upon  them,  he  would  weep. 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  them  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  asked  him  all  his  story. 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died. 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 
Which  gave  him  roots:  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses;  and  the  sun. 
Which  still,  he  thanked  him,  yielded  him  light. 
Then  took  he  up  his  garland,  and  did  shew 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold. 
Did  signify;   and  how  ail  ordered  thus. 
Expressed  his  grief:  and  to  my  thoughts  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wished;  so  that  methought  1  could 
Have  studied  it.'  i 

When  she  is  detected,  an  explanation  is  demanded,  and  she  re- 
counts her  hopeless  attachment: 

'My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue;   and,  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised;  but  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden  longing,  to  be  lost 
As  soon  as  found;   till,  sitting  in  my  window, 
Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god, 
I  thought, —  but  it  was  you, —  enter  our  gates. 
My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast 
As  I  had  puffed  it  forth  and  sucked  it  in 
Like  breath.    Then  was  I  called  away  in  haste 
To  entertain  you.    Never  was  a  man, 
Heaved  from  a  sheep-cote  to  a  sceptre  raised. 
So  high  in  thoughts  as  I;  you  left  a  kiss 
Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 
From  you  forever.    I  did  hear  you  talk, 
Far  above  singing!    After  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so.     Alas  I   I  found  it  love; 
Yet  far  from  lust;   for  could  I  but  have  lived 
In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end. 
For  this  I  did  delude  my  noble  father 
With  a  feigned  pilgrimage,  and  dressed  myself 
In  habit  of  a  boy:   and  for  I  knew 
My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  passed  hope 
Of  having  you.    And,  understanding  well 
That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex, 
I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow, 

'P/dlaster;  or,  Love  Lies  Bleeding. 
27 


418  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 

Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known, 

Whilst  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's  eyes, 

For  other  than  I  seemed,  that  I  might  ever 

Abide  with  you." ' 

Here  are  feminine  innocence  with  feminine  power,  ethereal  soft- 
ness with  martyr  heroism.  Few  have  equalled,  fewer  have  ex- 
celled, this  superior  fineness  of  perception.  Again,  what  could 
be  more  angelic  than  the  modesty  of  Amoret,  the  faithful  shep- 
herdess ? — 

'Fairer  far 
Than  the  chaste  blushing  mom,  or  that  fair  star 
That  guides  the  wand'ring  seaman  thro'  the  deep.'* 

She  is  transported  by  her  tenderness,  as  her  lover  by  his  violence. 
Persuaded  that  she  is  unchaste, he  strikes  her  to  the  ground  with 
his  sword,  and  casts  her  into  a  well,  but  the  god  lets  fall  into  the 
wound  '  a  drop  from  his  watery  locks,'  and,  recovering,  she  goes 
in  search  of  her  Perigot  — 

'Speak  if  thou  be  here,  .  .  . 

Thy  Amoret,  thy  dear. 
Calls  on  thy  loved  name.  .  .  .  'Tis  thy  friend. 
Thy  Amoret;   come  hither  to  give  end 
To  these  consumings.    Look  up,  gentle  boy, 
I  have  forgot  those  pains  and  dear  annoy 
I  suffcr'd  for  thy  sake,  and  am  content 
To  be  thy  love  again.    Why  hast  thou  rent 
Thos-e  curled  locks,  where  I  have  often  hung 
Ribbons,  and  damask  roses,  and  have  flung 
Waters  distiU'd  to  make  thee  fresh  and  gay, 
Sweeter  than  nosegays  on  a  bridal  day? 
Why  dost  thou  cross  thine  arms,  and  hang  thy  face 
Down  to  thy  bosom,  letting  fall  apace. 
From  those  two  little  Ileav'ns,  upon  the  ground, 
Show'rs  of  more  price,  more  orient,  and  more  round. 
Than  those  that  hang  upon  the  moon's  pale  brow? 
Cease  these  complainings,  shepherd!    I  am  now 
The  same  I  ever  was,  as  kind  and  free. 
And  can  forgive  before  you  ask  of  me: 
Indeed,  I  can  and  will.' 

At  last  the  shepherd,  after  he  has  wounded  her,  and  a  nymph  has 
cured  her,  is  disabused,  and  throws  himself  on  his  knees  before 
her.     In  spite  of  all  lie  has  done,  she  is  unchanged: 

'I  am  thy  love  I 
Thy  Amoret,  for  ever  more  thy  love  I 
Strike  once  more  on  my  naked  breast,  I'll  prove 
As  constant  still.    Oh,  cou'dst  thou  love  me  yet. 
How  soon  could  I  my  former  griefs  forget!' 

'  PhUanler:  or,  iMre  TAex  Blefilinq. 

5  The  Faithful  Sht^pherrJexs,  by  Fletcher  alone,  who  survived  his  friend  ten  years.    The 
joint  productions  of  tlie  two  are  usually  estimated  at  fifteen. 


POETRY  —  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  419 

Now  hear  the  resounding  talk  of  Memnon: 

'I  know  no  court  but  martukl. 
No  oily  language  but  the  shock  of  arms. 
No  dalliance  but  with  death,  no  lofty  measures 
But  weary  and  sad  marches,  cold  and  hunger, 
'Larums  at  midnight  Valor's  self  would  shake  at; 
Yet,  I  ne'er  shrunk.    Balls  of  consuming  wildfire. 
That  licked  men  up  like  lightning  have  I  laughed  at, 
And  tossed  'em  back  again,  like  children's  trifles. 
Upon  the  edge  of  my  enemies'  swords 

I  have  marched  like  whirlwinds,  Furyjat  this  hand  waiting. 
Death  at  my  right.  Fortune  my  forlorn  hope: 
When  I  have  grappled  with  Destruction, 
And  tugged  with  pale-faced  Ruin,  Night  and  Mischief, 
Frighted  to  see  a  new  day  break  in  blood.'  * 

These  contrasts  are  cliaracteristic, —  timidity,  grace,  devotion, 
patience;  boldness,  fury,  contempt  for  consequences,  concern  only 
for  the  wild,  reckless  whim  of  the  moment.  Sometimes  the 
heroic  spirit  appears,  not  as  a  mere  flash,  but  as  a  character. 
When  the  Egyptians,  to  propitiate  the  mighty  Ctesar,  bring  him 
Pompey's  head,  he  says  nobly,  grandly,  of  his  mortal  enemy: 

'Egyptians,  dare  ye  think  your  highest  pyramids. 
Built  to  out-dure  the  sun,  as  you  suppose. 
Where  your  unworthy  kings  lie  raked  in  ashes. 
Are  monuments  fit  for  him?    No,  brood  of  Nilus, 
Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven. 
No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories. 
But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness; 
To  which  I  leave  him.'^ 

Scattered  all  over  these  dramas  are  exquisite  lyrics,  luxuriant 
descriptions,  which  show  the  poet  greater  than  the  dramatist. 
He  who  would  have  left  the  hoof-prints  of  unclean  beasts  in 
Paradise,  could  sing,  in  the  rebound  from  sportive  excess: 

'Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 
Wherein  you  spend  your  folly: 
There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 
But  only  melancholy: 
O  sweetest  melancholy! 
Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piorcinc;  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chain'd  up  without  a  sound! 
Fountain  heads  and  piithless  groves. 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  tlic  fowls 
Are  warmly  hous'd,  save  bat<  and  owls! 

'  The  Mad  Lover.  ^  The  False  One. 


420  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan, 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon; 

Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley; 

Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy.' 

He  who  sold  his  birthright  with  posterity  for  the  loathsome  pot- 
tage of  contemporary  praise,  could,  in  his  diviner  moods,  regale 
the  soul  with  medicinal  sweets.  For  example,  how  charming  are 
the  aspects  of  his  landscape,  of  the  dewy  verdant  grove,  where 
on  a  summer  night,  after  their  custom,  the  young  men  and  girls 
go  to  gather  flowers  and  plight  their  troth* 

'Thro'  yon  same  bending  plain 
That  flings  his  arm  down  to  the  main, 
And  thro'  these  thick  woods,  have  I  run. 
Whose  bottom  never  kiss'd  the  sun 
Since  the  lusty  spring  began.  .  .  . 

For  to  that  holy  wood  is  consecrate 

A  virtuous  well,  about  whose  flow'ry  banks 

The  ninible-footcd  fairies  dance  their  rounds, 

By  the  pale  moon-shine,  dipping  oftentimes 

Their  stolen  children,  so  to  make  them  free 

From  dying  flesh,  and  dull  mortality. 

By  this  fair  fount  hath  many  a  shepherd  sworn 

And  given  away  his  freedom,  many  a  troth 

Been  plight,  which  neither  Envy  nor  old  Time 

Could  ever  break,  with  many  a  chaste  kiss  given 

In  hope  of  coming  liappiness:   by  this 

Fresh  fountain  many  a  blushing  maid 

Hath  crowned  the  head  of  her  long-loved  shepherd 

With  gaudy  flowers,  whilst  he  happy  sung 

Lays  of  his  love  and  dear  captivity. 

See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 
Ev'ry  little  flower  that  is; 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads 
Like  a  rope  of  crystal  beads. 
See  the  lieavy  clouds  low  falling 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  N'igiit  from  underground.' 

In  Ijllassillger  there  is  the  same  deplorable  evil  —  licentious  inci- 
dent. But  we  remember  that  decorum  was  then  unknown,  and 
that  his  vital  sympathies  were  for  justice  and  virtue.  He  sang, 
like  the  nightingale,  darkling.  His  life  was  spent  in  conflict  and 
distress.  Hence  nowhere  is  he  so  great  as  when  he  describes  the 
struggles  of  the  l)rave  through  trial  to  victory,  the  unmerited 
sufferings  of  the  pure,  and  the  righteous  terrors  of  conscience. 
If  ever  his  placid  sj)irit  rises  to  ecstasy,  the  ecstasy  is  moral. 
Passages  like  the  following  are  the  best  of  him,  ethically  and 
poetically: 


POETRY  —  MASSINGER  —  FORD.  421 

'  Look  on  the  poor 
With  gentle  eyes,  for  in  such  habits,  often. 
Angels  desire  an  alms.' 

'By  these  blessed  feet 
That  pace  the  paths  of  equity,  and  tread  boldly 
On  the  stiff  neck  of  tyrannous  oppression. 
By  these  tears  by  which  I  bathe  them,  I  conjure  you 
With  pity  to  look  on  me.' 

'  Happy  arc  those 
That  knowing  in  their  births,  they  are  subject  to 
Uncertain  changes,  are  still  prepared  and  armed 
For  either  fortune.' 

'When  good  men  pursue 
The  path  marked  out  by  virtue,  tlie  blest  saints 
With  joy  look  on  it,  and  seraphic  angels 
Clap  their  celestial  wings  in  heavenly  plaudits.' 

'As  you  have 
A  soul  moulded  from  heaven,  and  do  desire 
To  have  it  made  a  star  there,  make  the  means 
Of  your  ascent  to  that  celestial  heiglit 
Virtue  mingled  with  brave  action:   they  draw-  near 
The  nature  and  the  essence  of  the  gods 
Who  imitate  their  goodness.'' 

More  intense,  though  less  genial,  is  the  sombre  and  retiring  Ford, 
the  poet  not  merely  of  the  heart  but  of  the  broken  heart, —  the 
heart  worn,  tortured,  and  torn.  His  tragedies  surprise,  stun,  per- 
plex, by  the  overpowering  force  of  a  passion  which  suggests 
kinship  to  insanity.  The  noblest  is  Tlie  Broken  Heart.  Penthea, 
whose  soul  is  pledged  to  Orgilus,  permits  herself,  from  duty  or 
submission,  to  be  led  to  other  nuptials,  and  finds  the  source  of 
life  dried  up.  Only  the  marriage  of  the  heart  is,  in  her  eyes, 
genuine ;  the  other  is  moral  infidelity.  In  the  depths  of  her 
despair,  she  says,  not  bitterly,  but  sadly: 

'My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 
Remaining  to  run  down;   the  sands  are  spent: 
For  by  an  inward  messenger,  1  feel 
The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain.  .  .  . 
Glories  of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams. 
And  shadows  soon  decaying:   on  the  stage 
Of  my  mortality  my  youth  hath  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length; 
But  varied  pleasures  sweetened  in  the  mixture. 
But  tragical  in  issue.  .  .  . 
How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingering  life, 
Who  count  the  best  a  misery.  .  .  . 
That  remedy  must  he  a  wluiling-sheet,  a  fold  of  lead. 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  in  the  earth." 

1  Onlv  eighteen  of  his  tbirtv-seven  plavs  are  extant.  The  best  known  are  T/ie  Virgin 
Martyr,  'The  Fatal  Doirnj,  The  Duke  of  Milan,  A  Neiv  Way  to  Pay  Old  Dehi.t.  The  last 
lias  yet  occasional  representation,  and  contains  the  famous  character  of  Sir  Giles  Over- 
reacli. 


422  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

In  the  end  she  becomes  mad,  sinking  continually  under  the  incur- 
able grief,  the  fatal  thought: 

'Sure,  if  we  were  all  sirens,  we  should  sing  pitifully, 
And  'twere  a  comely  mus-ic,  when  in  parts 
One  sung  another's  knell;   the  turtle  sighs 
When  he  hath  lost  his  mate;  and  yet  some  say 
He  mnst  be  dead  first:   'tis  a  fine  deceit 
To  pass  away  in  a  dream!  indeed,  I've  slept 
With  mine  eyes  open,  a  great  while.    No  falsehood 
Equals  a  broken  faith;  there's  not  a  hair 
Sticks  on  my  head,  but,  like  a  leaden  plummet. 
It  sinks  me  to  tlic  grave:  I  must  creep  thither; 
The  journey  is  not  long.' 

Calantha,  after  enduring  the  most  crushing  calamities,  concealed 
under  a  show  of  mirth,  breaks  under  the  terrible  tension,  and  dies 
—  without  a  tear: 

'Death  shall  not  separate  us.    Oh,  my  lords, 
I  but  deceived  your  eyes  with  antic  gesture. 
When  one  news  strait  came  huddling  on  another 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death:   still  I  danced  forward; 
But  it  struck  home  and  here,  and  in  an  instant. 
Be  such  mere  women,  who  with  shrieks  and  outcries 
Can  vow  a  present  end  to  all  their  sorrows. 
Yet  live  to  court  new  jileasurcs,  and  outlive  tliem: 
They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heart-strings: 
Let  me  die  smiling.' 

There  is  the  same  sad  strain  in  his  few  songs,  though  subdued; 
as: 

'Crowns  may  flourish  and  decay. 
Beauties  shine,  but  fade  away. 
Youth  may  revel,  yet  it  must 
Lie  down  in  a  bed  of  dust.' ' 

And: 

'Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows,  charmed  in  sleep! 
Though  the  eyes  be  overtaken, 
Yet  the  heart  doth  ever  waken 
Thoughts  chained  uj)  in  busy  snares 
Of  continual  woes  and  cares: 
Love  and  griefs  are  so  exprest. 
As  they  rather  sigh  than  rest. 
Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows,  charmed  in  sleep.'* 

Of  all  these  later  dramatists,  the  most  Shakespearean  is  "Webster, 
an  artist  of  agony.  But  one  has  seen  farther  into  the  dark,  woful, 
and  diabolical.     He  calls  one  of  his  heroines  The  White  Devil, 

>  The  Broken  Heart.  "^The  Lover's  Melancholy. 


POETRY  —  WEBSTER.  423 

Vittoria  Corombona,  an  Italian.  Her  mate  is  a  duke,  an  adulter- 
ous lover,  another  devil,  to  whom  she  says: 

'To  pass  away  the  time,  I'll  tell  your  grace 
A  dream  I  had  last  night.  .  .  . 
Methought  I  walk'd  about  the  mid  of  night. 
Into  a  church-yard,  where  a  goodly  yew-tree 
Spread  her  large  root  in  ground.    Under  that  yew. 
As  I  sat  sadly  leaning  on  a  grave 
Checquer'd  with  cross-sticks,  there  came  stealing  in 
Your  duchess  and  my  husband;  one  of  them 
A  pick-axe  bore,  th'  other  a  rusty  spade. 
And  in  rough  terms  they  "gan  to  challenge  me 
About  this  yew.  .  .  . 
They  told  me  my  intent  was  to  root  up 
That  well-known  yew,  and  plant  i'  th'  stead  of  it 
A  wither'd  black-thorn:   and  for  that  they  vow'd 
To  bury  me  alive.    My  husband  straight 
With  pick-axe  "gan  to  dig;  and  your  fell  duchess 
With  shovel,  like  a  fury,  voided  out 
The  earth,  and  scattered  bones ;  Lord,  how,  methought, 
I  trembled,  and  yet  for  all  this  terror 
I  could  not  pray.  .  .  . 

When  to  my  rescue  there  arose,  methought 
A  whirlwind,  xvhich  let  fall  a  massy  arm 
From  that  strong  plant ; 

And  both  tcere  struck  dead  by  that  sacred  yew. 
In  that  base  shallow  grave  which  was  their  due/ 

The  import  is  clear,  and  her  brother  says,  aside: 

'■Excellent  devil!  she  hath  taught  him  in  a  dream 
To  make  away  his  duchess  and  her  husband/ 

Her  husband  is  strangled,  his  wife  is  poisoned,  and  she,  accused 
of  both  crimes,  is  brought  before  the  tribunal.  She  defies  her 
judges: 

'To  the  point. 
Find  me  guilty,  sever  head  from  body. 
We'll  part  good  friends:    I  scorn  to  hold  my  life 
At  yours,  or  any  man's  entreaty,  sir.  .  .  . 
These  are  but  feigned  shadows  of  my  evils; 
Terrify  babes,  my  lord,  with  painted  devils; 
I  am  past  such  needless  palsy.    For  your  names 
Of  whore  and  murderess,  they  proceed  from  you, 
As  if  a  man  should  spit  against  the  wind; 
The  filth  returns  in's  face.' 

More  insulting  at  the  dagger's  point: 

'Yes,  I  shall  welcome  death 
As  princes  do  some  great  ambassadors; 
I'll  meet  thy  weapon  half  way.  .  .  .  "Twas  a  manly  blow; 
The  next  thou  giv'st,  murder  some  sucking  infant: 
And  then  thou  wilt  be  famous.' 

Another  is  the  Duchess  of   Malfi,  who  has  secretly  married  her 


424  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

steward.  Her  enraged  brother  determines  to  destroy  her  hus- 
band and  children,  resolves  to  kill  her,  but  will  first  torture  her. 
He  comes  to  her  in  the  dark,  pretends  to  be  reconciled,  speaks 
affectionately,  offers  her  his  hand,  but  gives  her  a  dead  man's, 
then  suddenly  exhibits  a  group  of  waxen  figures,  covered  with 
wounds  to  represent  her  slaughtered  family.  Then  appears  a 
company  of  madmen,  who  leap  and  howl;  at  last,  with  execu- 
tioners and  a  coffin,  a  grave-digger,  whose  taunting  talk  is  of  the 
ckarnel-house.  Sensibility  dies.  Asked  of  what  she  is  thinking, 
she  replies,  with  fixed  gaze: 

'Of  nothing: 
When  I  muse  thus,  1  sleep.  .  .  . 
Dost  thou  think  we  shall  know  one  another 
In  the  other  world?  .  .  . 
Oh,  that  it  were  possible  we  might 
But  hold  some  two  days"  conference  with  the  dead! 
From  them  I  should  learn  somewhat,  I  am  sure, 
1  never  shall  know  here.    I'll  lull  thee  a  miracle; 
I  am  not  mad  yet.  .  .  . 

The  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten  brass. 
The  earth  of  flaming  sulphur,  yet  I  am  not  mad." 

Told  that  she  is  to  l)e  strangled,  she  replies,  with  brave,  quiet 
dignity: 

'I  pray  thee  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold;   and  let  the  girl 
Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep.  .  .  . 
Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 
Yet  stay,  heaven  gates  are  not  so  highly  arched 
As  princes"  palaces;  they  that  enter  there 
Must  go  upon  (heir  knees.  .  .  . 
Go.  tell  my  brothers  when  I  am  laid  out ; 
They  then  may  feed  in  quiet." 

After  this,  her  servant,  the  duke  and  his  confidant,  the  cardinal 
and  his  mistress,  are  poisoned  or  assassinated.  To  the  dying,  in 
the  midst  of  this  butchery,  what  is  the  state  of  humanity?  A 
troubled  dream,  a  nightmare,  a  clashing  destiny,  and,  at  the  end 
of  all,  a  void: 

'We  are  only  like  dead  walls  or  vaulted  graves. 
That,  ruin'd,  yield  no  echo.    Fare  you  well.  .  .  . 
O,  this  gloomy  world  I ' 

In  what  a  sluidow,  or  deep  ])it  of  darkness, 
Doth  womanish  and  fearful  mankind  live  I  .  . 

In  all  our  quest  of  greatness, 
Like  wanton  boys,  whose  pastime  is  their  care, 
We  follow  after  bubbles  l)lown  in  the  air. 
Pleasure  of  life,  what  ist?   onlv  the  good  hours 


POETRY  —  INEQUALITIES   OF  THE    DRAMA.  425 

Of  an  ague;  merely  a  preparative  to  rest. 
To  endure  vexation.  .  .  . 

Whether  we  fall  by  ambition,  blood,  or  lust, 
Lilce  diamonds,  we  are  cut  with  our  own  dust.' 

To  little  of  the  dramatic  talent,  as  we  pass  on  to  its  lower 
grades,  are  we  able  to  accord  a  distinct  notice.  The  writers  have 
merit,  might  have  left  a  rich  legacy  to  all  generations,  but  wrote 
too  much,  which  is  perhaps  the  fault  of  all  ages  and  of  every 
author.  They  have  the  diversity  of  human  life,  but  no  central 
principle  of  order.  Their  scenes  are  more  effective  as  detached 
than  as  connected.  All  degrade  their  fine  metal  by  the  inter- 
mixture of  baser.  All  afford  veins  or  lumps  of  the  precious  ore 
in  the  duller  substance  of  their  work.     Here  are  specimens: 

'■Man  is  a  torch  borne  in  the  wind;  a  dream 
But  of  a  shadow.'' I 

'Now,  all  ye  peaceful  regents  of  the  night. 
Silently  gliding  exhalations. 

Languishing  icinds,  and  murmuring  falls  of  waters. 
Sadness  of  heart,  and  ominous  secureness. 
Enchantments,  dead  sleeps,  all  the  friends  of  rest 
That  ever  wrought  upon  the  life  of  man. 
Extend  your  utmost  strengths;  and  this  charmed  hour 
Fix  like  the  centre.' * 

'From  his  bright  helm  and  shield  did  burn  a  most  unwearied  fire. 
Like  rich  Autumnus'  golden  lamj),  whose  brightness  men  admire. 
Past  all  the  other  host  of  stars,  when  with  his  cheerful  face, 
Fresh  washed  in  lofty  ocean  waves,  he  doth  the  sky  enchase." 

'Patience,  my  lord!   why,  't  is  the  soul  of  peace; 
Of  all  the  virtues,  "t  is  nearest  kin  to  heaven; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.     The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  nore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer, 
A  soft,  Tneek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit  ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed.'  * 

'He  that  in  the  sun  is  neither  beam  nor  moat, 
He  that's  not  mad  after  a  petticoat. 
He  for  whom  poor  men's  curses  dig  no  grave. 
He  that  is  neither  lord's  nor  lawyer's  slave. 
He  that  makes  This  his  sea  and  That  his  shore. 
He  that  in's  coftin  is  richer  than  before, 
He  that  counts  Youth  his  sword  and  .Xge  his  staff. 
He  whose  right  hand  carves  his  own  epitaph, 
He  that  upon  his  death-bed  is  a  swan, 
And  dead  no  crow, —  he  is  a  Happy  Man.'* 

Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks. 
Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes. 
Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue, 

'  Chapman :  a  wise,  manly,  but  irresular  sronius,  greater  as  a  translator  of  Homer 
than  .IS  a  dramatist.  -' Iliid.  ^jtji,!;    Jiomer. 

<  Decker:  a  liopeful,  cheerful,  humane  spirit,  who  turned  vexations  and  miseries 
into  commodities.  ^  Ibid. 


426  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence, 
lu  her  white  bosom;   look,  a  painted  boar 
Circumscribes  all : ' ' 

'  Love  !  hang  love  ! 
It  is  the  abject  outcast  of  the  world. 
Hate  all  things;   hate  the  world,  thyself,  all  men; 
Hate  knowledge;   strive  not  to  be  overwise; 
It  drew  destruction  into  Paradise; 
Hate  honor,  virtue,  thty  are  bates 
That  entice  men's  hopes  to  sadder  fates.'* 

'  As  having  clasped  a  rose 
Within  my  palm,  the  rose  being  ta'en  away. 
My  hand  retains  a  little  breath  of  sweet. 
So  may  man's  trunk,  his  spirit  slipp'd  away, 
Hold  still  a  faint  perfume  of  his  sweet  guest.'* 

'Black  spirits  and  white;  red  spirits  and  gray; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle,  you  that  mingle  may. 
Titty,  Tiffin,  keep  it  stiff  in; 
Firedrake,  Puckey,  make  it  lucky; 
Lizard,  Robin,  you  must  bob  in: 
Round,  around,  around,  about,  about; 
All  ill  come  running  in;  all  good  keep  out  I 
1st  Witch.    Here's  the  blood  of  a  bat. 

Hecate.    Put  in  that;  oh,  put  in  that. 
Sd  Witch.    Here's  libbard's  bane. 

Hecate.    Put  it  in  again. 
]st  Witch.    The  juice  of  a  toad,  the  oil  of  adder. 
2(1  yyitch.    Those  will  make  the  younker  madder. 
AU.    Round,  around,  around,  about,  about: 

All  ill  come  running  in;  all  good  keep  outI'« 

'Now  I  go,  now  I  fly 
Malkin,  my  sweet  spirit,  and  I. 
Oh,  what  dainty  pleasure  'tis 
To  ride  in  the  air. 
When  the  moon  shines  fair. 
And  sing  and  dance,  and  toy  and  kiss! 
Over  woods,  high  rocks,  and  mountains. 
Over  seas,  our  mistress'  fountains. 
Over  steep  towers  and  turrets, 
We  fly  by  night,  'mongst  troops  of  spirits. 
No  ring  of  bells  to  our  ears  sounds: 
No  howls  of  wolves,  no  yelp  of  hounds; 
No  not  the  noise  of  waters'  breach, 
Or  cannon's  roar  our  heiirht  can  reach.'* 

'Simple  and  low  is  our  condition. 
For  here  wiili  us  is  no  ambition: 
We  with  the  sun  our  flocks  unfold. 
Whose  rising  makes  their  fleeces  gold; 
Our  music  from  the  birds  we  borrow. 
They  bidding  us,  we  them,  good-morrow. 

'  Decker. 

'  Marston:  properly  a  satiri-^t,  iiitter.  niisanthropie.  rankered.         ^Ihid. 

♦  Middleton;  a  sagacious  cynic,  best  known  by  his  i)lay  of  The  Wi/ch.        'Ibid. 


PROSE  —  CHAOS   AND    OVERFLOW.  427 

Our  habits  are  but  coarse  and  plain, 
Yet  they  defend  from  wind  and  rain : 
As  warm  too,  in  an  equal  eye. 
As  those  bestained  in  scarlet  dye. 
The  shepherd,  with  his  homespun  lass, 
As  many  merry  hours  doth  pass. 
As  courtiers  with  their  costly  girls. 
Though  richly  dressed  in  gold  and  pearls.'* 

In  Shirley,  last  of  the  great  race,  the  fire  and  passion  of  the 
grand  old  era  passes  away.  Imagination  is  driven  from  its  last 
asylum.  The  sword  is  drawn,  and  the  theatres  are  closed.  Dram- 
atists are  stigmatized,  actors  are  arrested;  and  when,  after  the 
lapse  of  a  few  years,  they  return  to  their  old  haunts,  it  is  as 
roisterers  under  a  foreign  yoke. 

Prose. —  The  drooping  flower  of  poesy  was  succeeded  by  a 
blossom  of  prose,  produced  by  the  same  inner  growth,  and,  at  its 
highest  point,  tinged  with  the  like  ideal  colors.  A  half  dozen 
writers  will  exhibit  the  expansion.  We  omit,  at  present,  those 
who  offer  only  the  material  of  knowledge,  the  substance  of 
wisdom  merely,  —  annalists,  antiquaries,  scientists,  pamphleteers, 
whether  poets,  dramatists,  divines,  or  politicians;  and  pass  to 
those  who  bring  us  merit  of  execution,  as  well  as  the  residuary 
element  of  thought-value.  Of  Cacon  we  shall  elsewhere  treat. 
Fulness  of  thought  and  splendor  of  workmanship  raise  him  into 
the  realm  of  pure  literature.  Less  originative  and  luminous, 
though  of  the  same  band  of  scholars  and  dreamers,  is  Robert 
SurtOH,  an  ecclesiastic,  a  recluse,  an  eccentric,  spasmodically 
gay,  as  a  rule  sad.  To  amuse  and  relieve  himself,  after  thirty 
years'  reading,  he  wrote  the  Anatomy  of  MelancJioly,  an  enor- 
mous medley  of  ideas,  musical,  medical,  poetical,  mathematical, 
philosophical;  every  page  garnished  with  Latin,  Greek,  or  French, 
from  rare  and  unknown  authors.  It  is  the  onlv  book  that  ever 
took  Dr.  Johnson  out  of  bed  two  hours  sooner  than  he  wished  to 
rise.  Here  is  a  faint  suggestion  of  his  style  —  a  glimjise  into 
its  jumble  of  observation,  erudition,  anecdote,  instruction,  and 
amusement: 

'Boccacc  h^th  a  pleasant  lalo  to  this  purpose,  which  ho  borrowed  from  the  Greeks, 
and  wlilch  Beroaldiis  hath  turned  into  Latin,  Bebeliiis  into  verse,  "f  Cynion  and  Iphiire- 
nia.  This  C^yinon  was  a  fool,  a  proper  man  of  person,  and  the  governor  of  Cvprns"  son, 
but  a  very  ass;  iiisoniucli  tliat  his  fatlier  being  ashamed  of  him,  sent  him  to  a  farm- 

>  Thomas  Iley wood:  graceful  and  gentle,  one  of  the  most  prolific  writers  tlie  world 
has  ever  seen. 


428  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

house  he  had  in  the  country,  to  be  brought  up;  where  by  chance,  as  his  manner  was, 
walking  alone,  he  espied  a  gallant  young  gentlewoman  named  Iphigenia,  a  burgomas- 
ter's daughter  of  Cyprus,  with  .her  maid,  by  a  brook  side,  in  a  little  thicket,  fast  asleep 
in  her  smock,  where  she  had  newly  bathed  herself.  When  Cymon  saw  her  he  stood  lean- 
ing on  his  staff,  gaping  on  her  immovatAe,  and  in  a  maze :  at  last  he  fell  so  far  in  love 
with  the  glorious  object,  that  he  began  to  rouse  himself  up;  to  bethink  what  he  was; 
would  needs  follow  her  to  the  city,  and  for  her  sake  began  to  be  civil,  to  learn  to  sing 
and  dance,  to  play  on  instruments,  and  got  all  those  gentleman-like  qualities  and  com- 
pliments, in  a  short  space,  which  his  friends  were  most  glad  of.  In  brief,  he  became 
from  an  idiot  and  a  clown,  to  be  one  of  the  most  complete  gentlemen  in  Cyprus;  did 
many  valorous  exploits,  and  all  for  the  love  of  Mistress  Iphigenia.  In  a  word,  I  may  say 
thus  much  of  them  all,  let  them  be  never  so  clownish,  rude  and  horrid,  Grobians  and 
sluts,  if  once  they  be  in  love,  they  will  be  most  neat  and  spruce;  for.  Omnibus  rebus,  et 
nitidis  nitoribus  aiiteveidt  amor  ;  they  will  follow  the  fashion,  begin  to  trick  up,  and  to 
have  a  good  opinion  of  themselves;  venastatum  enim  mater  Venus;  a  ship  is  not  so  long 
a-rigging,  as  a  young  gentlewoman  a-trimming  up  herself  against  her  sweetheart  comes. 
A  painter's  shop,  a  flowery  meadow,  is  not  so  gracious  an  aspect  in  Nature's  store-house  as 
a  young  maid,  nubilis  puella,  a  Xovitsa  or  Venetian  bride,  that  looks  for  an  husband ;  or  a 
young  man  that  is  her  suitor;  composed  looks,  composed  gait,  clothes,  gestures,  actions, 
all  comi)osed;  all  the  graces,  elegancies,  in  the  world,  are  in  her  face.  Their  best  robes, 
ribbons,  chains,  jewels,  lawns,  linens,  laces,  spangles,  must  come  on;  praeter  quam  res 
])atitur  student  elegantiae,  they  arc  beyond  all  measure  coy,  nice,  and  too  curious  on  a 
sudden.  'Tis  all  their  study,  all  their  business,  how  to  wear  their  clothes  neat,  to  be 
polite  and  terse,  and  to  set  out  themselves.  No  sooner  doth  a  young  man  see  his  sweet- 
heart coming,  but  he  smugs  up  himself,  pulls  up  his  cloak,  now  fallen  about  his  shoul- 
ders, ties  his  garters,  points,  sets  his  band,  cuffs,  slicks  his  hair,  twires  his  beard,  etc' 

The  Meditations  of  Bishop  Hall,  the  '  English  Seneca,'  are 
alike  rich  in  imagery  and  sententious  in  expression.  Passages 
like  the  following  reveal  the  poetic  temperament: 

'Here  is  a  tree  overlaid  with  blossoms:  it  is  not  possible  that  all  these  should  pros- 
per; one  of  them  must  needs  rob  the  other  of  moisture  and  growth.  I  do  not  love  to  see 
an  infancy  over- hopeful ;  in  tliese  pregnant  beginnings  one  faculty  starves  another,  and 
at  last  leaves  the  mind  sapless  and  barren;  as,  therefore,  we  are  wont  to  pull  off  some  of 
the  too  frequent  blossoms,  that  the  rest  may  thrive,  so  it  is  good  wisdom  to  moderate  the 
early  excess  of  the  i)arts,  or  progress  of  over-forward  childhood.  Neither  is  it  other- 
wise in  our  Christian  profession;  a  sudden  and  lavish  ostentation  of  grace  may  fill  the 
eye  with  wonder,  and  the  mouth  with  talk,  but  will  not  at  the  last  till  the  lap  with  fruit.' 

Again: 

' What  a  strantro  melanrholir  life  doth  this  creature  lead:  to  hide  her  head  all  the 
day  long  in  an  ivy  bush,  and  at  nitrht,  when  all  other  birds  are  at  rest,  to  fly  abroad,  and 
vent  her  harsh  notes.  I  know  not  why  the  ancients  made  sacred  this  bird  to  wisdom, 
except  it  be  for  her  safe  closeness  and  singular  jjerspicuity :  that  when  other  domestical 
and  airy  creatures  are  blind,  she  only  hath  inward  light  to  discern  the  least  objects  for 
her  own  advantage.  Surely  thus  iiiuch  wit  they  have  taught  us  in  her:  that  he  is  the 
wisest  man  that  would  have  least  to  do  with  the  multitude;  that  no  life  is  so  safe  as  the 
obscure:  that  retiredness,  if  it  have  less  comfort,  yet  has  less  danger  and  vexation: 
lastly,  that  he  is  truly  wise  who  sees  by  a  light  of  his  own,  when  the  rest  of  the  world 
sit  in  an  isnorant  and  confused  darkness,  unable  to  apprehend  any  truth  save  by  the 
heli)s  of  an  outward  illumination.' 

A  like  irradiating  power  of  fancy,  with  a  loss  sustained  dig- 
nity, may  be  seen  in  Dr.  Fuller,  facetious  without  irreverence, 
and    witty  without    bitterness.      A    few    of    his    aphorisms    may 


PROSE  —  THE    DREAMER   OF    NORWICH.  429 

suggest  that  strong  and  weighty,  yet  gentle  and  beautiful  style 
which  was  his  habit: 

'Learning  hath  gained  most  by  those  books  by  which  the  printers  have  lost.' 

'Moderation  is  the  silken  string  running  through  the  pearl-chain  of  all  virtues.' 

'Anger  is  one  of  the  sinews  of  the  soul:  he  that  wants  it  hath  a  maimed  mind." 

'Tombs  are  the  clothes  of  the  dead.  A  grave  is  but  a  plain  suit,  and  a  rich  monu- 
ment is  one  embroidered.' 

'They  that  marry  ancient  people,  merely  in  expectation  to  bury  them,  hang  them- 
selves in  hope  that  one  will  come  and  cut  the  halter.' 

'Heat  gotten  by  degrees,  with  motion  and  exercise,  is  more  natural,  and  stays  longer 
by  one,  than  what  is  gotten  all  at  once  by  coming_to  the  fire.  Goods  acquired  by  industry 
prove  commonly  more  lasting  than  lands  by  descent.' 

'It  is  dangerous  to  gather  flowers  that  grow  on  the  banks  of  the  pit  of  hell,  for  fear 
of  falling  in;  yea,  they  which  play  with  the  devil's  rattles  will  be  brought  by  degrees  to 
wield  his  sword;  and  from  making  of  sport,  they  come  to  doing  of  mischief.' 

'  Generally,  nature  hangs  out  a  sign  of  simplicity  in  the  face  of  a  fool,  and  there  is 
enough  in  his  countenance  for  a  hue  and  cry  to  take  him  on  suspicion;  or  else  it  is 
stamped  in  the  figure  of  his  body;  their  heads  sometimes  so  little,  that  there  is  no  room 
for  wit;  sometimes  so  long,  that  there  is  no  wit  for  so  much  room.' 

While  the  clash  of  arms  is  drawing  men  of  letters  from  contem- 
plation into  the  war  of  pens,  Sir  ThomaS  BrO'Wne,  a  physician 
and  an  idealist,  is  plunging  into  the  abysses  of  meditative  reverie. 
Unlike  most  of  his  profession,  his  delight  is  in  the  preternatural 
and  visionary;  he  penetrates  the  internal  structure  of  things,  sees 
in  the  universe  more  than  a  dry  catalogue,  divines  in  every  fact  a 
mysterious  soul,  looks  as  from  an  eminence  beyond  visible  phe- 
nomena, trembling  with  a  kind  of  veneration  before  the  dim 
vistas  of  the  unknown,  stirred  to  an  eloquent  sadness  by  the 
decay  of  nature  and  the  dust  of  forgotten  tombs,  moved  with  an 
eloquent  pity  for  the  plumed  and  disorderly  procession  swallowed 
up  in  the  fatal,  all-devouring  pit: 

'Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  all  bodies,  and  the  mortal  right-lined  circle 
must  conclude  and  shut  up  all.  There  is  no  antidote  against  the  opium  of  time,  which 
temporally  considcreth  all  things.  Our  fathers  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memories, 
and  sadly  tell  ns  now  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors.  Gravestones  tell  truth  sc.ircc. 
forty  years.  Generations  pass  while  some  trees  stand,  and  old  families  last  not  thruc 
oaks.  .  .  .  Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the  Pyramids'/  Herostratus  lives  that  burnt 
the  temple  of  Diana;  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it:  time  hath  spared  the  epitajjh  of 
Adrian's  horse;  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the 
advantage  of  our  good  names,  since  bad  have  equal  durations;  and  Thersites  is  like  to 
live  as  long  as  Agamemnon.  Who  knows  whether  the  best  of  men  be  known;  or 
whether  there  be  not  more  remarkable  persons  forgot  than  any  that  stand  remembered 
in  the  known  account  of  time.  Without  the  favour  of  the  everlasting  register,  the  first 
man  had  been  as  unknown  as  the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  life  had  been  his  only 
chronicle. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired:  the  greatest  part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they 


430  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

had  not  been;  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man.  Twenty- 
seven  names  make  up  the  first  story  before  the  Flood;  and  the  recorded  names  ever 
since  contain  not  one  living  century.  The  number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth  all  that 
shall  live.  The  night  of  time  far  surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows  when  was  the 
equinox?  .  .  . 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time,  and  oblivion  shares  with  memory  a 
great  part  even  of  our  living  beings ;  we  slightly  remember  our  felicities,  and  the  smart- 
est strokes  of  affliction  leave  but  short  smart  upon  us.  Sense  endureth  no  extremities, 
and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  themselves.  To  weep  into  stones  are  fables.  Afflictions 
induce  callosities;  miseries  are  slippery,  or  fall  like  snow  upon  us,  which,  notwithstand- 
ing, is  no  unhappy  stupidity.  .  .  .  The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyscs  or  time 
hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth.  Mummy  is  become  merchandise ;  Mizraim  cures 
wounds,  and  Pliaraoh  is  sold  for  balsams.  .  .  . 

Man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnising 
nativities  and  deaths  with  equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  in  the  infancy 
of  his  nature.'  * 

Those  whose  minds  are  intent,  constantly  or  mainly,  on  mere 
pleasure  and  gain,  on  the  petty  interests  of  appetite,  will  here 
find  little  to  their  satisfaction.  But  the  meditations  that  lead  us 
into  the  inner  chambers  of  life  and  death  are,  if  we  be  rightly 
attuned,  more  precious  than  the  positive  facts  that  put  money 
into  a  man's  pocket  or  actual  knowledge  into  his  head.  We  are 
more  than  sentiment  —  we  are  rational,  we  are  ethical.  The  scale 
of  our  affinities  is  indicated  by  the  intellect  which  seeks  to  tran- 
scend the  finite  in  space  and  time  and  truth,  by  the  conscience 
which  owns  the  infinite  in  duty  and  stays  itself  on  the  infinite  in 
love.  A  noble  melancholy  is  the  source  of  every  generous  pas- 
sion and  of  every  philosophical  discovery,'  Whatever  depth 
there  may  be  in  our  tenderness,  whatever  reverence  in  our  voice, 
flows  into  us  from  the  two  eternities. 

Another  who  rises  above  the  din  of  strife  into  the  region  of 
spiritualities,  is  Jeremy  Taylor,'  an  Anglican  and  a  Royalist, 
upright,  zealous,  tolerant,  a  sensitive  and  creative  genius,  less 
profound  than  Browne,  but  as  opulent  in  resources,  warmer, 
richer,  more  gorgeous  in  style.  His  soul  was  made  for  the  sub- 
lime, the  beautiful,  and  the  picturesque.  Never  was  such  wealth 
and  sweetness  of  imagery,  or  readier  perception  of  analogies  in 
things  familiar  and   fair.      He  sees  the  skylark  build  her  nest  on 

' Ifydriotaphia.  or  Urn  Buria! ;  'a  Discourse  on  the  Sepulchral  Urns  lately  found  in 
Norfolk.- 

'  .Melancholy  is  the  cennine  inspiration  '>f  true  genius:  whoever  is  not  conscious  of 
this  .'ifffction  of  the  mind  must  not  aspire  to  anv  great  celebritv  as  an  author.    Madam 

II:ippy  is  the  roiintry  wIhtc  the  authors  arc  melancholy,  the  merchants  satisfied,  the 
rich  L'looniy.     Ihi'l. 

'Son  of  a  iMxir  surireoii-tjiirbiT.  cntiTi'd  college  at  fourteen  as  a  sizar,  won  his  way, 
marrii-d  a  natural  <laii'_'htiT  <if  Charles  I.  \vii>  wrecked  in  the  storm  of  the  Civil  War, 
twice  imprisoned,  and  after  the  liesloralion  loaded  with  honors. 


PROSE  —  THE   SHAKESPEARE   OF   DIVIKES.  431 

the  ground,  sees  her  rise  amid  the  early  perfumes  of  the  fields, 
soaring  highest  of  all  the  feathered  tribe,  or  breasting  the  tem- 
pest in  her  upward  flight,  and  compelled  to  return  panting;  then 
he  thinks  of  the  good  man's  spirit,  struggling  to  ascend  towards 
the  throne  of  mercy: 

'For  80  I  have  seen  a  lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and  soaring  upwards,  singing 
as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven,  and  climb  above  the  clouds;  but  the  poor  bird 
was  beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of  an  eastern  wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregu- 
lar and  inconstant,  descending  more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest,  than  it  could  recover 
by  the  libration  and  frequent  weighing  of  his  wings;  till  the  little  creature  was  forced 
to  sit  down  and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm  was  over;  and  then  it  made  a  prosperous 
flight,  and  did  rise  and  sing,  as  if  it  had  learned  music  and  motion  from  an  angel  as  he 
passed  sometimes  through  the  air,  about  his  ministries  here  below.  So  is  the  prayer  of 
a  good  man." 

Or  his  full  imagination  traces  in  sensible  colors  the  progress  of 
sin: 

'I  have  seen  the  little  purls  of  a  stream  sweat  through  the  bottom  of  a  bank,  and 
intenerate  the  stubborn  pavement,  till  it  hath  made  it  fit  for  the  impression  of  a  child's 
foot;  and  it  was  despised,  like  the  descending  i)earTs  of  a  misty  morning,  till  it  had 
opened  its  way  and  made  a  stream  large  enough  to  carry  away  the  ruins  of  the  under- 
mined strand,  and  to  invade  the  neighboring  gardens:  but  then  the  despised  drops  were 
grown  into  an  artificial  river,  and  an  intolerable  mischief.  So  are  the  first  entrances  of 
sin  stopped  with  the  antidotes  of  a  hearty  prayer,  and  checked  into  sobriety  by  the  eye 
of  a  reverend  man,  or  the  counsels  of  a  single  sermon:  but  when  such  beginnings  are 
neglected,  and  our  religion  hath  not  in  it  so  much  philosophy  as  to  think  anything  evil 
as  long  as  we  can  endure  it,  they  grow  up  to  ulcers  and  pestilential  evils;  they  destroy 
the  soul  by  their  abode,  who  al  their  first  entry  might  have  been  killed  with  the  pressure 
of  a  little  finger." 

With  like  fertility  and  continuity,  he  describes   the  growth  of 

reason : 

'We  must  not  think  that  the  life  of  a  man  begins  when  he  can  feed  himself  or  walk 
alone,  when  he  can  fight  or  beget  his  like,  for  so  he  is  contemporary  with  a  camel  or  a 
cow:  but  he  is  first  a  man  when  he  comes  to  a  certain  steady  use  of  reason,  according  to 
his  proportion:  and  when  th.it  is,  all  the  world  of  men  cannot  tell  precisely.  Some  are 
called  at  age  at  fourteen,  some  at  one  and  twenty,  some  never;  but  all  men  late  enough; 
for  the  life  of  a  man  comes  upon  him  slowly  and  insensibly.  But,  as  when  the  sun 
approaches  towards  the  gates  of  the  morning,  he  first  opens  a  little  eye  of  heaven,  and 
sends  away  the  spirits  of  darkness,  and  gives  light  to  a  cock,  and  calls  up  the  lark  to 
matins,  and  by  and  by  gilds  the  fringes  of  a  cloud,  and  peeps  over  the  eastern  hills, 
tlirusting  out  his  golden  horns  like  those  which  decked  the  brow  of  Moses,  when  he  was 
forced  to  wear  a  veil,  because  himself  had  seen  the  face  of  God;  and  still,  while  a  man 
tells  the  story,  the  sun  gets  up  higher,  till  he  shews  a  fair  face  and  full  light,  and  then  he 
shines  one  whole  day,  under  a  cloud  often,  and  sometimes  weeping  great  and  little 
showers,  and  sets  quickly;  so  is  a  man's  reason  and  his  life.' 

We  see  that  he  is  a  philanthropist,  who  is  not  content  to  have 
religion  a  ritual  or  a  dream;  with  whom  the  business  of  life  is 
not  to  gather  gold  or  get  station,  but  to  be  a  man  :  not  to  ])ass 
an  ephemeral  being  in  a  whirl  of  fashion,  but  to  ho  a  woman; 
a  godly  man,  who  does  not  spoil  the  poetic  depth  of  holiness  by 


432  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

reducing  its  speech  to  a  technical  use;  a  counsellor,  who  does  his 
work  only  with  thought  that  it  be  good,  whose  marriage  —  let  us 
hope  —  was  the  noble  poem,  the  interior  relation,  the  rudimentary- 
heaven,  which  he  would  have  it  be: 

'  They  that  enter  into  the  state  of  marriage  cast  a  die  of  the  greatest  contingency,  and 
yet  of  the  greatest  interest  in  the  world,  next  to  the  last  throw  for  eternity.  Life  or 
death,  felicity  or  a  lasting  sorrow,  arc  in  the  power  of  marriage.  A  woman,  indeed,  ven- 
tures most,  for  she  hath  no  sanctuary  to  retire  to  from  an  evil  husband;  she  must  dwell 
upon  her  sorrow,  and  hatch  the  eggs  which  her  own  folly  or  infelicity  hath  produced ;  and 
she  is  more  under  it,  because  her  tormentor  hath  a  warrant  of  prerogative,  and  the  woman 
may  complain  to  God,  as  subjects  do  of  tyrant  princes;  but  otherwise  she  hath  no  appeal 
in  the  causes  of  unlcindness.  And  though  the  man  can  run  from  many  hours  of  his  sad- 
ness, yet  he  must  return  to  it  again;  and  when  he  sits  among  his  neighbors,  he  remem- 
bers the  objection  that  lies  in  his  bosom,  and  he  sighs  deeply.  The  boys  and  the  pedlers, 
and  the  fruiterers,  shall  tell  of  this  man  when  he  is  carried  to  his  grave,  that  he  lived, 
and  died  a  poor  wretched  person. 

The  stags  in  the  Greek  epigram,  whose  knees  were  clogged  with  frozen  snow  upon 
the  mountains,  came  down  to  the  brooks  of  the  valleys,  hoping  to  thaw  their  joints  with 
the  waters  of  the  stream;  but  there  the  frost  overtook  them,  and  bound  them  fast  in  ice, 
till  the  young  herdsmen  took  them  in  their  stronger  snare.  It  is  the  unhappy  chance 
of  many  men,  finding  many  inconveniences  upon  the  mountains  of  single  life,  they 
descend  into  the  valleys  of  marriage  to  refresh  their  troubles;  and  there  they  enter  into 
fetters,  and  are  bound  to  sorrow  by  the  chords  of  a  man's  or  woman's  peevishness.  .  .  . 

Man  and  wife  are  equally  concerned  to  avoid  all  offences  of  each  other  in  the  begin- 
ning of  their  conversation  ;  every  little  thing  can  blast  an  infant  blossom ;  and  the  breath 
of  the  south  can  shake  the  little  rings  of  the  vine,  when  first  they  begin  to  curl  like  the 
the  locks  of  a  new  weaned  boy:  but  when  by  age  and  consolidation  they  stiffen  into 
the  hardness  of  a  stem,  and  have  by  the  warm  embraces  of  the  sun  and  the  kisses  of 
heaven,  brought  forth  their  clusters,  they  can  endure  the  storms  of  the  north,  and  the 
loud  noises  of  a  tempest,  and  yet  never  be  broken:  so  are  the  early  unions  of  an  unfixed 
marriage.'' 

It  is  not  a  cold  rigorist  who  speaks,  but  a  saviour,  who  feels  the 

sore  travail  of  the  world,  and  esteems  nothing  greater  than  by 

word  or  deed  to  minister  comfort  to  a  weary  or  troubled  soul: 

'This  is  glory  to  thy  voice,  and  employment  fit  for  the  brightest  angel.  But  so  have 
I  seen  the  sun  kiss  the  frozen  earth,  which  was  bound  up  with  the  iniagoe  of  death,  and 
the  colder  breath  of  the  north;  and  then  the  waters  break  from  their  inclosures,  and  melt 
with  joy,  and  run  in  useful  channels;  and  the  flies  do  rise  again  from  their  little  graves 
in  walls,  and  dance  awhile  in  the  air,  to  tell  that  there  is  joy  within,  and  that  the?  great 
mother  of  creatures  will  open  the  stork  of  her  new  refreshment,  become  useful  to  man- 
kind, and  sing  praises  to  hiT  Redeemer.  So  is  the  heart  of  a  sorrowful  man  under  the 
discourses  of  a  wise  comforter." 

He  has,  like  Browne,  tlie  stamp  of  tlie  national  spirit,  the  North- 
ern gloom  which,  in  the  days  of  the  Kdda,  was  soothed  by  the 
roaring  of  the  sea  and  the  hollow  blast  of  the  barren  heath.  For 
what  is  the  end  and  sum  of  inortal  designs?  A  dark  night  and 
an  ill  guide,  'a  boisterous  sea  and  a  broken  cable,' — a  rock  and  a 
wreck,  while  they  who  wccj)  loudest  have  yet  to  enter  into  the 
storm.      All,  fair  as  the  morning,  brave  as  the  noon,  arc  the  heri- 


PROSE  —  A    NEW    CULTURE.  433 

tage  of  worms.     Go  where  you  may,  you  tread  upon  the  bones  of 
a  dead  man.     'Where  is  the  dust  that  has  not  been  alive?" 

'Nature  calls  us  to  meditate  of  death,  by  those  things  which  are  the  instruments  of 
acting  it;  and  God  by  all  the  variety  of  His  providence,  malies  us  see  death  everywhere 
in  all  variety  of  circumstances,  and  dressed  up  for  all  the  fancies  and  the  expectation  of 
every  single  person.  Nature  has  given  us  one  harvest  every  year,  but  death  hath  two; 
and  the  spring  and  the  autumn  send  throngs  of  men  and  women  to  charnel-houses:  and 
all  the  summer  long,  men  are  recovering  from  their  evils  of  the  spring,  till  the  dog-days 
come,  and  then  the  Sirian  star  makes  the  summer  deadly;  and  the  fruits  of  the  autumn 
arc  laid  up  for  all  the  year's  provision,  and  the  man  that  gathers  them  eats  and  surfeits, 
and  dies  and  needs  tliem  not,  and  himself  is  laid  up  for  eternity;  and  he  tliat  escapes 
till  winter,  only  stays  for  another  opportunity,  which  the  distempers  of  that  quarter 
minister  to  him  with  great  variety.  Thus  death  reigns  in  all  the  portions  of  our  time. 
The  autumn  witli  its  fruits  provides  disorders  for  us,  and  the  winter's  cold  turns  them 
into  sharp  diseases,  and  the  spring  brings  flowers  to  strew  our  hearse,  and  the  summer 
gives  green  turf  and  brambles  to  bind  upon  our  graves.'' 

The  style  of  all  these  writers,  by  its  copiousness  and  pomp,  by 
its  redundancies  and  irregularities,  links  them  to  the  age  of 
Elizabeth.  It  has  the  Elizabethan  ardor  and  the  Elizabethan 
faults.  If  now  we  turn  to  Cowley,  we  shall  see,  in  startling 
contrast,  the  powerful  and  erratic  breeze  slacken  to  a  smooth 
and  placid  equability: 

'The  first  minister  of  state  has  not  so  much  business  in  public  as  a  wise  man  has  in 
private:  if  the  one  have  little  leisure  to  be  alone,  the  other  has  less  leisure  to  be  in  com- 
pany: the  one  has  but  part  of  the  atTairs  of  one  nation,  the  other  all  the  works  of  God  and 
Nature  under  his  consideration.  There  is  no  saying  shocks  me  so  much  as  that  which  I 
hear  very  often,  that  a  man  does  not  know  how  to  pass  his  lime.' 

Of  Oliver  Cromwell: 

'What  can  be  more  extraordinary  than  that  a  person  of  mean  birth,  no  fortune,  no 
eminent  qualities  of  body,  which  have  sometimes,  or  of  mind,  which  have  often,  raised 
men  to  the  highest  dignities,  should  have  the  courage  to  attempt,  and  the  happiness  to 
succeed  in,  so  improbable  a  design  as  the  destruction  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
mo-:t  solidly  founded  monarchies  upon  tlie  earth'/  tlnit  he  should  have  tlie  power  or  bold- 
ness to  put  his  prince  and  master  to  an  open  and  infamous  death;  to  banish  tlnit  numer- 
ous and  strongly  allied  family:  to  do  all  this  under  the  name  and  wages  of  a  parliament; 
to  trample  upon  tlieui,  too,  as  he  pleased,  and  spurn  them  out  of  door;  wiicn  he  grew 
weaiy  of  them:  to  raise  u|)  a  new  and  unheard-of  monster  out  of  their  ashes;  to  stifle 
that  in  the  very  infancy,  and  set  up  himself  above  all  things  that  ever  were  called  sover- 
eign in  England ;  to  oppress  all  his  enemies  by  arms,  ami  all  his  friends  afterwards  by 
artifice:  to  serve  all  i)artics  patiently  for  a  while,  and  to  command  them  victoriously  at 
last:  to  overrun  each  corner  of  the  three  nations,  and  overcome  with  equal  facility  both 
the  riclies  of  the  soutli  and  the  i>ovcrty  of  the  north:  to  be  feared  and  courted  by  all  for- 
eign princes,  and  adojited  a  brollicr  to  tlic  gods  of  the  earth  :  to  call  together  parliaments 
witli  a  word  of  liis  pen.  and  scatter  tliem  again  with  the  breatli  of  his  nioiitli:  to  be  hum- 
bly and  daily  petitioned,  tliat  lie  wonUI  pleM>e  to  be  hired,  at  tlie  rate  of  two  millions  a 
year,  to  be  the  master  of  those  who  had  hired  liim  before  to  be  their  servant :  to  have  the 
estates  and  lives  of  three  kin^'iloms  as  much  at  his  disposal  as  was  the  little  iiilicritance 
of  his  father,  and  to  be  as  noble  and  lil)eral  in  the  si)en(liiig  of  tlioni;  and  lMstl\  —  for 
there  is  no  end  of  all  the  particulars  of  his  glory  —  to  bequeath  all  this  with  one  word  to 

'  Young's  yig/it  notights. 
28 


434  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

his  posterity;  to  die  with  peace  at  home,  and  triumph  abroad;  to  be  buried  among  kings, 
and  with  more  than  regal  solemnity;  and  to  leave  a  name  behind  him  not  to  be  extin- 
guished but  witli  tlie  wliole  world;  which,  as  it  is  now  too  little  for  his  praises,  so  might 
have  been,  too,  for  his  conquests,  if  the  short  line  of  his  human  life  could  have  been 
stretched  out  to  the  extent  of  his  immortal  designs.' 

This  is  the  mark  of  a  new  culture,  a  new  society:  it  is  the  model 
which  Temple  and  Addison  will  adopt  and  improve. 

History. — The  contribution  to  this  department  in  the  first 
quarter  of  the  century,  most  valuable  as  authority  and  most  mas- 
terly in  execution,  is  BaCOn's  Reign  of  Henry  VII.  In  the 
collection  of  materials,  the  period  was  exceedingly  active.  Vol- 
umes of  Ayitiquities,  3Iemoirs,  Memorials,  Travels,  contempo- 
rary narratives  and  retrospective  treatises,  most  of  which  from 
the  literary  point  of  view  are  worthless,  attest  the  great  amount 
of  industry  subsidiary  to  true  history..  Always  liable  in  all  its 
forms  to  be  partisan,  the  historical  literature  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  as  a  whole,  is  violently  so.  The  historian  speaks  less 
with  the  air  of  a  judge  than  with  the  gesticulations  of  an  attor- 
ney. Indeed,  the  grave  and  judicial,  ancient  or  modern,  are  not 
altogether  unbiased  by  their  sympathies  and  antipathies.  They 
are  prone  —  let  the  reader  or  student  remember  —  to  write  in  the 
interest  of  some  political  party,  some  social  caste,  some  favorite 
hero,  some  Idol  of  the  Tribe,  the  Den,  the  Forum,  or  the 
Theatre.  There  are,  also,  unmistakable  signs  that  historians 
were  shifting  their  ground.  Thus  Selden,  the  chief  of  scholars, 
offended  many  of  the  Royalists  by  his  History  of  Tithes,  wherein 
he  denied  their  divine  right.  Baker  compiled  a  Chronicle  'with 
such  care  and  diligence,'  he  assures  us,  'that  if  all  otiier  chroni- 
cles were  lost,  this  only  would  be  sufficient  to  inform  posterity  of 
all  passages  worthy  to  be  known.'  Bacon  analyzes  motives, 
weighs  actions,  examines  and  describes  tlie  laws  and  events 
affecting  trade  and  agriculture,  with  an  evident  purpose  to  enable 
the  reader  to  glean  the  lessons  which  mav  hereafter  be  turned  to 
useful  account.  We  observe  an  increasing  respect  for  the  human 
intellect,  an  indisposition  to  believe  in  things  strange,  merely  be- 
cause they  have  been  believed,  and  an  inclination  to  take  the 
side  of  the  people,  rather  than  that  of  the  rulers. 

Theology. — The  persecutions  of  Galileo,  and  his  recantation, 
suffice  to  show  that  Religion  was  still  considered  the  arbiter  of 
Science.     In  England,  though   creeds  did  not  at  once  come  into 


PROSE — THE    AGE    OF   CREEDS.  435 

conflict  with  the  general  culture,  the  temper  of  the  nation  was 
intensely  theological.  'There  is  a  great  abundance  of  theologians 
in  England,'  says  a  contemporary;  'all  point  their  studies  in  that 
direction.'  It  was  a  period  of  distrust  and  dissension, —  of  the 
strife  of  conservative  and  radical  reform.  As  the  struggle  pro- 
gressed, fanaticism  gained  ground,  faith  became  more  stubborn, 
divinity  more  sinister,  action  and  intelligence  more  restrictive. 
But  —  Milton  aside  —  the  Episcopalians  were  not  only  more  tal- 
ented and  scholarly  than  their  opponents,  but  also  more  liberal. 
If,  by  their  alliance  with  the  crown,  they  were  oppressive  in  poli- 
tics, they  were  tolerant  in  doctrine,  more  friendly,  perhaps,  to 
the  large  ideas  of  the  Renaissance. 

What  it  is  chiefly  important  to  observe,  is,  that  the  rage  of 
controversy  reacted  upon  the  spirit  of  insubordination  that  was 
abroad,  and  tended  to  the  rapid  increase  of  heresy.  In  1647, 
Boyle  writes  from  London: 

'There  arc  few  clays  pass  here  that  may  not  Justly  be  accused  of  the  brewing  or 
broaching  of  some  new  opinion.  Xay,  some  are  so  studiously  changing  in  that  particu- 
lar, they  esteem  an  opinion  as  a  diurnal,  after  a  day  or  two  scarce  worth  the  keeping. 
If  any  man  have  lost  his  religion,  let  him  repair  to  London,  and  Til  warrant  him  he  shall 
find  it.  I  liad  almost  said  too, —  if  any  man  has  a  religion,  let  him  but  come  hither  now, 
and  he  shall  go  near  to  lose  it  ' 

Each  sect  proclaimed  its  contempt  of  tradition  and  the  efficiency 
of  reason.  Hales,  the  '  ever-memorable,'  declared  that  he  would 
quit  the  Church  of  England  to-morrow  if  she  insisted  on  the 
damnation  of  dissenters.  He  advised  men  to  trust  to  themselves 
alone  in  religious  matters.  Of  the  authority  of  the  Fathers  and 
of  Councils,  he  said  briefly,  '  It  is  none.'  Universality  is  no  con- 
clusive test.  It  'is  such  a  proof  of  truth  as  truth  itself  is  ashamed 
of.  The  most  singular  and  strongest  part  of  human  authority  is 
properly  in  the  wisest  and  most  virtuous,  and  these,  1  trow,  are 
not  the  most  universal.'  Chillingworth,  a  militant  and  Royal- 
ist, of  strong  and  subtle  intellect,  asserted  the  insecurity  of  any 
basis  for  belief  but  tliat  of  private  judgment.  No  man  is  bound  to 
believe  the  points  at  issue  between  the  Catholics  and  Protestants 
if  he  finds  them  repugnant  to  reason.  'God  requires  only  that 
we  believe  the  conclusion  as  much  as  the  premises  deserve.' 
Nothing  can  be  more  detrimental  to  religion  than  to  force  it. 
'For  my  part,  I  am  certain  that  God  hath  given  us  our  reason  to 
discern  between  truth  and  falsehood;  and  he  that  makes  not  this 
use  of   it,  but   believes  things  he  knows  not   wliy,  I  say  it  is  by 


436  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

chance  that  he  believes  the  truth,  and  not  by  choice;  and  I  can 
not  but  fear  that  God  will  not  accept  of  this  sacrifice  of  fools.' 
The  great  principle  of  religious  toleration  is  clearly  implied  in 
this,  if  it  is  not  clearly  expressed  in  what  follows: 

'This  deifying  our  own  interpretations  and  tyrannous  enforcing  them  upon  others; 
this  restraining  of  tlie  word  of  God  from  that  latitude  and  generality,  and  tlie  understand- 
ings of  men  from  that  liberty  wherein  Christ  and  His  apostles  left  Ihem,  is  and  hath  been 
the  only  foundation  of  all  the  schisms  of  the  Church  and  that  which  makes  them  im- 
mortal.' 

But  the  first  famous  plea  for  tolerance,  on  a  solid  and  compre- 
hensive basis,  was  Taylor's  Liberty  of  Prophesying.  That  free- 
dom of  conscience  wliich  the  Puritan  founded  on  the  personal 
communion  of  each  soul  with  God,  is  here  founded  on  the  weak- 
ness of  authority  and  the  infirmity  of  reason.  The  Apostle's 
Creed  comprises  all  that  can  be  absolutely  proven,  and  therefore 
all  that  is  fundamental.  All  errors  beyond  do  not  affect  salva- 
tion, and  hence  ought  not  to  be  punished.  The  magistrate,  how- 
ever, must  see  to  the  safety  of  the  commonwealth,  and  put  down, 
if  necessary,  those  religions  whose  principles  destroy  government, 
as  well  as 'tliose  religions  —  if  there  be  any  such  —  which  teach 
ill  life.' 

Among  Puritans,  the  Independents  allowed  the  greater  lati- 
tude. Milton  deemed  persecution,  in  defense  of  truth,  inexcusa- 
ble: 'For  truth  is  strong  next  to  the  Almighty.  She  needs  no 
policies  or  stratagems  or  licensings  to  make  iter  victorious.  These 
are  the  shifts  and  the  defences  tliat  error  uses  against  her  power.' 
The  Presbyterians  desired  to  tolerate  only  those  who  accepted 
the  '  fundamentals '  of  Christianity,  and  drew  vip  a  list  which 
formed  as  elaborate  and  exclusive  a  test  as  the  Anglican  articles 
which  they  rejected.  They  tried  in  1G48  to  induce  Parliament  to 
enact  that  any  one  wIkj  advocated  views  contrary  to  tlie  doctrines 
of  tlie  Trinity  and  the  Incarnation,  should  l)e  punished  with  death, 
and  all  who  taught  Popish,  Arminian,'  Baptist,  or  Quaker  doc- 
trines, should  hit.  imprisoned  for  life.  Catholicism,  indeed,  was 
by  all  sectaries  ruthlessly  proscribed;  but  the  nation,  it  is  evident, 
was  advancing  towards  religif)us  liberty.  It  must  not  be  forgotten 
tliat  this  great  jirocess  —  yet  far  from  being  completed  in  any 
country  —  was  begun   Ijy  tliii  union   of  the  spirit   of  Christianity 

'  A  sflicmc  of  Armiiiiii'^.  a  Dutch  theologian,  who  died  in  ](X)8.  It  arose  by  way  of 
reaction  against  tlu;  predci^tinariauisni  nf  Calvin. 


PROSE  —  SECULARIZATION    OF   MORALS.  437 

with  the  spirit  of  scepticism.  He  who  has  learned  to  doubt  has 
learned  to  tolerate.  They  who  have  recognized  the  fallibility  of 
their  own  opinions,  cease  to  dream  that  guilt  can  be  associated 
with  an  honest  conclusion. 

£itlliCS. — When  dogmatism  declines,  we  may  be  sure  that 
men  are  interrogating  their  moral  sense  more  than  the  books  of 
theologians,  and  that  they  will  soon  proceed  to  make  that  sense 
a  supreme  arbiter.  While  the  period  offers  nothing  that  can  be 
reckoned  a  treatise,  much  less  a  system,  of  moral  philosophy, 
indications  are  not  wanting  that  conditions  were  rapidly  maturing 
for  the  examination,  analysis,  and  classification  of  moral  feelings 
on  a  rationalistic  basis.  BaCOn,  without  attempting  a  scheme, 
calls  attention  to  the  insullicient  treatment  of  Ethics,  and  sug- 
gests the  double  line  of  investigation  —  theory  and  jyractice : 

'The  main  and  primitive  division  of  moral  knowledge  secmeth  to  be  into  the  exem- 
plar or  platform  of  good,  and  the  regimen  or  culture  of  the  mind:  the  one  describing 
the  nature  of  good;  the  other  prcs^enting  rules  how  to  subdue,  apply,  and  accouunodate 
the  will  of  man  thereunto." 

The  '  platform '  seems  to  consist  in  seeking  the  good  of  the  whole 
—  or  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number.  He  contributes 
several  passages,  moreover,  to  the  rising  issues  touching  the 
rights  of  belligerents.  We  also  meet  with  allusions,  reflections, 
precepts,  counsels,  in  Feltham's  Resoh'rs,  Berkin's  Cases  of  Con- 
science, Selden's  Table  Talk,  and  BrO'WHe's  Christian  florals. 
The  aim  of  these  writers  is  not  to  inquire  into  the  principles  of 
action,  but  rather  to  enforce  the  duties  of  practical  religion.  We 
quote  briefly  from  the  last: 

'Live  by  old  othirks  and  the  classical  rules  of  honesty.  .  .  .  Think  not  that  morality 
is  ambulatory ;  .  .  .  that  virtues,  which  are  under  the  everlasting  seal  of  risht  reason, 
may  be  stamped  by  ojjinion.  And  therefore  though  vicious  times  invert  the  opinions  of 
things,  and  set  np  new  ethics  against  virtue,  yet  hold  thou  unto  old  morality:  and  ratlier 
than  follow  a  multitude  to  do  evil,  stand  like  Pompey's  pillar  conspicuous  l)y  thyself, 
and  single  in  integrity.  And  since  the  worst  of  times  afford  imitablc  e.\ami)les  of  virtue; 
since  no  deluge  of  vice  is  like  to  be  so  general  but  more  than  eight  will  escape:  eye  well 
those  heroes  who  have  held  their  heads  above  water,  who  have  touclied  ])itcli  and  not 
been  defiled,  and  in  the  common  contagion  have  remained  uncorrupted.' 

And: 

'Live  hapi)y  in  the  Elysium  of  a  virtuously  composed  mind,  and  let  intellectual  con- 
tents exceed  the  delii^hts  wherein  mere  ])leasnrists  place  their  i)arailise.  Hear  not  too 
slack  reins  ni)on  i)!easure,  nor  let  coinptexioii  or  contagion  betray  thee  inilo  llic  exor- 
bitancy of  delight.  Make  jjleasure  thy  recreation  or  intermissive  relaxiuiou,  not  tliy 
Diana,  life  and  profession.  .  .  .  Our  liard  entrance  into  the  world,  our  nti~rr:ililr  iroing 
out  of  it,  our  sicknesses,  disturbances,  and  sad  rencounters  in  it,  do  clamorously  tell  us 
we  come  not  into  tlie  world  to  run  a  race  of  delight." 


438  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Again; 

'  Lastly,  if  length  of  days  be  thy  portion,  make  it  not  thy  expectation.  Reckon  not 
upon  long  life;  think  every  day  the  last,  and  live  always  beyond  thy  account.  He  that  80 
often  surviveth  his  expectation  lives  many  lives,  and  will  scarce  complain  of  the  short- 
ness of  his  days.  Time  past  is  gone  like  a  shadow;  make  time  to  come  present.  Ap- 
proximate thy  latter  times  by  present  apprehensions  of  them;  be  like  a  neighbour  unto 
the  grave,  and  think  tliere  is  but  little  to  come.  And  since  there  is  something  of  us  that 
will  still  live  on,  join  both  lives  together,  and  live  in  one  but  for  tlie  other.  He  who  thus 
ordereth  the  purposes  of  this  life  will  nevei  be  far  from  the  next.' 

That  moral  instruction  has  been  secularized,  constitutes  an  im- 
portant advance  towards  the  exploration  of  the  nature  and  foun- 
dation of  morals. 

Science. — As  poetry  languished,  science  rose,  a  second  crea- 
tion which  continued  the  first.  What  one  had  represented,  the 
other  proceeded  to  observe,  to  analyze,  and  to  classify.  On  the 
Continent,  the  discoveries  of  Galileo  established  the  Copernican 
theory  of  the  universe.  Summoned  before  the  Inquisition,  he 
was  forced  to  kneel  in  the  sackcloth  of  a  penitent,  and  swear 
"with  his  hands  upon  tlie  gospels,  that  'it  was  not  true  that  the 
earth  moved  round  the  sun,  and  that  lie  would  never  again  in 
words  or  writing  spread  this  damnable  heresy.'  'And  yet,'  he 
immediately  whispered  to  a  friend,  'it  does  move.'  In  IGOI),  he 
had  constructed  his  telescope,  and,  applying  it  to  the  heavens, 
had  excited  the  strongest  interest  by  revealing  the  inequalities  of 
the  moon's  surface,  the  moon-like  phases  of  Venus,  the  satellites 
of  Jupiter,  and  the  ring  of  Saturn,  Space  was  thus  seen  to  be 
very  different  from  what  the  ancients  had  imagined.  Men  were 
led  to  suspect  that  it  contained  a  mechanism  more  various  and 
more  vast  than  had  ever  been  conjectured.  Kepler  took  up  the 
notion  of  a  physical  connection  among  celestial  bodies,  and 
arrived  at  tliree  laws  tlie  most  magnificent  which  the  whole  ex- 
panse of  human  knowledge  can  show:  that  the  planets  move 
round  the  sioi  in  ellipses;  that  they  describe  equal  areas  about 
their  centres  in  equal  times;  that  the  squares  of  their  2i^^'iodic 
times  are  proportional  to  the  CMhes  of  their  distances.  Why 
thev  so  moved,  or  how  their  motions  were  maintained,  he  also 
endeavored  to  explain.  It  was  assumed  that  a  current  of  fluid 
matter  circulated  round  the  sun,  and  carried  them  with  it,  like 
a  boat  in  a  stream,  or  straws  in  a  whirlpool.  The  true  explana- 
tion was  to  be  tlie  glory  and  merit  of  Newton.  The  theory 
of    vortices, —  put    forward    more    distinctly  and    elaborately  by 


PROSE  —  THE   EXPANSION   OF   SCIENCE.  439 

Descartes, —  though  it  is  now  known  to  have  no  scientific  value, 
has  a  mental  value  of  the  highest  order:  for  (1)  it  reminds  us 
again  that  the  complete  disclosure  of  a  new  truth  by  the  principal 
discoverer  is  preceded  by  guesses,  trials,  and  glimpses;  and  (2) 
it  introduced  the  conception  of  natural  law  into  what  had  long 
been  the  special  realm  of  superstition. 

In  England,  the  intellectual  impulse  was  in  the  same  direction. 
Weeds  and  the  grain  often  thrive  and  flourish  together,  but  if 
Bacon  set  aside  with  scorn  the  astronomical  system  of  Coper- 
nicus, he  was  the  first  to  impress  upon  mankind  at  large,  the 
power  and  importance  of  physical  research.  'Through  all  those 
ages,'  he  says,  '  wherein  men  of  genius  or  learning  principally  or 
even  moderately  flourished,  the  smallest  part  of  human  industry 
has  been  spent  on  natural  philosophy,  though  this  ought  to  be 
esteemed  as  the  great  mother  of  the  sciences;  for  all  the  rest,  if 
torn  from  the  root,  may  perhaps  be  polished  and  formed  for  use, 
but  can  receive  little  increase.'  Many  were  undecided,  Milton 
among  others: 

'What  if  seventh  to  these 
The  planet  earth,  though  steadfast  she  seem. 
Insensibly  three  different  motions  move?' 

And: 

'What  if  the  sun 
Be  centre  to  the  world;   and  other  stars. 
By  his  attractive  virtue  and  their  own 
Incited,  dance  about  him  various  rounds?' 

His  leaning,  however,  seems  to  have  been  for  the  new: 

'Or  she  from  west  her  silent  course  advance 
With  inoffensive  pace,  that  spinning  sleeps 
On  her  soft  axle,  while  she  paces  even, 
And  bears  thee  soft  with  the  smooth  air  along?' 

Many  were  knocking  at  the  door  wliich  another  and  a  later  was 
to  force  open.  In  1G38  a  book  appeared  with  the  title,  The  J)is- 
coverij  of  a  Nexn  World ;  two  years  afterward,  a  Discourse 
concerning  a  New  Planet.  The  art  of  numerical  calculation 
made  inestimable  progress  by  means  of  Napier's  invention  of 
Logarithms,  without  which  the  sciences  in  which  the  most  splen- 
did triumphs  have  been  achieved,  could  never  have  been  carried 
to  the  height  they  have  reached.  The  circulation  of  the  blooil 
had  been  partially  anticipated.  Harvey  coniploted  the  doctrine, 
demonstrated  and  announced  it.  It  encountered  as  much  popu- 
lar as  professional  odium;  but  like  the  heliocentric  doctrine, — 


440  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'Untamed  its  pride,  unchecked  its  course, 
From  foes  and  wounds  it  gatiicrs  force.' 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  revolution  in  medicine.  In  the  fer- 
ment of  the  Civil  War,  some  speculative  persons  formed  them- 
selves into  a  club,  which  they  called  the  Invisible  College,  and 
met  once  a  week,  sometimes  in  London,  sometimes  in  Oxford, 
according  to  the  changes  of  fortune  and  residence  of  members. 
'  Our  business,'  says  one  of  them,  '  precluding  affairs  of  state  and 
questions  of  theology,  was  to  consider  philosophical  subjects,  and 
whatever  related  thereto, —  physic,  anatomy,  geometry,  astron- 
omy, navigation,  statics,  magnetism,  chemistry,  mechanics,  and 
natural  experiments,  with  the  state  of  these  studies  as  then  culti- 
vated at  home  or  abroad.' 

A  witness  to  the  resistless  tendencies  of  the  age,  is  the  cele- 
brated work  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne — Inquiries  into  Vulgar 
and  Common  Errors.  His  enumeration  of  errors  to  be  dispelled 
exemplifies  the  notions  which  prevailed: 

'That  crystal  is  nothing  else  but  ice  strongly  congealed;  that  a  diamond  is  softened 
or  broken  by  the  blood  of  a  goat;  that  a  i)ot  full  of  ashes  will  contain  as  mucli  water  as 
it  would  witiiout  thern;  that  bays  preserve  from  the  mischief  of  lightning  and  thunder; 
that  an  elephant  luith  no  joints;  that  a  wolf,  first  seeing  a  inan,  begets  a  dumbness  in 
him;  that  moles  are  l)lind;  that  tlic  flesh  of  i)eacocks  cornipteth  not ;  that  storks  will 
only  live  in  republics  and  free  states;  that  the  cliicken  is  made  out  of  the  yolk  of  the  egg; 
that  men  weigli  heavier  dead  than  alive;  that  the  forbidden  fruit  was  an  apple;  that  there 
was  no  rainbow  before  the  Flood;  that  John  the  Evangelist  should  not  die.' 

*Many  others  there  are,'  he  adds,  'which  we  resign  unto  divinity, 
and  perhaps  deserve  not  controversy.'  We  are  here  informed 
that  one  main  cause  of  error  is  'adherence  unto  authority';  that 
another  is  '  neglect  of  inquiry';  that  a  third  is  'credulity.'  All 
which  is  confirmatory  of  that  vast  social  and  intellectual  move- 
ment which  we  have  seen  sweep  away  the  institutions  that  vainly 
attempted  to  arrest  it,  and  wliich  was  steadily  introducing  a  new 
series  of  conceptions  into  every  ])rovince  of  si)eculative  and  prac- 
tical life. 

Philosophy. — The  sterile  empire  of  scholasticism  was  at  an 
end.  The  sound  of  groat  names  had  lost  its  omnipotent  charm. 
Sjiecuhitors  felt  tlio  n(HHl  of  a  law  and  a  law-givor  to  methodize 
the  discordant  elements,  Imt  pursued  no  determinate  course, 
while  pretenders  struggled  for  tlie  vacant  throne.  At  this  junc- 
ture a  leader  a])poared  —  Francis  Bacon,  who  set  aside  the 
traditions  of  the  j)ast,  separatcil  jjhilo.soph.y  from  theology,  and  in 


PROSE — RISE   OF    MODERN    PHILOSOPHY.  441 

a  large  and  noble  temper  called  the  attention  of  mankind  to  the 
power  and  importance  of  experimental  research.  While  his  own 
researches  lay  chiefly  in  the  domain  of  physical  science,  yet  the 
spirit  ol  his  method  —  slow  and  patient  investigation  —  was  one 
which  applied  equally  to  the  whole  realm  of  knowledge.  More 
clearly  than  any  other,  he  saw  where  the  error  of  the  ancients 
lay, —  in  making  the  largest  generalizations  first,  without  the  aid 
or  warrant  of  rigorous  inductive  methods,  and  applying  them 
deductively  without  verification.  But  the  revolt  from  this  waste 
of  intelligence,  as  well  as  his  ignorance  of  mathematical  knowl- 
edge, blinded  him  to  the  real  value  of  deduction  as  an  instrument 
of  discovery,'  His  influence,  however,  especially  on  the  develop- 
ment of  science,  was  decisive,  if  not  immediate.  His  fundamental 
maxim  —  excellent  though  not  without  its  dangers  —  suited  the 
English  positive,  practical  genius, —  that  philosophy  should  begin 
in  observation  and  end  in  art: 

'In  the  same  manner  as  we  are  cautioned  by  religion  to  show  our  faith  by  our  works, 
we  may  freely  apply  the  principle  to  philosophy,  and  judge  of  it  by  its  works,  account- 
ing that  to  be  futile  which  is  unproductive,  and  still  more,  if  instead  of  grapes  and  olives 
it  yield  but  the  thistles  and  thorns  of  dispute  and  contention?' 

What  is  that  world  ?  Wiiat  is  man  ?  What  is  the  origin  of 
knowledge?  What  are  its  limits?  How  can  it  be  increased? 
From  what  princij)les  must  we  start?  What  methods  are  we  to 
employ?  What  rule  shall  we  deduce  for  the  conduct  of  life?  To 
answer  these  questions  is  the  dark  problem  of  metaphysics,  to 
which  Bacon,  from  the  bent  of  his  genius,  was  no  way  addicted. 
On  the  continent  a  Frenchman,  DesCartes,  gave  an  answer  wliich, 
while  it  has  ceased  to  be  satisfactory,  formed  the  starting-point 
of  much  Eiiglisli  speculation,  though  he  himself  made  no  distin- 
guished disciples  among  English  thinkers.  Turning  the  mental 
vision  inward,  as  Bacon  turned  it  outward,  he  watched  the  ojx'ra- 
tions  of  the  soul,  as  an  object  in  a  microsco])e.  Resolved  tt) 
believe  nothing  l)Ut  upon  evidence  so  convincing  that  he  could 
not  by  any  effort  refuse  his  assent,  he  found,  as  he  inspectetl  his 
beliefs,  that  he  could  ])lausil)ly  enough  doubt  everything  but 
his  own   exi.sliMice.       Here  at   last  was  the  everlasting  rock,  and 

'  Mechanics,  astronomy,  optics,  acoustics,  involve  a  dcdurtivc  elcnipnt.  Each  sup- 
poses tile  law  til  l)f  so  and  .-o,  tlial  is.  (lc\iscs  an  hyjiotlirvis,  and  inqnirc^  what  <nnsu- 
quenci's  will  follow,  always  with  tlic  dcsitrn  of  tryiiii:  such  results  by  facts,  ami  adciptini; 
the  liyi)othesis  only  when  it  can  stand  the  test.  Kroni  a  i)iiu(iplc  thus  estahli-lii'd  a 
multitude  of  truths"  are  deduced  by  the  mere  application  of  geometry  and  algebra. 


442  PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

this  was  revealed  in  his  own  Consciousness.  Hence  his  famous 
Cogito,  ergo  sum, — I  think,  therefore  I  am.  Consciousness,  said 
he^  is  the  basis  of  certitude.  Interrogate  it,  and  its  clear  replies 
will  be  science;  for  all  clear  ideas  are  true.  Down  in  the  depths 
of  self,  he  tells  you,  is  the  distinct  immutable  idea  of  the  Infinite 
Perfection  —  the  mark  of  the  icorkman  impressed  upon  his 
work,'  therefore,  God  exists.  This  fact  established,  the  veracity 
of  our  faculties  is  guaranteed;  for  an  Infinite  and  Perfect  Being 
would  not  so  constitute  His  creatures  that  they  should  be  always 
and  essentially  deceived.  His  method  of  ascent  to  the  basis  of 
truth  was  inductive ;  thenceforth,  from  that  irreversible  Cer- 
tainty, it  was  deductive.  He  was  greatest  in  that  in  which  Bacon 
was  least, —  mathematics.  The  latter  argued  from  effects  to 
causes;  the  former  deduced  effects  from  causes  —  explaining  the 
phenomena  of  sense  by  those  of  intuition.  The  one  used  ex- 
periment to  verify  an  a  priori  conception;  the  other,  to  form 
conceptions. 

Against  the  prosaic,  earthy  temper  of  the  next  period,  when 
Philosophy  shall  turn  her  face  earthward,  the  mind  be  plotted 
out  into  real  estate,  and  grandeur  become  a  thing  unknown, 
let  us  hold  in  remembrance  the  sublime  words  of  Sir  TllOmaS 
Browne  on  tlie  true  dignity  and  destiny  of  man  as  the  highest 
sublunary  object  of  our  theoretical  and  moral  interest.  This 
poet-philosopher  shall  give  us  the  last  accents  of  the  great 
Elizabethan  age; 

'For  the  world,  I  count  it  not  an  inn  hut  an  hospital,  and  a  place,  not  to  live  but  to 
die  in.  The  world  that  I  regard  is  myself;  it  is  the  microcosm  of  my  own  frame  that  I 
cast  mine  eyi;  on  ;  for  the  other,  I  use  it  but  like  my  globe,  and  turn  it  round  sometimes  for 
my  recreation.  .  .  .  The  earth  is  a  point  not  only  in  respect  of  the  heavens  above  us,  but 
of  that  heavenly  and  celestial  part  within  us;  that  mass  of  flesh  that  circumscribes 
me  limits  not  my  mind;  that  surface  that  tells  the  heavens  it  hath  an  end  cannot  per- 
suade me  !  have  any:  .  .  .  whilst  I  study  to  find  how  I  am  a  microcosm  or  little  world,  I 
lind  myself  something  more  than  the  great.  There  is  surely  a  piece  of  divinity  in  us, 
something  that  was  before  the  elements  and  owes  no  homage  unto  the  sun.  Nature  tells 
ine  I  am  the  image  of  God,  as  well  as  Scripture;  he  tliat  understands  not  thus  much, 
hath  not  his  introduction  or  first  lesson,  and  is  yet  to  begin  the  alphabet  of  man.' 

Resume. — -Tlie  opinions  and  feelings  that  had  been  growing 
up  in  the  bosom  iA  private  families  now  manifested  themselves 
in  Parliamentary  debates,  then  overturned  the  throne,  and  insti- 
tuted the  Commonwealth.  Against  the  loyal  enthusiasm  of  Eng- 
lish gentry,  and  the  fierce  licentiousness  of  Royalist  reprobates, 
were  arrayed  the  valor,  the  policy,  and  the  public  spirit  of  the 


RESUME.  443 

Puritans,  with  their  severe  countenance,  precise  garb,  petty  scru- 
ples, and  affected  accent.  Out  of  the  struggle  sprang  into 
organized  existence  two  great  parties, —  standing  the  one  for 
political  tradition,  the  other  for  political  progress;  the  one  for 
religious  conformity,  the  other  for  religious  liberty. 

In  the  drama,  the  noonday  of  Shakespeare  was  followed  by 
the  afternoon  flush  of  Jonson,  the  delineator  of  hicmors,  and  a 
semi-classic  in  taste;  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  luxuriating  in 
irregularity  of  form,  and  heralding  the  sensual  excess  that  ended 
in  the  violent  extinction  of  the  art;  of  Massinger,  Ford,  and  the 
rest  of  that  bright  throng,  whose  final  and  almost  solitary  succes- 
sor was  Shirley. 

Having  reached  the  limit  of  its  expansion,  the  poetic  bloom 
withered.  The  serious  temper,  the  blast  of  strife,  the  ascetic 
gloom,  accelerated  the  decay  which  natural  causes  began.  The 
agreeable  replaced  the  forceful;  and  the  pretty,  the  beautiful. 
Donne  founded  the  fantastic  or  metaphysical  school,  marked  by 
the  love  of  quaint  phrases,  strange  analogies,  and  ambitious 
efforts  at  antithesis.  Poets  lost  the  romantic  fervor  without 
gaining  the  classic  grace.  Yet  in  this  exhausted  soil,  the  old 
sap,  lost  to  the  eye,  sent  up  one  more  of  its  most  vigorous  prod- 
ucts. Prose  was  unexampled  in  vigor  and  amount;  most  of  it  — 
in  particular  during  the  Civil  War — political  and  theological, 
inspired  by  the  rage  of  sects  and  factions,  meant  for  the  ravenous 
appetites  of  the  moment,  and  therefore  ephemeral.  A  few  nota- 
ble books  —  like  the  Areopagitica  of  Milton,  those  of  Taylor,  the 
Spenser  of  theology,  of  Bacon,  the  diviner  in  science,  and  of 
Browne,  the  dreamer  of  Norwich  —  glow  with  tlie  colored  lights 
and  the  heart  of  fire  which  give  to  the  productions  of  genius 
enduring  life.  Style  was  copious,  even  to  redundancy;  ornate, 
even  to  intemperance;  not  seldom  pedantic,  with  blomishes  of 
vulgarity  and  tediously  prolonged  periods.  We  do  not  look  for 
grace  in  Leviathans,  nor  for  urbanity  in  mastodons. 

The  scholastic  dynasty,  which  had  survived  revolutions,  em- 
pires, religions,  and  languages,  was  fallen.  Into  the  ensuing 
anarchy  Bacon  introduced  the  principle  of  order,  and  furnished 
to  liberated  tliought  a  chart  antl  compass.  His  preeminent  ser- 
vice was  his  classification  of  the  Tdola,  and  his  constant  injunction 
to  correct  theory  by  confronting  it   witli   facts.      In  Iiim,  and  in 


444       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Descartes  of  France,  modern  philosophy  may  be  said  to  originate, 
inasmuch  as  they  were  the  first  to  make  the  doctrine  of  method  a 
principal  object  of  consideration. 

Literary  eras  have  no  arbitrary  or  precise  bounds.  They  are 
discriminated  by  centres  and  directions,  by  a  certain  set  of  influ- 
ences affecting  the  public  mind  and  character  during  a  more  or 
less  definite  time,  to  be  succeeded  by  a  new  set  producing  a  new 
pliase  of  the  nation's  literature.  The  characteristic  tendencies 
which  stretch  across  them  are  denoted  by  persons  scattered 
through  them,  as  the  mountain  trend  is  determined  by  its  isolated 
peaks.  The  poetic  conception  of  the  world,  as  distinguished  from 
the  mechanical,  may  be  taken  as  the  dominant  mark  of  the  so- 
called  Elizabethan  Age,  first  clearly  defined  in  Spenser,  rising  to 
its  zenith  in  Shakespeare,  and  passing  away  in  Milton  —  last  of 
the  famed  race  who  slaked  the  thirst  of  their  souls  at  the  springs 
of  imaerination  and  faith. 


J  O  N  S  O  N  . 


Then  .Toiison  came,  instructed  from  the  school. 

To  please  in  method,  and  invent  l)y  rule; 

His  studious  patience  and  laborious  art 

By  regular  approach  essay'd  the  hcdrt.— Samuel  Johnson. 

Many  were  the  wit-comltats  betwixt  Shalispeare  and  Ben  .Jonson,  which  two  I  be- 
held like  a  Spanisli  great  galleon  and  an  English  man-of-war,  blaster  Jonson,  like  the 
former,  was  built  far  liigher  in  learning;  solid  but  slow  in  his  performances.  Shak- 
speare,  with  tlie  Englisli  man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn 
with  all  tides,  tack  al)oiit,  and  take  advantage  of  all  winds  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit 
and  invention.— /•'<((/*./■. 

Biography. — TJmn  in  Westminster,  in  15T4,  a  few  days  after 
the  doatli  of  liis  fiillior,  wlio  was  a  clergyman  ;  attracted  the 
attention  of  Camden,  who  sent  him  to  school,  wliere  he  made 
extraordinary  progress;  oiitorod  Caml)ridge  at  sixteen,  but  was 
shortly  rocallod  l)y  his  sto])-fatlier,  a  liricklayer,  who  set  him  to 
tlu'  trowel;  ran  away,  onlistcd,  fought  in  the  Netherlands,  killed 
a  man  in  single  combat  in  the  view  oi'  both  armies;  returned  to 
England  at  the  age  of  iiinctcon,  with  a  roistering  reputation  and 
an  etnptv  j^ursc;  turned  to  the  stage  for  a  livelihood,  and  failed; 
quarrelled  witli   a   fellow-perfornu'r,  and  slew  him   in  a  duel,  was 


JONSON.  445 

arrested  for  murder,  imprisoned,  almost  brought  to  the  gallows  ; 
was  released,  and  immediately  married  a  woman  as  poor  as  himself 
—  a  wife  whom  he  afterwards  described  as  'a,  shrew  yet  honest'; 
was  forced  again  to  the  stage  both  as  an  actor  and  a  writer,  be- 
ginning his  dramatic  career  by  doing  job-work  for  the  managers; 
sprang  into  fame  in  his  twenty-second  year,  proclaimed  himself  a 
reformer  of  the  drama,  assumed  an  imperious  attitude,  railed  at 
his  rivals,  and  made  bitter  enemies,  against  whom  he  struggled 
without  intermission  to  the  end;  excited  the  king's  anger  by  an 
irreverent  allusion  to  the  Scotch,  was  in  danger  of  mutilation,  but 
was  set  at  liberty  without  a  trial;  amid  feasting  and  rejoicing, 
his  mother  showed  him  a  poison  which  she  had  intended  to  put 
into  his  drink,  to  save  him  from  the  disgraceful  punishment,  and 
*to  show  that  she  was  not  a  coward,'  says  Jonson,  'she  had  re- 
solved to  drink  first ';  received  the  appointment  of  Poet  Laureate, 
with  a  pension  of  a  hundred  marks,  which  was  subsequently  ad- 
vanced to  a  hundred  pounds  by  Charles  I.  His  latter  days  were 
dark  and  painful.  For  twelve  years  he  battled  with  want  and 
disease.  His  pockets  had  holes,  and  his  money  failed.  Still 
obliged  to  write  in  order  to  live,  he  wrote  when  his  pen  had  lost 
its  vigor  and  lacked  the  charm  of  novelty.  Scurvy  increased, 
paralysis  came,  and  dropsy.  In  the  epilogue  to  the  I^eic  Inn 
(1630),  he  appeals  to  tlie  audience: 

'If  you  exjject  inon;  than  you  had  to-night, 
The  maker  is  sicli  and  sad.  .  .  . 
All  that  his  faint  and  falt"ring  tongue  doth  crave. 
Is,  that  you  not  impute  it  to  his  brain. 
That's  yet  unhurt,  altho'  set  round  with  pain 
It  cannot  long  hold  out.' 

Deprived  of  Court  patronage,  he  was  forced  to  bog,  first  from 
the  Lord  Treasurer,  then  from  the  Earl  of  Newcastle.  Shattered, 
drivelling,  and  suffering,  he  died  in  August,  1637, —  alone,  served 
by  an  old  woman;  and  was  buried,  in  an  upriglit  posture,  in  the 
Poet's  Corner  of  tlio  Abbey.  A  workman,  hired  for  oigliteen 
pence  by  the  charity  of  a  passor-by,  carved  into  the  simple  stone 
over  his  grave  the  laconic  inscri])tion: 

'O  Rare  Ben  Josson!' 
Appearance. — Big  and  coarsely   framed,  of  wide  and  long 
face,  early  marred  by  scurvy,  square  jaw,  enormous  cheeks,  thick 
lips,  with  a  'mountain  belly' and  an  'ungracious  gate';   a   pon- 


446        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

derous  athlete,  of  free  and  boisterous  habits,  built  up  out  of  beef 
and  Canary  wine,  for  action  and  for  endurance.  His  life  and 
manners  were  in  harmony  with  his  person. 

W^riting^. — We  perceive  at  once  the  introduction  of  a  new 
model, —  art  subjected  strictly  to  the  laws  of  classical  compo- 
sition. The  understanding  of  the  artist  is  solid,  strong,  pene- 
trating, assertive;  his  mind,  extensively  furnished  from  expe- 
rience and  from  books;  his  memory,  retentive  and  exact,  crowded 
with  technical  details  and  learned  reminiscences.  It  is  not  for 
him  to  imitate,  but  to  be  imitated.  He  has  a  doctrine,  which  he 
expounds  with  Latin  regularity.  He  will  be  loyal  to  culture,  and 
therefore  observes  the  unities.  His  plot  shall  be  a  diagram,  the 
incidents  rapid  and  natural;  and  you  may  see  the  dramatic  effect, 
perceptible  to  every  reader,  rise  to  a  climax  by  a  continuous  and 
uniform  ascent.  You  have  seen  greater  spontaneity,  finer  sym- 
pathy, finer  fancy,  a  more  genial  spirit  of  enjoyment,  but  never 
such  preoccupation  of  rule  and  method;  above  all,  such  power  of 
working  out  an  idea  to  a  painful  and  oppressive  issue,  such  per- 
sistency of  thirst  to  unmask  folly  and  punish  vice.  A  character, 
with  him,  is  but  an  incorporated  idea, —  a  leading  feature,  conceit, 
or  passion,  produced  on  the  stage  in  a  man's  dress, — which  masters 
the  whole  nature,  and  which  the  personages  combine  to  illustrate. 
At  twenty-two,  having  exulted  in  his  own  exploits  on  the  field, 
he  writes  Eacry  Man  in  his  Humour,  to  clothe  in  flesh  and  blood 
a  colossal  coward  and  braggart, —  Bobadil,  who  swears  'by  the 
body  of  Ca3sar,'  or  'by  the  foot  of  Pharaoh,'  or,  more  ferrifically 
still,  'by  my  valor  !'  His  proposal  for  the  pacification  of  Europe 
is  famous: 

'I  will  tell  you,  sir,  by  the  way  of  i)rivatc,  and  under  seal,  I  am  a  gentleman,  and 
live  here  obscure,  and  to  myself:  but  were  I  known  to  her  majesty  and  the  lords  (ob- 
serve me),  I  would  nndertiike,  upon  this  poor  head  and  life,  for  the  public  benefit  of  the 
state,  not  only  to  spare  the  entire  lives  of  her  subjects  in  general,  but  to  save  the  on<;- 
half,  nay,  three-parls,  of  lier  yearly  charge  in  holding  war,  and  against  what  enemy 
soever.  And  how  would  I  do  it,  think  you  1  .  .  .  Why,  thus,  sir.  I  would  select  nineteen 
more,  to  myself,  througliout  the  land;  gentlemen  they  sliould  be  of  good  spirit,  strong 
and  able  constitution ;  I  would  choose  tliem  by  an  instinct,  a  character  that  I  have:  and 
I  would  teach  these  nineteen  the  special  rules, —  as  your  punto,  your  reverso,  your  stoc- 
cafa,  your  imbroccato,  your  j)assad(),  your  montanto,— till  they  could  all  i)lny  very  near, 
or  altoLrether,  as  well  as  myself.  This  done,  say  the  enemy  were  forty  thousand  strong, 
we  twenty  would  come  into  the  field  the  tenth  of  March,  or  thereabouts:  and  we  would 
cluillenge  twenty  of  the  enemy;  they  could  not  in  their  honour  refuse  us;  well,  we  would 
kill  tlu-m;  challemje  twenty  more,  kill  them;  twenty  more,  kill  them;  twenty  more,  kill 
them  too:    and  thus  wo\ild  we  kill  ivery   man  his  twenty  a  day,  that's  twenty  score; 


JONSON.  447 

twenty  score,  that's  two  hundred;  two  hundred  a  day,  five  days  a  thousand:  forty  thou- 
sand; forty  times  five,  five  times  forty,  two  hundred  days  kills  them  all  up  by  computa- 
tion. And  this  will  I  venture  my  poor  gentleman-like  carcass  to  perform,  provided  there 
be  no  treason  practiced  upon  us,  by  fair  and  discreet  manhood;  that  is,  civilly  by  the 
sword.' 

It  is  affectation  and  bluster  grown  to  egregious  excess.  So  in 
the  Alchemist,  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  in  public  and  alone,  expa- 
tiates continually  in  gigantic  fancies  of  luxury  and  sensuality. 
Hear  him  unfold  the  vision  of  splendors  and  debauchery  into 
which  he  will  plunge  when,  by  the  possession  of  the  philosopher's 
stone,  he  has  learned  to  make  gold: 

'I  assure  you 
He  that  has  once  the  flower  of  the  Sun, 
The  perfect  ruby,  which  we  call  elixir,  .  .  . 
Can  confer  honour,  love,  respect,  long  life; 
Give  safety,  valour,  yea,  and  victory. 
To  whom  he  will.    In  eight  and  twenty  days 
I'll  make  an  old  man  of  fourscore  a  child.  .  .  . 
I  will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up,  not  stuff'd: 
Down  is  loo  hard.    My  mists 
I'll  have  of  perfume,  vapored  "bout  the  room 
To  lose  ourselves  in;  and  my  baths,  like  pits. 
To  fall  into:   from  whence  we  will  come  forth, 
And  roll  us  dry  in  gossamer  and  roses.— 
Is  it  arriv'd  at  ruby? — And  my  flatterers 
Shall  be  the  pure  and  gravest  of  divines. 
And  they  shall  fan  me  with  ten  ostrich  tails 
Apiece,  made  in  a  plume  to  gather  wind. 
We  will  be  brave,  Puffe,  now  we  have  the  med'ciue 
My  meat  shall  all  come  in,  in  Indian  shells. 
Dishes  of  agate,  set  in  gold,  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies. 
The  tongues  of  carps,  dormice,  and  camel's  heels, 
Boild  in  the  spirit  of  sol,  and  dissolv'd  pearl, 
Apicius'  diet  "gainst  the  epilepsy: 
And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber. 
Headed  with  diamond  and  carbuncle. 
My  foot-boy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd  salmons. 
Knots,  godwits,  lampreys:    I  niysolf  will  have 
The  l)eards  of  barbels  serv'd,  instead  of  salads; 
Oil'd  mushrooms;  and  the  swelling,  unctuous  paps 
Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut  off, 
Dresf  urth  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce. 
For  nhich  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  "  Tliere's  gold ; 
Go  fort\  and  be  a  knight."  .  .  . 

My  shirts 
I'll  have  of  tatTota-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 
As  cobwebs;  and  for  all  my  other  raiment, 
It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 
W^ere  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew. 
My  gloves  of  fishes"  and  birds'  skins,   perfuin'd 
With  gums  of  Paradise  and  eastern  air.' 


448        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Or  the  dominant  trait  assumes  the  form  of  a  mental  eccentricity, 
bordering-  on  madness,  as  in  The  Silent  Woman.  Morose  is  an 
old  citizen  who  has  a  horror  of  noise,  but  loves  to  talk.  He  dis- 
charges his  servant  whose  shoes  creaked.  The  new  one  wears 
slippers  soled  with  wool,  and  speaks  only  in  a  whisper  through  a 
tube;  but  even  the  whisper  is  finally  forbidden,  and  he  is  made  to 
reply  by  signs.  Further,  Morose  is  rich;  and  has  a  nephew, 
witty  but  penniless,  who,  in  revenge  for  all  his  treatment,  finds 
him  a  supposed  silent  woman,  the  beautiful  Epicene.  Morose, 
enchanted  by  her  brief  replies  and  nearly  inaudible  voice,  marries 
her,  with  a  view  to  disinherit  his  nephew  who  has  laughed  at  his 
infirmity.  The  ceremony  is  no  sooner  over  tiian  she  turns  out  a 
very  shrew: 

'Why,  did  you  think  yoti  liad  married  a  statue?  or  a  motion  only?  one  of  the  French 
puppets,  with  the  eyes  turn'd  with  a  wire?  or  some  innocent  out  of  the  liospitul,  that 
would  stand  with  her  hands  thus,  and  a  playsc  mouth,  and  look  upon  you?' 

She  directs  the  valets  to  speak  louder;  opens  wide  the  doors  to 
her  friends,  who  arrive  in  troops  and  overwhelm  him  all  at  once 
with  congratulations,  questions,  and  counsels.  Here  comes  one 
with  a  band  of  music,  who  play  suddenly,  to  their  utmost  volume. 
Now  a  procession  of  menials,  with  clattering  dishes,  a  whole  tav- 
ern. Amid  the  shouts  of  revelry,  the  din  of  trumpet  and  drum. 
Morose  flees  to  the  top  of  tlie  house,  puts  '  a  whole  nest  of  night- 
caps'  on  his  head  and  stuffs  his  ears.  In  vain.  The  racket 
increases.  The  house  is  turned  into  a  thunder  factory.  '  Rogues, 
hell-hounds,  Stentors  I  .  .  .  They  have  rent  my  roof,  walls,  and 
all  my  windows  asunder  with  their  brazen  throats  ! '  Goaded  to 
desperation,  he  casts  himself  on  the  guests  witii  liis  long  sword, 
looking  like  a  maniac;  chases  the  musicians,  breaks  their  instru- 
ments, and  disperses  the  gathering  amid  indescribable  uproar. 
Afterwards,  he  is  pronounced  mad,  and  they  discuss  his  alleged 
insanity  before  him.  They  jingle  in  his  ear  most  barbarous 
words,  consider  the  books  which  he  must  read  aloud  for  his  cure, 
assure  him  tliat  his  wife  talks  in  her  sleep,  and  snores  dreadfully. 
'O,  redeem  me,  fate;  redeem  me,  fate,'  he  cries  in  his  extremity. 
'For  how  manv  causes  may  a  man  be  divorced?'  he  asks  of  his 
nephew,  who  replies,  like  a  clever  rascal,  'Allow  me  but  five 
hundred  during  life,  uncle,  and  you  are  free.'  Morose  accepts  the 
proposition  eagerly,  joyfully;  and  his  nephew  then  shows  him 
that  Epicene  is  no  woman  —  only  a  boy  in  disguise. 


JONSON.  449 

In  sensual  Venice,  queen  city  of  vices  and  of  arts,  he  finds  a 
magnificent  cheat,  and  hounds  him  to  a  merited  retribution  in 
Volpone.  Never  was  such  ignoble  lust  of  gold,  such  shameless 
artistry  in  guile,  such  debasement  to  evil  and  the  visibly  vile. 
The  fearful  picture  is  flashed  upon  us  at  the  outset,  when  Vol- 
pone says: 

'Good  morning  to  the  day,  and  next,  my  gold: 
Open  the  shrine,  that  I  may  see  my  saint  I ' 

Then; 

'  Hail  the  world's  soul,  and  mine  I  .  .  . 
O  thou  son  of  God, 
But  brighter  than  thy  father,  let  me  kiss, 
With  adoration,  thee,  and  every  relic 
Of  sacred  treasure  in  this  blessed  room ! ' 

Childless  and  without  relations,  he  has  many  flatterers  who  hope 
to  be  his  heir;  and  he  plays  the  invalid  to  encourage  their  gifts. 
First  Voltore  arrives,  bearing  a  huge  piece  of  precious  plate. 
Volpone  has  cast  himself  on  the  bed  and  buried  himself  in  wraps, 
coughing  as  if  at  the  point  of  death: 

'I  thank  you,  signior  Voltore, 
Vfhere  is  the  plate?  mine  eyes  are  bad.  .  .  .  Your  love 
Hath  taste  in  this,  and  shall  not  be  unanswered.  .  .  . 
I  cannot  now  last  long.  ...  I  feel  me  going,— 
Uh,  uh,  uh,  uh! ' 

He  is  exhausted,  his  eyes  close;  and  Voltore  inquires  of  his  para- 
site, Mosca:  'Am  I  inscribed  his  heir  for  certain?' — 

'Are  you? 
1  do  beseech  you,  sir,  you  will  vouchsafe 
To  write  me  i'  your  family.    All  my  hopes 
Depend  upon  your  worship.    I  am  lost 
Except  the  rising  sun  do  shine  on  mo. 
Vol.    It  shall  botli  shine  and  warm  you,  Mosca. 
M.  Sir, 

I  am  a  man,  that  linth  not  done  your  love 
All  the  worst  ofHces:   here  I  wear  your  keys. 
See  all  your  coffers  and  your  caskets  lockt, 
Keep  the  poor  inventory  of  your  jewels. 
Your  plate  and  moneys;   am  your  steward,  sir. 
Husband  your  goods  here. 
Vol.  But  am  I  sole  heir? 

M.    Without  a  partner,  sir,  conlirui'd  this  morning: 
The  wax  is  warm  yet,  and  the  ink  scarce  dry 
Upon  the  parchment. 
Vol.  IIap|)y,  hajjpy  mel 

By  what  good  cliance,  sweet  SIoscu? 
M.  Your  desert,  sir;  | 

I  know  no  second  cause.' 
29 


450        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

The  second  is  a  deaf  old  miser,  Corbaccio,  hobbling  on  the  verge 
of  the  grave,  yet  trusting  to  survive  Volpone,  whom  he  is  joyed 
to  find  more  ill  than  himself: 

'C    How  does  your  patron?  .  .  . 

M.  His  mouth 

Is  ever  gaping,  and  Ins  eyelids  hang. 
C.    Good. 
M.    A  freezing  numbness  stiffens  all  liis  joints, 

And  makes  the  color  of  his  flesh  like  lead. 
G.    'Tis  good. 

M.    His  pulse  beats  slow,  and  dull. 
C.  Good  symptoms  still. 

M.    And  from  his  brain— 
C.  I  conceive  you,  good. 

M.    Flows  a  cold  sweat,  witli  a  continual  rheum. 

Forth  the  resolved  corners  of  his  eyes. 
C.    Is  t  possible?    Yet  I  am  better,  ha  I 

How  does  be  witii  the  swimming  of  his  head 
M.    O,  sir,  'tis  past  the  scotomy,   he  now 

Hath  lost  his  feeling,  and  hath  left  to  snort: 

You  hardly  can  perceive  him,  tliat  he  breathes. 
C.    Excellent,  excellent,  sure  I  shall  outlast  him: 

This  makes  me  young  again,  a  score  of  years.' 

He  is  reminded  that  Voltore  has  been  here,  to  forestall  him, 
leaving  a  splendid  token  of  regard;    but: 

*  See,  Mosca.  look. 

Here,  I  have  brought  a  bag  of  bright  cecchincs. 

Will  quite  weigh  down  his  plate.  .  .  . 
M.    Now,  would  I  counsel  you,  make  home  with  speed. 

There,  frame  a  will;   whereto  you  shall  inscribe 

My  master  your  sole  heir.  .  .  . 
C.  This  plot 

Did  1  think  on  before.  .  .  . 
31.    And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him. 
6'.  I. 

M.    Being  so  lusty  a  man. 
C.  Tis  true.' 

When  he  is  gone,  Corvino,  a  merchant,  appears,  with  an  orient 
pearl  and  a  superb  diamond.     'Am  I  his  heir?' — 

'Sir,  I  am  sworn,  I  may  not  shew  the  will 
Till  he  l)e  dead:   but  here  has  been  Corbaccio, 
Here  has  been  Voltore,  here  were  others  too, 
I  cannot  number  "em,  they  were  so  many. 
All  gaping  here  for  legacies;   but  I, 
Taking  the  vantage  of  his  naming  you, 
Signior  Corvino,  SIgnior  Corvino,  took 
Paper,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  there  I  ask'd  him. 
Whom  he  would  have  his  heir?    Corvino.    Who 
*  Should  be  executor?    Corvino.     And, 

To  any  question  he  was  silent  to, 
I  still  interpreted  the  nods  he  made 


JONSON.  451 

(Through  weakness)  for  consent:  and  sent  home  th'  others. 
Nothing  bequeath'd  them,  but  to  cry  and  curse. 
Cor.    O  my  dear  Moscal' 

Presently  he  departs;  and  Volpone,  springing  up,  cries  in  rap- 
tures : 

'My  divine  Mosca! 
Thou  hast  to-day  outgone  thyself.  .  .  .  Prepare 
Me  music,  dances,  banquets,  all  delights; 
The  Turk  is  not  more  sensual  in  his  pleasures, 
Than  will  Volpone.' 

He  is  accused,  before  the  tribunal,  of  imposture  and  rape;  and 
the  would-be  heirs  defend  him  with  an  incredible  energy  of  lying 
and  open  villainy.  Then  he  writes  a  will  in  Mosca's  favor,  has 
his  death  reported,  conceals  himself,  and  enjoys  the  looks  of 
those  who  have  just  saved  him,  now  stupefied  with  disappoint- 
ment. Now  is  Mosca's  moment.  He  has  the  will,  and  demands 
of  Volpone  half  his  fortune.  Their  dispute  exposes  the  common 
rascality.  The  arch  villain  has  outwitted  himself,  and  all  are 
sent  to  the  pillory. 

The  best  testimony  to  his  imagination  is  The  Sad  Shepherd^ 
an  unfinished  pastoral  drama,  more  poetical  than  dramatic,  with 
nothing  low  in  the  comic  and  nothing  inflated  in  the  serious.  It 
were  not  easy  to  surpass  the  charm  of  the  opening  lines: 

'Here  she  was  wont  to  go!   and  here  I   and  herel 
Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks  and  violets  grow: 
The  world  may  find  the  Spring  by  following  her; 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left: 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass. 
Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk! 
But  like  the  soft  west-wind  she  shot  along. 
And  where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 
As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot  I ' 

And  where  should  Ave  look  for  a  more  masterly  delineation  of 
that  sorceress  of  evil,  the  witch?  — 

'Within  a  gloomy  dimble  she  doth  dwell, 
Down  in  a  pit,  o'ergrown  witli  brakes  and  briars 
Cloxe  by  the  ruins  of  a  shaken  abbey. 
Torn  with  an  earthquake  down  unio  the  ground, 
'Mongst  graves  and  grots,  near  an  old  charnel-house,  .  .  . 

Where  the  sad  mandrake  grows, 
Whose  groans  are  dreadful:  and  dead-numbing  night-shade. 
The  stupefying  hemlock,  adder's  tongue. 
And  uiartagan:  the  shrieks  of  luckless  owls 
We  hear,  and  croaking  night-crows  in  the  air! 
Green-bellied  snakes,  blue  fire-drakes  in  the  sky. 
And  giddy  flitter-mice  with  leather  wings  I 
The  scaly  beetles,  witli  tlieir  habergeons, 


452        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

That  make  a  humming  murmur  as  (hey  fly! 

There  in  iht  stocks  of  trees,  while  fairies  do  dwell. 

And  span-long  elves  that  dance  about  a  pool. 

With  each  a  little  changeling  in  their  arms! 

The  airy  spirits  play  with  falling  stars, 

And  mount  the  spheres  of  tire  to  kiss  the  moon! 

While  she  sits  reading  by  the  glow-worm's  light. 

Or  rotten  ivood  o'er  which  the  norm  hath  crept. 

The  baneful  gchedule  of  her  nocent  charms.' 

Jonson's  fame  rests  chiefly  on  liis  comedies,  whicli  constitute 
by  far  the  largest  part  of  his  work.  His  tragedies  are  men-of- 
war,  stately  and  heav}-.  Scjanus  is  distinguished  by  sustained 
depth  of  knowledge  and  gravity  of  expression.  But  more  than 
once,  in  this  and  in  Cataline,  nature  forces  its  way  through 
pedantry  and  erudition.     Cataline's  imprecation  is  fine: 

'It  is  decreed!    Xor  shall  thy  fate,  O  Rome! 
Resist  my  vow.    Though  hills  were  set  on  hills. 
And  seus  met  seas,  to  guard  thee,  1  would  through: 
I'd  plough  up  rocks,  steep  as  the  Alps,  in  dust. 
And  lave  the  Tyrrhene  waters  into  clouds, 
But  I  would  reach  thy  head,  thy  head,  proud  city!' 

The  description  of  the  morning  on  which  the  conspirators  meet, 
is  powerful  and  dramatic: 

'It  is,  inethinks,  a  morning  full  of  fate! 
She  riselh  slowly,  as  her  sullen  car 
IIiul  all  the  weiglits  of  sleep  and  death  hung  at  it. 
She  is  not  rosy-fmgered,  but  swoll'n  l)lack! 
Her  face  is  like  a  water  turned  to  blood, 
And  her  sick  head  is  bound  about  with  clouds 
As  if  she  threatened  night  ere  noon  of  day!' 

The  following  is  vivid  and  impressive: 

'The  rugged  Charon  fainted, 
And  asked  a  navy  rather  than  a  boat, 
To  ferry  over  the  sad  world  that  came. 
The  maws  and  dens  of  beasts  could  not  receive 
The  bodies  that  those  souls  were  frighted  from; 
And  e'en  the  graves  were  fill'd  with  men  yet  living. 
Whose  tliglit  and  fear  had  mix'd  them  with  the  dead.' 

.Jonson  should  have  written  an  epic. 

Style. — Massive,  orudite,  concise,  compact,  equipoised,  rotund; 
in  a  word,  classic.  As  literal  as  ShakosjieareVs  is  figurative;  as 
studied  as  Sliakesp(>are's  is  intuitive  and  unrestrained.  His  adver- 
saries assortf'd  that  (>vcrv  hiic  cost  him  a  cup  of  .sack.  Tii  ])rose, 
terse,  sliarp,  swift,  biting.  In  versification,  ]ieculiarly  smooth  and 
flowing;  for  this  literary  leviathan,  it  strangely  appears,  has  emi- 
nently the   merits  of  elegance  and  grace.      What,   for  example,. 


JONSON.  453 

could  be  more  lightsome  and  airy,  more  artistic,  than  the  procla- 
mation of  the  Graces,  when  Venus  has  lost  her  son  Cupid?  — 

'Beauties,  have  you  seen  this  toy.  And  his  breath  a  flame  entire. 

Called  Love,  a  little  boy.  That,  being  shot  like  lightning  in. 

Almost  naked,  wanton,  blind,  Wounds  the  heart,  but  not  the  skin. 
Cruel  now,  and  then  as  kind? 

If  he  be  amongt^t  ye,  say;  At  his  sight  the  sun  hath  turned; 

He  is  Venus'  runaway.  Neptune  in  the  waters  burned; 

Hell  hath  felt  a  greater  heat; 

She  that  will  but  now  discover  Jove  himself  forsook  his  seat; 

Where  the  winged  wag  doth  hover.  From  the  centre  to  the  sky 

Shall  to-night  receive  a  kiss.  Are  his  trophies  reared  high. 
How  or  where  herself  would  wish; 

But  who  brings  liim  to  his  mother  Wings  he  hath,  which  though  ye  clip. 

Shall  have  that  kiss,  and  another.  He  will  leap  from  iij)  to  lip, 

Over  liver,  lights,  and  heart. 

He  hatli  marks  about  him  plenty;  But  not  stay  in  any  part; 

You  shall  know  him  among  twenty.  And  if  chance  his  arrow  misses. 

All  his  body  is  a  fire.  He  will  shoot  himself  in  kisses.' 

Rank*  —  In   the  cluster  of  poets  who  sing  the   meditative, 

aspiring,  and  romantic  life  of  the  period,  Jonson  is  a  soloist;  next 

to  Shakespeare,  a  leader, —  a  leader  by  profundity  of  knowledge 

and  vigor  of  conception,  by  the  dash  of  the  torrent  and  the  force 

of  the  flood.     Above  all,  has  he  the  art  of  development,  the  habit 

of  Latin  regularity.     For  the  first  time,  a  plot  is  a  symmetrical 

whole,  advancing  by  consecutive  deductions;  having  a  beginning, 

middle,  and   end,  its   subordinate   actions  well   ordered,  and   its 

leading  truth  which  they  combine  to  elucidate  and  establish.     He 

is  persuaded  tliat  he  ought  to  observe  the  severity  and  accuracy 

of  the  ancients;  not,  in  the  same  play, — 

'Make  a  child  new-swaddled,  to  proceed 
!Man,  and  then  shoot  up,  in  one  l)eard  and  weed. 
Past  threescore  years;   or  with  three  rusty  swords, 
And  help  of  some  few  foot  and  half- foot  words, 
Figlit  over  York  and  Lancaster's  long  jars." 

But  in  this  full  attainment  of  form,  he  fails  in  completeness  of 
life.  He  is  too  much  of  a  theorist,  too  little  of  a  seer.  Given  a 
peculiarity,  he  can  work  it  out  with  logical  e.xactness  and  real- 
istic intensity.  That  is,  he  delineates  absorbing  singularities 
rather  than  persons.  .He  thus  inverts  the  true  process  of  char- 
acterization, which  conceives  the  'hinnour'  as  an  offshoot  of  the 
individual.  He  is  English  merely,  where  Shakespeare  is  cosmo- 
politati.  He  is  too  ponderous  and  argumentative.  His  jilots, 
admirable  of  thoir  kind,  are  external  contrivances  of  the  undt-r- 
standino;     rather    than    interior    or<ranisins    of    the    imao-inative 


454        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

insight.  Depth  of  passion  and  winning  tenderness  are  wanting. 
The  energy  which  should  be  vital  too  often  becomes  mechanical. 
His  point  of  view  is  usually  or  always  that  of  the  satirist: 

'  My  strict  hand 
Was  made  to  seize  on  vice,  and  with  a  gripe 
Squeeze  out  the  humour  of  such  spongy  natures, 
As  lick  up  every  idle  vanity.' 

And  thus,  even  in  the  lower  levels  of  cornedy,  where  he  is  most 
at  home,  the  critic  frequently,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  mars 
the  artist.  Neither  he  nor  the  reader  forgets  himself.  The  pro- 
cess is  seen,  the  intention  is  felt.  Calculation  strips  him  of  that 
delicate  and  easy -flowing  imitation  which  begets  hallucination. 
Still,  if  unable  to  construct  characters,  variety  of  learning, 
clearness  of  mind,  and  energy  of  soul,  suffice  to  depict  English 
manners  and  to  render  vice  visible  and  odious.  But  he  is  loftier 
from  another  side.  We  have  seen  how  charming,  how  elegant 
and  refined,  this  same  war-elephant  may  be  when  he  enters  the 
domain  of  pure  poetry;  as  in  the  polished  songs  and  other  lyrical 
pieces  sprinkled  over  his  dramas,  in  the  beautiful  dream  of  the 
Shepherd,  or  the  courtly  JIasques,  which  display  the  whole  mag- 
nificence of  the  English  Renaissance.  His  inequality  —  great 
excellences  offset  by  great  defects  —  is  in  strong  contrast  with 
the  unebbing  fulness  and  amplitude  of  the  creative  Shake- 
speare. Nevertheless,  in  his  field,  in  his  (jenxis  of  the  drama,  he 
stands  on  the  summit  of  his  hill. 

Character. — The  most  obvious  qualities  of  his  intellectual 
nature  are  weight  and  force;  of  his  spiritual  nature,  earnestness 
and  courage.  In  the  classics,  accurate  and  thorough;  and  on 
every  subject,  atiiirst.  He  is  said  to  have  carried  books  in  his 
pocket  while  working  at  his  trade,  in  order,  during  leisure  mo- 
ments, to  refresh  his  memory  upon  favorite  passages  in  the  Latin 
and  Greek  pof'ts.      In  method,  he  was  careful  and  precise: 

'For  a  man  to  write  well,  there  are  required  three  necessaries: — to  read  the  hest 
authors;  observe  the  host  speakers;  and  much  exercise  of  his  own  style.  In  style,  to 
consider  what  ousjlit  to  be  written,  and  after  what  manner;  he  must  first  think,  and 
excogitate  his  matter:  then  ctiooso  liis  words,  and  examine  tlie  weight  of  eitlicr.  Then 
take  care  in  placing  and  runkini:  hotli  matter  and  words,  that  the  composition  be  comely; 
and  to  do  this  witli  diligence  and  often.  Xo  matter  how  slow  the  style  be  at  first,  so  it 
be  labored  ami  accurate:  seek  the  best,  and  be  not  L'bid  of  tlie  forward  conceits,  or  first 
words  that  offer  themselves  to  us.  lint  judge  of  wliat  we  invent,  and  order  wliat  we 
approve.' 


JONSON.  455 

He  had  moral  loftiness.  *  Of  all  styles,'  he  said,  *  he  most  loved 
to  be  named  Honest.'  To  this  add  resolute  self-assertion.  The 
stage  was  to  be  improved  and  exalted.  He  would  guide,  not 
follow,  the  popular  taste.     Judge  of  his  energy  and  purpose: 

'With  an  armed  and  resolved  hand, 
I'll  strip  the  ragged  follies  of  the  time 
Naked  as  at  their  birth,  .  .  . 

And  with  a  whip  of  steel, 
Print  wounding  lashes  in  their  iron  ribs. 
,    1  fear  no  mood  stampt  in  a  private  brow. 
When  I  am  pleas"d  t'  unmask  a  public  vice. 
I  fear  no  strumpet's  drugs,  nor  ruffian's  stab. 
Should  I  detect  their  hateful  luxuries.' 

He  writes  correspondently, —  as  if  with  his  fist.  Conscience  and 
vigor,  aided  by  an  intrepid  self-confidence,  commanded  esteem, 
even  veneration;  his  hard-won  position  strengthened  his  natural 
pride;  and  consciousness  of  power,  with  a  severe  sense  of  duty, 
rendered  him  censorious,  magisterial.  He  thought  Donne,  '  for 
not  keeping  of  accent,  deserved  hanging';  and  Decker  was  a 
rogue.  He  could  instruct  even  Shakespeare.  At  the  Mermaid, 
he  was  self-constituted  autocrat.  His  hearers  were  schoolboys. 
While  other  dramatists  said  to  the  audience,  '  Please  to  applaud 
this,'  Ben  said,  'Now  you  fools,  we  shall  see  if  you  have  sense 
enough  to  applaud  this ! "  Egotistical,  overbearing,  of  sour 
aspect,  he  was  frank,  social,  generous,  even  prodigal.  To  the  last 
he  retained  the  riotous,  defiant  color  of  the  brilliant  dramatic 
world  through  which  he  fought  his  way.  Like  the  rest,  he  lived 
freely,  liberally,  and  saw  the  ins  and  the  outs  of  lust.  Drink, 
always  a  luxury,  became  his  necessity.  He  was  a  frequent  visitor 
of  the  Apollo,  a  club  in  the  Old  Devil  Tavern;  wrote  rules  for 
it, —  Leges  Conviinales;  and  penned  a  welcome  over  the  door  to 
all  who  approved  the  'true  Phabian  liquor.' 

In  a  general  view,  he  presents  a  singular  antithesis, —  a  rugged, 
gross,  and  combative  aspect,  wliich  is  the  ordinary  one,  and  a 
fanciful,  serene  aspect,  which  is  exceptional  and  separate,  occu- 
pying, so  to  speak,  a  secluded  corner  in  the  general  largeness. 
It  might  seem  surprising  that  the  burly  giant  could  become  so 
gracefully  petit  as  he  appears  in  previous  quotations,  and,  pre- 
eminently in  the  following  lightly  tripping  strophe: 

'Have  yon  ^een  but  a  brip;ht  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 

1  Whipple. 


456        PHILOSOPHIC   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o"  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 
Have  j'ou  felt  the  wool  of  beaver? 

Or  swan's  down  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o"  the  bud  o'  the  briar? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  Are? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 
O  so  white,—  O  so  soft,—  O  so  sweet  is  she  I ' 

Influence. — It  is  believed  that  his  social  position  was  supe- 
rior to  Shakespeare's.  With  royalty  he  was  familiar,  Elizabeth 
and  James  admired  and  employed  liim.  His  society  was  courted 
by  the  time-worn  and  the  youthful;  and  by  an  inner  circle  of 
devotees  he  was  venerated.  In  his  declining  days,  he  was  the 
acknowledged  chief  of  his  art,  and  during  the  Restoration  his 
reputation  as  a  critic  was  still  second  to  none.  In  his  own  age, 
his  power  was  similar  to  that  of  his  massive  namesake,  Samuel 
Johnson,  in  the  succeeding  century.  Swift  was  to  find  sugges- 
tions in  his  Tale  of  the  Tub.  Milton  was  to  go  to  his  masques 
and  odes  for  some  of  the  elegancies  of  his  own  dignified  muse. 
Dryden  was  to  think,  erroneously,  'He  did  a  little  too  much 
Romanize  our  tongue.'  For  reasons  given,  his  readers  are  now, 
unhappily  and  unworthily,  relatively  few;  but,  as  his  good  parts 
are  enduring  and  imperishable,  no  fame  is  more  secure. 

To  every  soul  that  is  taxed,  to  every  youth  that  resolves  to 
be  eminent,  he  brings  the  assurance  that  manly  resistance  sub- 
dues the  opposition  of  the  world;  the  resolution  to  surmount  an 
obstacle  reduces  it  one  half;  before  a  fearless  step,  foes  will  slink 
away;  around  perseverance  the  Graces  collect,  and  at  its  bidding 
the  laurel  comes. 


LORD    BxVCON. 

Who  i?  there  that  upon  hearing  the  name  of  Lord  Bacon  docs  not  instantly  recognize 
everything  of  genius  the  most  profound,  everything  of  literature  the  most  extensive, 
everything  of  discovery  the  most  penetrating,  everything  of  observation  of  human  life 
the  most  distinguishing  and  refined? — Burke. 

Biography. — Born  in  London,  in  1501;  his  father,  Sir  Nich- 
olas, one  of  I'jlizabeth's  most  sagacious  statesmen;  his  mother, 
the  learned  daughter  of  Sir  Anthony  Cooke;  received  his  early 
education   under   his   mother's  eye,  mixed   freely  with   the  wise 


LORD   BACON.  457 

and  great  who  were  visitors  at  his  home;  at  thirteen,  entered 
Cambridge  University,  where  his  deepest  impressions  became  an 
inveterate  scorn  for  Aristotle  and  his  followers;  left  before  he 
was  sixteen,  without  taking  a  degree,  and  was  sent  to  France  as 
an  attache  of  the  English  ambassador,  to  learn  the  arts  of  state- 
craft; designed  to  stay  some  years  abroad,  and  was  studying 
assiduously  when  his  father's  sudden  death  recalled  him,  making 
it  incumbent  'to  think  how  to  live,  instead  of  living  only  to 
think';  applied  for  office,  but  his  abilities  were  too  splendid,  and 
a  jealous  uncle  'suppressed'  him;  took  to  law,  and  soon  rose  to 
eminence;  at  twenty-four,  obtained  a  seat  in  the  Commons;  was 
appointed  by  the  queen  her  counsel  extraordinary,  but,  owing  to 
the  secret  opposition  of  his  kinsman,  was  not  immediately  raised 
to  any  office  of  emolument;  loved  but  lost  a  rich  young  widow, 
and  at  forty-five  married  a  fair  young  bride;  steadily  advanced 
in  fortune  after  the  accession  of  James,  till  he  reached  the  post 
to  which  he  had  long  aspired  —  Lord  High  Chancellor;  was 
accused  of  accepting  bribes  in  his  official  capacity,  was  rudely 
stripped  of  all  his  dignities,  sentenced  to  the  Tower  during  the 
king's  pleasure,  and  heavily  fined;  was  restored  to  liberty  within 
forty-eight  hours,  with  a  remission  of  his  fine,  but  permitted  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  penury,  obscurity,  and  disgrace, 
hunted  by  creditors  and  vexed  by  domestic  disquiet;  died  after 
five  years  of  dishonor,  in  consequence  of  a  cold  induced  by  an 
open-air  experiment,  on  a  snowy  day,  to  ascertain  whether  llesh 
might  not  be  preserved  in  snow  as  well  as  in  salt;  consoled,  in 
his  last  hours,  by  the  reflection  that  'the  experiment  succeeded 
excellently  well.' 

Intellectual  Scheme. — With  a  just  scorn  for  the  trifles 
which  were  occupying  the  followers  of  Aristotle,  Bacon  early 
conceived  the  dream  of  converting  knowledge  from  a  speculative 
waste  into  'a  rich  storehouse  for  the  glory  of  the  Creator  and  the 
relief  of  man's  estate.'  It  was  the  supreme  effort  of  his  life  to 
embody  this  grand  conception  in  the  Instauratio  Ma;/)ia  —  the 
renewal  of  Science  —  the  Restoration,  to  man,  of  the  empire  of 
nature.  The  vast  plan,  for  which  many  lives  would  not  have  suf- 
ficed, consisted,  in  its  final  form,  of  six  divisions: 

1.  A  survey  of  the  sciences,  a  summarv  of  all  the  possessions 
of  the  human  mind,  comprehending  'not  only  the  things  already 


458        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

inventetl  and  known,  but  also  those  omitted  and  wanted.'  Here 
occurs  the  famous  but  inadequate  distribution  of  learning  into 
History,  which  uses  the  memory;  Poetry,  which  employs  the 
imagination;  and  Philosophy,  which  requires  the  reason.  Here, 
in  particular,  occurs  the  short  but  beautiful  paragraph  which 
exhausts  everything  yet  offered  on  the  subject  of  the  beau  ideal: 

'Therefore  because  the  acts  or  wants  of  true  history  have  not  that  magnitude  which 
satisfietli  the  mind  of  man,  poesy  feigneth  acts  and  events  greater  and  more  heroical; 
because  true  history  i)ropoundcth  the  successes  and  issues  of  actions,  not  so  agreeable 
to  the  merits  of  virtue  and  vice,  therefore  ))oesy  feigns  thenl  more  just  in  retribution, 
and  more  according  to  revealed  Providence;  because  true  history  representeth  actions 
and  events  more  ordinary  and  less  interchanged,  therefore  poesy  indueth  them  with  more 
rareness,  and  more  unexpected  and  alternative  variations.  .  .  .  And  therefore  it  was 
ever  thought  to  have  some  i)articipation  of  divineness,  because  it  doth  raise  and  erect 
the  mind  by  submitting  the  show  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind.' 

2.  Precepts  for  the  interpretation  of  nature;  'the  science  of  a 
better  and  more  perfect  use  of  reason  in  the  investigation  of 
things,  and  of  the  true  aids  of  the  understanding';  *a  kind  of 
logic,  .  .  .  differing  from  the  common  logic  ...  in  three 
respects, —  the  end,  the  order  of  demonstrating,  and  the  grounds 
of  inquiry.'  This,  which  is  but  a  fragment  of  what  he  had  prom- 
ised, is  known  as  the  Xoviira  Oryanum,  the  most  admirable  of 
his  books,  and  the  chief  foundation  of  his  fame.  Its  first  por- 
tion enumerates  the  causes  of  error,  the  illusions  to  which  man 
is  subject: 

Idols  of  the  Tribe,  to  which  all  by  common  infirmity  are  liable; 

Idols  of  the  Pen,  such  as  are  peculiar  to  individuals; 

Idols  of  the  Forum,  such  as  arise  from  the  current  usage  of 
words; 

Idols  of  the  Theatre,  springing  from  Partisanship,  Fashion, 
and  Authority. 

Its  second  portion  describes  and  exemplifies  the  rules  for  con- 
ducting investigations. 

3.  An  extensive  collection  of  facts  and  observations, —  the 
Knt>ir<d  History  of  any  desired  class  of  phenomena, —  an  im- 
mense chart  of  nature,  furnishing  the  raw  material  for  the  appli- 
cation of  the  new  method.  But,  in  fact,  an  outline  of  the  field 
to  be  explored,  rather  than  an  exploration;  a  sketch  of  what  he 
would  do:  as,  for  instance,  a  complete  account  of  comets,  of  me- 
teors, of  winds,  of  rain,  hail,  snow;  the  facts  to  be  accurately 
related  and   distinctly  arranged;  their  authenticity  diligently  ex- 


LORD    BACON.  459 

amined;   those  that  rest  on  doubtful   evidence,  to  be  noted  as 
uncertain,  with  the  grounds  of  the  judgment  so  formed. 

4.  A  scale  of  the  intellect  —  a  ladder  of  the  understanding  — 
illustrations  of  the  mind's  gradual  ascent  from  phenomena  to 
principles, — '  not  such  examples  as  we  subjoin  to  the  several 
rules  of  our  method,  but  types  and  models,  which  place  before 
our  eyes  the  entire  process  of  the  mind  in  the  discovery  of  truth, 
selecting  various  and  remarkable  instances.'  Only  a  few  intro- 
ductory pages,  however,  are  contributed. 

5.  Specimens  of  the  perfect  system  which  he  hoped  to  erect, 
—  provisional  anticipations  of  the  whole,  'hereafter  to  be  veri- 
fied,'—  a  sort  of  scaffolding,  to  be  of  use  only  till  the  building  is 
finished, — '  the  payment  of  interest  till  the  principal  could  be 
raised.' 

6.  Science  in  practice  —  the  new  philosophy  —  the  magnificent 
birth.  'To  this  all  the  rest  are  subservient, —  to  lay  down  that 
philosophy  which  shall  flow  from  the  just,  pure,  and  strict  inquiry 
hitherto  proposed.'  But,  'to  perfect  this  is  beyond  both  our 
abilities  and  our  hopes;  yet  we  shall  lay  the  foundations  of  it, 
and  recommend  the  superstructure  to  posterity.''  'Such,'  in  the 
language  of  Hallani,  'was  the  temple  which  Bacon  saw  in  vision 
before  him:  the  stately  front  and  decorated  pediments,  in  all 
their  breadth  of  light  and  harmony  of  proportion;  while  long 
vistas  of  receding  columns  and  glimpses  of  internal  splendor 
revealed  a  glory  that  it  was  not  permitted  him  to  comprehend.' 
The  world  we  move  in,  is  not  the  world  we  think.  Only  the 
latter  sets  aside  disturbances,  defects,  and  limitations.  There,  at 
least,  the  seamless  heaven  is  attainable.  To  the  consummation 
which  flees  before  him  as  the  shadow  of  his  achievement,  he 
gives  'local  habitation'  in  the  N'ew  Atlantis,  a  philosophical 
romance,  in  which,  with  a  poet's  boldness  and  a  seer's  precision, 
he  describes,  with  almost  literal  exactness,  modern  arts,  acade- 
mies, observatories,  air-balloons,  submarine  vessels,  discovery  of 
remedies,  preservation  of  food,  transmutation  of  species,  and 
whatever  prodigies  cannot  be  proved  to  li(^  beyond  the  mighty 
magic  of  time.  Here  is  a  college  worthy  of  the  name,  Solo- 
mon's House,  'the  end  of  whose  foundation  is  the  knowledge  of 
causes  and  tlie  secret  motions  of  things,  and  the  enlarging  of  tli<^ 
bounds  of  human  empire  to  the  effecting  of  all  things  possible.' 


460        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

TTiB  Motive. — The  intense  conviction  that  knowledge,  in  its 
existing  state,  was  barren  of  practical  results, —  a  waste  wilder- 
ness in  which  successive  generations  had  been  moving  without 
advancing.  He  would  propose  as  the  end  of  thought,  fruit — the 
discovery  of  useful  truth  —  victory  over  nature,  not  victory  in 
controversy.  He  would  lead  men  out  of  a  sterile  desert,  with  its 
deceitful  mirage,  into  a  fertile  country,  with  its  ample  pastures 
and  abiding  cities: 

'  Is  there  any  such  happiness  as  for  a  man's  mind  to  be  raised  above  the  confusion  of 
things,  where  he  may  have  the  prospect  of  the  order  of  nature  and  error  of  man?  But  is 
this  a  view  of  delight  only  and  not  of  discovery?  of  contentment  and  not  of  benefit? 
Shall  he  not  as  well  discern  the  riches  of  nature's  warehouse  as  the  beauty  of  her  shop? 
Is  truth  ever  barren?  Shall  he  not  be  able  thereby  to  produce  worthy  effects,  and  to 
endow  the  life  of  man  with  infinite  commodities?' 

His  Method. — A  different  point  of  arrival  requires  a  differ- 
ent path  of  travel.  To  change  the  goal  is  to  transform  the 
method.  *  It  would  be  an  unsound  fancy,  and  self-contradictory, 
to  expect  that  things  which  have  never  yet  been  done  can  be  done 
except  by  means  which  have  never  yet  been  tried.'  The  syllogists 
had  fashioned  nature  according  to  preconceived  ideas,  starting 
from  axioms  not  accurately  obtained,  and  caring  more  for  an 
opinion  than  for  a  truth.     But: 

'  Syllogism  consists  of  propositions,  propositions  of  words,  and  words  are  the  signs  of 
notions:  therefore,  if  our  notions,  the  basis  of  all,  are  confused,  and  over-hastUy  taken 
from  things,  nothing  that  is  built  upon  them  can  be  firm ;  wiMice  our  only  hope  rests  upon 
genuine  Induction.^ 

Not,  however,  the  perfect  induction  which  would  reason  that 
what  we  can  prove  of  a,  b,  c,  and  d  separately,  we  may  properly 
state  as  true  of  ff,  the  whole;  nor  exactly  the  partial  induction 
which  would  argue  that  what  is  believed  true  of  three  of  the 
species,  is  to  be  believed  as  true  likewise  of  the  fourth,  and 
hence  of  the  genus:  but  a  (jraduated  system  of  helps,  by  the  use 
of  which  an  ordinary  mind,  when  started  on  the  right  road,  might 
proceed,  through  successive  stages  of  generality,  icith  unerring 
and  mechanical  certainty,  to  the  vision  of  fruitful  principles. 
Thus,  for  every  general  effect,  as  heat,  we  must  seek  a  general 
condition,  so  that  in  producing  the  condition  we  may  produce 
the  effect.  If  we  find  by  long  and  continued  experience  that  the 
second  uniformly  succeeds  the  first,  we  may  conclude,  with  a  high 
degree  of  probalMlity,  that  the  connection  between  them  is  neces- 
sarv.     But,   says  Bacon,   there   is   a   shorter  way   to   the   result. 


LORD   BACON.  461 

From  the  copious  Natural  History  which  I  contemplate,  make 
out  as  complete  and  accurate  an  account  of  the  facts  connected 
with  the  subject  of  inquiry,  as  possible;  select,  compare,  and 
scrutinize  these  according  to  the  rules  stated  in  the  second  book 
of  my  Organum,  and  by  the  same  rules  conduct  your  experi- 
ments, if  experiments  are  admissible:  that  is,  you  are  to  construct 
the  table  of  causes  from  which  the  effect  is  absent,  the  table 
where  it  is  present,  and  the  table  where  it  is  shown  in  various 
degrees;  then,  'hy  Jit  rejections  and  exclusions,^  extract  the  con- 
dition sought.  Light,  for  example,  is  denied  to  be  the  cause  or 
form  of  heat,  because  light  is  found  to  be  present  in  the  instance 
of  the  moon's  rays,  while  heat  is  absent. 

Thus  philosophy  resembles  a  compass,  with  whose  aid  the 
novice  can  draw  a  better  circle  or  line  than  the  expert  can  pro- 
duce without  it. 

Its  Spirit. — A  curious  piece  of  machinery,  you  will  say,  very 
subtle,  very  elaborate,  very  ingenious.  You  will  suspect,  also, 
that  nothing  has  been  accomplished  by  it;  that  it  has  solved  no 
problems.  True,  but  its  merit  lies  in  the  general  advice  which 
developed  it,  in  the  wise  and  eminently  scientific  spirit  which 
pervades  it.  To  pluck  a  few  illustrations  from  his  string  of 
aphorisms: 

'Man.  the  minister  and  interpreter  of  Nature,  can  act  and  understand  in  as  far  as 
he  has,  either  in  fact  or  in  tliou<?ht,  obs^erved  the  order  of  Nature;  more  he  can  neither 
know  nor  do.' 

'Tlio  real  cause  and  root  of  almost  all  the  evils  in  science  is  this:  that,  falsely  mag- 
nifying and  extolling  the  powerst  of  the  mind,  we  seelc  not  its  real  helps.' 

'The  human  understanding  is  like  an  unequal  mirror  to  the  rays  of  things,  wliich, 
mixing  its  own  nature  with  the  nature  of  things,  distorts  and  perverts  them.' 

'The  understanding,  when  left  to  itself,  takes  the  first  of  these  ways;  for  tlie  mind 
delights  in  springing  up  to  the  tnost  general  axioms,  that  it  may , find  rest;  but  after  a 
short  stay  tliere,  it  disdains  e.rpe/'ience,  and  these  mischiefs  are  at  length  increased  by 
logic,  for  the  ostentation  of  disputes.' 

For  the  first  time,  Science^  is  sundered  from  Metajihysics 
and  Theology,  and  Physics  is  constituted  'the  iiiotlior  of  all  the 
sciences.'  This  is  emmently  jjosifire,  and  hence  eiitiroly  modern. 
Nothing  could  be  more  thoroughly  opposed  to  antiquity: 

'  The  opinion  which  men  entertain  of  antiquity  is  a  very  idle  thing,  atul  aliniwt  incon- 
gruous to  the  word;  for  the  old  age  and  length  of  days  of  the  world  should  in  reality  be 
accounted  antiquity,  and  ought  to  be  attributed  to  our  own  times,  imt  to  the  youth  of  the 
world  which  it  enjoyed  among  the  ancients;  for  that  aire,  thouLrh  witli  re^pect  to  us  it  be 
ancient  and  greater,  yet  with  regard  to  the  world  it  was  new  and  less.' 


462        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Whence  can  arise  the  sterility  of  the  physical  systems  hitherto 
in  vogue  ? — 

'  It  is  not,  certainly,  from  any  thing  in  nature  itself;  for  the  steadiness  and  regularity 
of  the  laws  by  which  it  is  governed,  clearly  mark  them  out  as  objects  of  precise  and  certain 
knowledge.' 

Nor  from  the  want  of  talent,  but  from  '  the  perverseness  and  in- 
sufficiency of  the  methods  which  have  been  pursued': 

'  Men  have  sought  to  make  a  world  from  their  own  conceptions,  and  to  draw  from 
their  own  minds  all  the  materials  which  they  employed;  but  if,  instead  of  doing  so,  they 
had  consulted  experience  and  observation,  they  would  have  had /arf«.' 

But: 

'As  things  are  at  present  conducted,  a  sudden  transition  is  made  from  sensible 
objects  and  particular  facts  to  general  propositions,  which  are  accounted  principles,  and 
round  which,  as  round  so  many  fixed  poles,  disputation  and  argument  continually 
revolve." 

Quite  the  reverse  is  the  way  that  promises  success: 

'It  requires  that  we  should  generalize  slowly,  going  from  particular  things  to  those 
that  are  but  one  step  more  general ;  from  those  to  those  of  still  greater  extent,  and  so  on 
to  such  as  are  universal.  By  such  means  we  may  hope  to  arrive  at  principles,  not  vague 
and  obscure,  but  luminous  and  well-defined,  such  as  Nature  herself  will  not  refuse  to 
acknowledge.' 

Its  Novelty. — It  is  already  apparent  that  Bacon  understood 
his  method  to  be  original,  though  he  admits  that  Plato  had  used 
a  method  somewhat  akin  to  his  own: 

'The  induction  which  is  to  be  available  for  the  discovery  and  demonstration  of  sci- 
«nces  and  art  must  analyse  nature  by  jjroper  rejections  and  exclusions;  and  then,  after 
a  sufficient  number  of  negatives,  come  to  a  conclusion  on  tlio  affirmative  instances, 
■which  has  not  jet  been  done,  or  even  attempted,  save  only  by  Plato." 

Induction,  as  such,  had  been  defined  by  Aristotle,  though  he 
seems  to  have  regarded  it  as  less  important  than  the  syllogism. 
Roger  Bacon  had  insisted  on  experience  as  the  truest  guide.  At 
this  very  moment,  it  was  being  employed  on  the  Continent,  nota- 
bly by  Galileo,  in  whose  dialogues  the  Aristotelian  disputant  fre- 
quently appeals  to  observation  and  experiment.  It  was  latent  in 
the  tendencies  of  the  age, —  as  the  steam-engine  was  latent  in 
the  tendencies  of  the  age  of  Watt.  But  (1)  no  one  till  now  had 
coordinated  into  a  compact  body  of  doctrine  all  tiie  elements  of 
the  Inductive  Method,  nor  (2)  had  any  one  even  attempted  that 
part  in  which  the  author  took  most  pride, —  the  process  of  exclu- 
sion or  rejection.' 

'Mr.  Macaulay  is  correct  when  he  says:  'The  inductive  method  has  been  practised 
ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  world  by  every  human  being.  It  is  constantly  practised 
by  the  most  ignorant  clown."     He  is  egregiously  i/icorrect  when  he  adds  that  'everybody 


LORD    BACON.  463 

Its  Utility.  —  Nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  that  the 
inductive  sciences  have  not  followed  it.  No  great  physicist  has 
used  it.  No  important  discovery  has  been  effected  by  it.  It  has 
no  present  intrinsic  value.  It  has  long  been  superseded  by  a 
better.  It  can  be  made  applicable  only  when  the  phenomena  of 
the  universe  have  been  tabulated  and  arranged: 

'It  comes,  therefore,  to  this,  that  my  Organum,  even  if  it  were  completed,  would  not 
without  the  Natural  History  much  advance  the  Instauration  of  Vie  Sciences,  whereas  the 
Natural  Ifistory  without  the  Organum  would  advance  it  not  a  little." 

The  true  scientific  procedure,  moreover,  is  by  hypothesis,  followed 
up  and  tested  by  verification.  Kepler  tried  twenty  guesses  on  the 
orbit  of  Mars,  and  the  last  fitted  the  facts.  But  the  Orgcuium 
does  not  admit  hypotheses  as  guides  to  investigation.' 

It  was  indirectly,  however,  of  inestimable  service, —  by  its  gen- 
eral spirit,  by  its  systematization  of  the  new  mode  of  thinking, 
by  the  power  and  eloquence  with  which  it  was  expounded  and 
enforced.  If  its  details,  on  which  was  laid  the  greatest  stress, 
have  not  been  useful,  it  was  still  the  basis  of  the  more  perfect 
structure  which  successors  have  erected.  Induction  had  been 
adopted  from  accident  or  from  taste;  it  was  henceforth  to  be 
applied  and  defended  on  principle. 

!EssayS.  —  Bacon's  philosophical  writings  have  operated  on 
mankind  through  a  school  of  intermediate  agents.  To  the  multi- 
tude he  is  best  known  by  the  Essays,  in  which  he  talks  to  plain 
men  in  language  intelligible  to  all,  on  subjects  in  which  every- 
body is  interested.  Never  was  observation  at  once  more  recon- 
dite, better  matured,  and  more  carefully  sifted;  attractive  for  the 
fulness  of  imagination  that  draws  so  many  stately  pictures,  and 
for  the  wise  reflection  that  suggests  so  many  wholesome  truths. 
Here  are  a  few  sample  thoughts  for  memory  and  for  use  —  texts 
for  sermons  and  dissertations,  if  you  will: 

is  constantly  performing  the  process  described  in  the  second  hook  of  \\\q  Xorum  Orga- 
num.' Here  (1)  the  brilliant  essayist  confounds  simple  incautious  induction  with  cautious 
methodical  induction,  t)etween  which  there  is  as  much  difference  as  between  instinct 
and  science.  (U)  In  experimental  pliilosophy.  to  which  the  rules  of  the  Ornaiiitm  espe- 
cially referred,  t!ier(;  was  a  notorious  want 'of  inductive  roasonins.  (."5)  Not  only  had 
Bacon's  ))eculiar  system  of  ruh's  never  been  ap])lied  before, —  tbey  have  never"  l)een 
ap|)lied  since.  Macaulay  has  liad  followers,  bttt  liis  argument  reciMvos  its  force  solely 
from  a  misconception  of  tlie  Baconian  method.  Draper  [  [nlellectnal  Derelopmfrit  of 
Europe)  is  guilty  of  like  confusion  when  he  asserts  that  the  Baconian  princii)li's  were 
understood  eighteen  hundred  years  before;  and  of  lamentable  ignorance  wtien  be  adds 
that  'they  were  carried  into  practice."  Its  inaccuracies  and  ])artisanslnp  have  abated 
greatly  our  early  entliusiasni  for  litis  still  valuable  work. 

'  Very  surijrising,  after  this,  is  the  declaration  of  Taine:  'After  more  than  two  cen- 
turies, it  is  still  to  him  that  we  go  to  discover  the  theory  of  what  we  are  attiii\ptiiiL'  .ind 
doing.'  The  mistake  arises  from  confounding  induction  with  the  Baconian  mttho'l  of 
induction. 


464       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 
Of  beauty, — 

'  Virtue  is  like  a  rich  stone  — best  plain  set.' 

Of  happiness, — 

'They  are  happy  men  whose  natures  sort  with  their  vocations.' 

Of  youth  and  age, — 

'  A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in  hours,  if  he  have  lost  no  time.' 

Of  nature  in  men, — 

'A  man's  nature  runs  either  to  herbs  or  weeds;  therefore,  let  him  seasonably  water 
the  one,  and  destroy  the  other.' 

Of  riches, — 

'  A  great  estate  left  to  an  heir,  is  as  a  lure  to  all  the  birds  of  prey  round  about  to  seize 
on  him,  if  he  be  not  the  better  stablished  in  years  and  judgment." 

Of  friendship, — 

'There  is  no  man  that  imparteth  his  joys  to  his  friend,  but  he  joyeth  the  more;  and 
no  man  that  imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend,  but  he  grieveth  the  less.' 

Of  love,— 

'There  was  never  proud  man  thought  so  absurdly  well  of  himself  as  the  lover  doth  of 
the  person  loved;  and  therefore  it  was  well  said,  "  That  it  is  impossible  to  love  and  to  be 
wise."  ■ 

Of  envy, — 

'  He  that  cannot  possibly  mend  his  own  case,  will  do  what  he  can  to  impair  another's.' 

Of  marriage, — 

'He  that  hath  wifo  and  children  hath  given  hostages  to  fortune;  for  they  are  impedi- 
ments to  great  enterprises,  either  of  virtue  or  mischief.' 

And,— 

'Grave  natures,  led  by  custom,  and  therefore  constant,  are  commonly  loving  hus- 
bands.' 

Again, — 

'  It  is  one  of  the  best  bonds,  both  of  chastity  and  obedience,  in  the  wife,  if  she  thinks 
her  husband  wise,  which  she  will  never  do  if  she  find  liim  jealous.' 

Of  gardens, — 

'  God  .\lmighty  first  planted  a  garden,— and,  indeed,  it  is  the  purest  of  human  pleas- 
ures; it  is  the  greatest  refresliment  to  the  spirits  of  man;  without  which  buildings  and 
palaces  are  but  gross  handy  works;  and  a  man  shall  ever  see,  that,  when  ages  grow  to 
civility  and  elegancy,  men  come  to  build  stately,  sooner  than  to  garden  finely:  as  if  gar- 
dening were  the  greater  perfection.' 

It  is  by  their  inexhaustible  aliment  and  illustrative  enrichment, 
that  the  Essays  belong  most  to  literature.  Few  books  are  more 
quoted,  few  are  more  generally  read.  'These,  of  all  my  works,' 
says  Bacon,  'have  been  most  current;  for  that,  as  it  seems,  they 
oonie  home  to  rneii's  h^isb^esse  and  hosomes?  He  justly  foretohl 
that  they  would  '  live  as  long  as  books  last.'  Their  brief,  pithy  say- 
ings have  passed  into  popular  mottoes  and  household  words,  like  — 


LORD   BACON.  465 

'Jewels,  five  words  long. 
That  on  the  stretched  forefinger  of  all  time 
Sparkle  forever.' 

Style. — Clear  and  strong,  elaborate  and  full  of  color,  replete 
with  images  that  serve  only  to  concentrate  meditation ;  now  in  an 
apothegmatic  sentence: 

'A  crowd  is  not  company;  and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures;  and  talk  but  a 
tinkling  cymbal,  when  there  is  no  love.' 

Now  in  the  majesty  of  a  grand  period: 

'For  as  water,  whether  it  be  the  dew  of  Heaven  or  the  springs  of  the  earth,  easily 
scatters  and  loses  itself  in  the  ground,  except  it  be  collected  into  some  receptacle,  where 
it  may  by  union  and  consort  comfort  and  sustain  itself  (and  for  that  cause,  the  industry 
of  man  has  devised  aqueducts,  cisterns,  and  pools,  and  likewise  beautified  them  with 
various  ornaments  of  magniticence  and  state,  as  well  as  for  use  and  necessity) ;  so  this 
excellent  liquor  of  knowledge,  whether  it  descend  from  divine  inspiration  or  spring  from 
human  sense,  would  soon  perish  and  vanish  into  oblivion,  if  it  were  not  i)rcserved  in 
books,  traditions,  conferences,  and  especially  in  places  appointed  for  such  matters,  as 
universities,  colleges,  and  schools,  where  it  may  have  both  a  fixed  habitation,  and  means 
and  opportunity  of  increasing  and  collecting  itself." 

Now  in  the  symmetry  of  concise  and  well-balanced  antithesis: 

'Crafty  men  contemn  studies;  simple  men  admire  them;  and  wise  men  use  them; 
for  they  teach  not  their  own  use:  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them,  and  won  by  observa- 
tion. Read  not  to  contradict,  nor  to  believe,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are 
to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested.  Reading 
maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and  writing  an  e.xact  man.  And  therefore 
if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memory ;  if  he  confer  little,  have  a  present 
wit;  and  if  he  read  little,  have  much  cunning  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories 
make  men  wise,  poets  witty,  the  mathematics  subtle,  natural  philosophy  deep,  morals 
grave,  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to  contend." 

A  passage  to  be  cheiced  and  digested.  Always  grave,  often 
metaphorical,  his  style  grew  richer  and  softer  with  increasing 
years.     Not  long  before  his  deatli,  he  wrote: 

'Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testament,  adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the 
New,  which  carrioth  the  greater  benediction  and  the  clearer  evidences  of  God's  favour. 
Yet,  even  in  the  Old  Testament,  if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as  many 
hearse-like  airs  as  carols:  and  the  i)encil  of  the  Holy  (ihost  hath  laboured  more  in  de- 
scribing the  afflictions  of  Job  tlian  tlie  felicities  of  Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without 
many  fears  and  distastes;  and  adversity  is  not  without  comforts  and  liopes.  We  see  in 
needleworks  and  embroideries  it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a  sad  and 
solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy  work  upon  a  lightsouie  ground. 
Judge  therefore  of  the  i)lcasures  of  the  heart  by  the  pleasures  of  the  eye.  Certainly 
virtue  is  like  i)re(ious  odours,  most  fragrant  wlien  they  arc  incensed  or  crushed:  for 
])rosi)erity  dotli  best  discover  vice,  but  adversity  dotli  best  discover  virtue." 

Shakespeare,  with  far  greater  variety,  contains  no  more  vigorous 
or  expressive  condensations. 

Bacon  feared  that  the  modern  languages  would  'at  oiio  time 
or  another  play  the  bankrupt  with  books.'     Dreading  to  trust  the 
30 


466        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

mutability  of  English,  he  composed  the  Instauratio  in  Latin, 
which  fifteen  centuries  had  fixed  sacred  from  innovations;  and 
into  the  same  tongue  his  vernacular  compositions  were  translated 
by  himself  and  friends  —  Jonson,  Hobbes,  and  Herbert. 

Rank. — The  principal  figure  in  English  prose;  the  most  com- 
prehensive, cultivated,  and  originative  thinker  of  the  age;  the 
master  spirit  of  the  long-agitated  antagonism  to  ancient  and 
scholastic  thought;  the  first  great  exponent  of  the  increasing 
tendency  to  positivism;  the  first  to  systematize  the  inductive 
process,  to  teach  its  extensive  use,  to  give  it  a  clear  appreciation; 
and  thus  the  great  leader  in  the  reformation  of  modern  science. 
Not  strictly  a  scientist  —  rather  a  scientific  philosopher  —  an 
expounder  of  the  scientific  spirit  and  method  —  a  surveyor  who 
broadly  mapped  the  road  —  the  philosopher  more  of  human  than 
of  general  nature.  He  belongs  to  the  realm  of  imagination,  of 
eloquence,  of  history,  of  jurisprudence,  of  ethics,  of  metaphysics 
—  the  investigation  of  the  powers  and  operations  of  the  human 
mind.  His  writings  have  the  gravity  of  prose,  with  the  fervor 
and  vividness  of  poetry;  in  this,  unlike  those  of  the  materialistic 
succession,  such  as  Spencer  and  Mill;  but  resembling  those  of 
Plato,  who  was  loftier,  and  of  Burke,  who  was  less  profound. 

Commanding  as  is  his  merit,  he  has  perhaps  been  overrated. 
The  time  was  ripe.  He  had  better  eyes  than  his  fellow-men,  and 
found  what  others  were  seeking.  More  judicial  than  they,  he 
gave  expression  to  ideas  already  in  the  air.  The  epoch-making 
genius  gathers  up  in  a  harmonious  vibration  a  thousand  buzzing 
and  swelling  voices.  He  did  not  thoroughly  understand  the 
older  philosophy  which  he  attacked,  nor  accurately  anticipate  the 
methods  of  the  new.  In  banishing  deduction,  he  failed  to  see 
that  it  makes  up  with  induction  the  double  enginery  of  thought. 
His  circle  of  observation  was  external.  But  within  that,  are 
ideas  which  experience  can  never  furnish  —  ideas  necessary,  abso- 
lute, eternal;  truths  which  it  were  madness  to  deny,  folly  to 
attempt  to  prove,  and  without  which  reason  could  not  advance  a 
step, —  as,  matter  lias  uniform  an<%  fixed  laws;  qualities  imply  a 
substance.  Without  an  assumption  of  the  first,  the  simplest  pro- 
cess of  induction  is  impossible.  He  who  doubts  the  second,  can 
make  no  pretension  to  the  knowledge  of  spiritual  and  material 
essence.     Ignorant    of   geometry,    he    had    no    prevision    of   the 


LORD    BACON.  467 

important  part  that  mathematics  was  to  perform  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  nature.  Galileo  revived  that  science,  excelled  in  it,  first 
applied  it,  and  fortified  with  new  proofs  the  system  of  Coperni- 
cus, which  Bacon  rejected  with  positive  disdain: 

'In  the  system  of  Copernicus  there  are  many  and  grave  difBculties;  for  the  threefold 
motion  with  which  he  encumbers  the  earth  is  a  serious  inconvenience,  and  the  separa- 
tion of  the  sun  from  the  planets,  with  which  he  has  so  many  affections  in  common,  is 
likewise  a  harsh  step;  and  the  introduction  of  so  many  immovable  bodies  in  nature,  us 
when  he  malies  the  sun  and  stars  immovable,  the  bodies  which  are  peculiarly  lucid  and 
radiant,  and  his  making  the  moon  adhere  to  the  earth  in  a  sort  of  epicycle,  and  some 
other  things  which  he  assumes,  are  proceedings  which  mark  a  man  who  thinks  nothing 
of  introducing  fictions  of  any  kind  into  nature,  provided  his  calculations  turn  out  well." 

He  did  not  use  skilfully  his  own  system.  His  conjectures  in 
physics,  though  often  acute,  are  often  chimerical,  owing-  to  his 
defective  acquaintance  with  natural  phenomena.  He  saw,  from 
the  mountain-top,  the  Promised  Land,  pointed  it  out,  but  did  not 
enter  there.  In  any  special  department,  he  has  latterly  been  ex- 
celled by  many.  There  have  been  thousands  of  better  astrono- 
mers, chemists,  physicians.  But  in  wide-ranging  intellect,  in  the 
union  of  speculative  power  with  practical  utility,  he  has  been 
equalled  by  none. 

Character. — As  a  boy,  he  was  delicate  in  health,  indifferent 
to  the  sports  of  youth,  quick  and  curious  in  mind,  with  that 
sweet  sobriety  of  manner  which  led  the  queen  to  call  him  'my 
young  Lord  Keeper.'  Still  in  his  'teens,'  he  saw,  in  dim  vision, 
a  philosophic  revolution.  He  solicited  employment  only  that  he 
might  have  leisure  to  become  a  '  pioneer  in  the  deep  mines  of 
truth;  not  being  born  under  Sol,  that  loveth  honor,  nor  under 
Jupiter  that  loveth  business,  but  being  wholly  carried  away  by 
the  contemplative  planet.'  At  the  moment  of  his  greatest  eleva- 
tion, he  said:  'The  depth  of  three  long  vacations  I  would  reserve 
in  some  measure  free  from  business  of  estate,  and  for  studios, 
arts,  and  sciences,  to  whicli  of  my  own  nature  I  am  most  in- 
clined.' 

His  point  of  view  was  so  exalted  that  ho  saw  the  eddying, 
dashing  stream  of  liuman  events  as  a  motionless  silvery  tliroad 
in  the  plain;  so  i^rofouiid  that  his  rofloctioiis  shine  like  tlio  far-off 
stars  soon  from  tlie  bottom  of  the  doop  sunken  shaft;  his  rirclo 
so  spacious,  that  it  took  in  all  the  domains  of  scionoo, — the  errors 
of  the  ]")ast,  the  signs  of  the  present,  the  liojxvs  of  the  future. 
Like  the  archano'el  glancing  from   lieavon  to  earth, — 


468       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

'Round  he  surveyed  —  and  well  might,  where  he  stood 
So  high  above  the  circling  canopy 
Of  night's  extended  shade  —  from  eastern  point 
Of  Libra,  to  the  fleecy  star  which  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas 
Beyond  the  horizon.' 

What  he  was  as  a  writer,  he  was  as  an  orator.     Ben  Jonson  wit- 
nessed his  eloquence: 

'  There  happened  in  my  time  one  noble  speaker  who  was  full  of  gravity  in  his  speak- 
ing. His  language,  where  he  could  spare  or  pass  by  a  jest,  was  nobly  censorious.  No 
man  ever  spoke  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suffered  less  emptiness, 
less  idleness,  in  what  he  uttered.  No  member  of  his  speech  but  consisted  of  his  own 
graces.  His  hearers  could  not  cough  or  look  aside  from  him  without  loss.  He  com- 
manded where  he  spoke,  and  had  his  judges  angry  and  pleased  at  his  devotion.  No  man 
had  their  affections  more  in  his  power.  The  fear  of  every  man  that  heard  him  was  lest 
he  should  make  an  end.' 

Like  Sliakespeare  and  the  rest,  he  grasped  objects,  not  frac- 
tionally, but  organized  and  complete.  Like  them,  he  speaks  in 
the  style  of  an  oracle.  He  will  not  dispute,  though  he  moves 
against  a  vast  mass  of  prejudices.  He  condenses  the  details  into 
a  maxim,  and  hands  us  the  result,  with  the  words,  ^Francis  of 
Verulani  thought  thus.'' 

He  has  the  strong  common  sense  which  marks  the  English 
mind.  He  will  not  catch  at  clouds.  He  must  stand  on  a  fact, — 
a  palpable  and  resisting  fact.  His  motto  is,  experiment,  again 
and  again  experiment.  The  end  of  knowledge  is  empire  over 
matter.  Plato  and  Seneca  would  extinguish  cupidity;  Bacon 
would  secure  property.  They  would  teach  us  to  endure  pain;  he 
would  assuage  it.  They  would  form  the  mind  to  a  high  degree 
of  wisdom  and  virtue;  he  would  minister  to  the  comforts  of  the 
body,  without  neglecting  moral  and  religious  instruction.  He 
lacks  the  upright  bias, —  insight  into  transcendental  truths. 

He  was  a  thinker  living  amid  the  turmoil  of  a  fresh  and  stir- 
ring life,  yet  with  the  genius  of  counsel  rather  than  of  action. 
Scorning  the  least  prudential  care  of  his  fortune,  he  was  often 
in  jiecuuiary  di-strcss.  On  one  occasion  he  was  arrested  in  the 
street  for  a  debt,  and  lodged  in  a  spunging-house.  His  lieart, 
he  declared,  was  not  set  on  exterior  things.  His  purpose  was 
noble.  'I  am  not  hunting  for  fame.  I  have  no  desire  to  found  a 
sect.'  'Enough  for  me, —  the  consciousness  of  well-deserving,  and 
those  real  and  effectual  results  with  which  fortune  itself  cannot 
interfere.' 

But  mortal  greatness  is  not  without  mortal  infirmity.     He  who 


LORD   BACON.  469 

was  to  teach  us  Viow  to  philosophize,  was  himself  fascinated  by 
magical  sympathies,  surmised  why  witches  eat  human  flesh;  as- 
serted: 'It  is  constantly  received  and  avouched,  that  the  anoint- 
ing of  the  weapon  that  maketh  the  icound  will  heal  the  wound 
itself;'  presented  Prince  Henry,  as  'the  first-fruits  of  his  philoso- 
phy, a  sympathizing  stone,  made  of  several  mixtures,  to  know 
the  heart  of  man,'  whose  'operative  gravity,  magnetic  and  magi- 
cal, would  show,  by  the  hand  which  held  it,  whether  the  heart 
was  warm  and  affectionate.'  He  dictated  the  laws  and  economy 
of  Nature,  and  was  himself  enamored  of  state  and  magnificence. 
He  took  a  feminine  delight  in  the  brilliancy  of  his  robes,  loved 
to  be  gazed  on  in  the  streets,  and  to  be  wondered  at  in  the  cabi- 
net. He  championed  the  cause  of  intellectual  freedom,  and  was 
himself  a  servile  intriguer  for  place.  A  devoted  worshipper  of 
truth,  he  had  the  double  temper  of  a  lawyer  and  a  politician, — 
duplicity.  As  utilitg  was  his  watchword,  he  assiduously  courted 
the  favor  of  all  who  were  likely  to  be  o£  use  to  him;  and  might 
prop  the  fortunes  of  a  friend, —  till  he  was  in  danger  of  shaking 
his  own.  Loved,  trusted,  and  befriended  by  Essex,  he  bore  a 
principal  part  in  sending  that  nobleman  to  the  scaffold.  In  his 
judicial  capacity,  pledged  to  discharge  his  functions  impartially, 
he  accepted  bribes  from  plaintiff  and  defendant.  His  illicit  gains 
were  stated  at  a  hundred  thousand  pou-nds.  After  he  had  tried 
in  vain  to  avert  the  sudden  and  terrible  reverse,  he  wrote  to  the 
Peers:  'Upon  advised  consideration  of  the  charges,  descending 
into  my  own  conscience,  and  calling  my  memory  to  account  so 
far  as  I  am  able,  I  do  plainly  and  ingenuously  confess  that  I  am 
guilty  of  corruption,  and  do  renounce  all  defence.'  'My  lords,' 
said  he  to  the  de})uti('s  who  came  to  incjuiro  wliether  tlie  con- 
fession was  really  subscribed  by  himself,  'it  is  my  act,  my  hand, 
my  heart.  I  beseech  your  lordships  to  be  merciful  to  a  bnjken 
reed.' 

He  had  none  of  the  fire  of  sentiment  or  passion, —  none  of  the 
kindling  impulses  which  give  intensity  to  character.  To  impulse 
lie  was  serenely,  coldly  superior.  Let  us  hope  that  his  wife  was 
equally  luiimpassioned, —  a  pure  intelligence,  craving  no  1()V(>, 
for  it  is  doubtful  if  she  received  an  v.  He  desired  to  marrv  I^ady 
Hatton,  not  for  her  disposition,  wliii-h  was  that  of  an  ccctMitric 
termagant,  l)ut  for  her  monev.      Though    indifferent  or  selfish  in 


470       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

personal  relations,  he  had  the  mellow  spirit  of  humanity,  without 
which,  he  tells  us,  *men  are  but  a  better  kind  of  vermin.'  His 
benevolence  embraced  all  races  and  all  ages.  This  philanthropy 
which  distinguishes  between  individuals  and  mankind,  and  which 
we  believe,  after  all,  to  have  formed  the  essential  feeling  of  his 
soul,  is  expressed  in  the  description  of  one  of  the  fathers  of 
Solomon's  House:  ^Uis  countenance  teas  as  the  countenance  of 
one  icho  pitties  raen.'' 

As  he  preserved  a  calm  neutrality,  though  living  in  an  age  of 
controversy,  his  creed,  if  he  held  any,  may  not  be  told.  Theology 
is  relegated  to  the  province  of  faith.  '  If  I  proceed  to  treat  of  it,' 
he  said,  'I  shall  step  out  of  the  bark  into  the  ship  of  the  Church. 
Neither  will  the  stars  of  philosophy,  which  have  hitherto  so  nobly 
shone  on  us,  any  longer  give  us  their  light.'  But  speculation  is 
profitless,  and  scepticism  is  powerless,  before  these  vital,  grand, 
imperial  words: 

'I  had  rather  believe  all  the  fables  in  the  legend,  and  the  Talmud,  and  the  Alcoran, 
than  that  this  universal  frame  is  without  a  mind.' 

He  cultivated  letters  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life.  We  could 
fancy  him  awaiting  the  signal  for  his  departure,  without  boldness 
and  without  fear,  with  that  sublime  reliance  on  the  future  which 
makes  the  hour  of  evening  tranquil.  He  contemplated  the  end 
with  the  composure  that  becomes  the  scholar: 

'I  have  often  thouLiht  upon  death,  and  T  And  it  the  least  of  all  evils.  All  that  which 
is  past  is  as  a  dream;  and  he  that  hopes  or  depends  upon  time  coming,  dreams  waking. 
So  much  of  our  life  as  we  have  discovered  is  already  dead;  and  all  those  hours  which  we 
share,  even  from  the  breasts  of  our  mothers,  until  we  return  to  our  grandmother  the 
earth,  are  part  of  our  dyini.'  days,  whereof  even  this  is  one,  and  those  that  succeed  are  of 
the  same  nature,  for  we  die  daily;  and,  as  others  have  given  place  to  us,  so  we  must,  in 
the  end,  civc  way  to  others." 

Then,  as  if  son.siblv  passing  to  the  last  rest: 

•Mine  eyes  bcijin  to  discharge  their  watch,  and  comi)onnd  with  this  fleshly  weakness 
for  a  time  of  perpetual  re-it:  and  I  shall  presently  be  as  hai)py  for  a  few  hours,  as  I  had 
died  the  first  hour  I  was  boni.' 

Not  without  cinotioii  flo  we  road: 

'First,  I  bequeath  my  soul  and  body  into  the  hands  of  God  by  the  blessed  oblation 
of  my  Saviour:  the  one  at  tlie  time  of  my  dissolution,  the  other  at  the  time  of  my  resur- 
rection. For  my  buriiil,  T  desire  it  may  be  in  St.  Micliael's  Chun'h,  near  St.  .Mban<: 
there  was  my  motlier  I)uri(d.  .  .  .  For  my  name  and  memory,  I  leave  it  to  men's  charita- 
ble -peeches,  and  to  foreiirn  nations,  and  tlie  ne.xt  ages.' 

Influence.  —  He  confirnuHl  and  accelerated  tlie  new  move- 
ment by  a  tliorough  and  large  apprehension  of  its  bent  and  value. 


LORD   BACON.  471 

At  home,  his  authority,  within  forty  years,  was  the  subject  of 
complaint.  Abroad,  treatises  were  written  on  his  method,  and 
academies  were  formed  which  expressly  recognised  him  as  their 
master.  In  France  it  was  said:  'However  numerous  and  impor- 
tant be  the  discoveries  reserved  for  posterity,  it  will  always  be 
just  to  say  of  him,  that  he  laid  the  foundation  of  their  success, 
so  that  the  glory  of  this  great  man,  so  far  from  diminishing  with 
the  progress  of  time,  is  destined  to  receive  perpetual  increase.' 

He  had  taken  all  knowledge  for  his  province,  and  all  realms 
were  to  be  affected: 

'One  may  doubt,  not  to  say  object,  whether  it  is  natural  philosophy  alone  that  we 
speak  of  perfecting  by  our  method,  or  other  sciences  as  well  — logic,  ethics,  jwlitics. 
But  we  certainly  intend  what  has  been  said  as  applicable  to  all;  and  as  the  common  logic 
which  governs  by  syllogisms  pertains  not  only  to  natural  but  to  all  sciences,  so  also  our 
own,  which  proceeds  by  induction,  embraces  all.' 

Hence  his  influence,  though  indirect,  due  to  the  practical  or 
positive  spirit  of  his  method,  has  perhaps  been  more  powerful 
on  mental  and  moral  than  on  physical  science;  for  the  dominant 
principle  of  modern  psychology  is,  that  experience,  exterior  and 
interior,  is  the  only  origin  of  knowledge.  'The  philosophy  of 
Locke,'  says  Degerando,  'ought  to  have  been  called  the  philoso- 
phy of  Bacon.'  Not  without  justice,  may  he  be  looked  upon  as 
the  inspiration  of  that  empirical  school  which  numbers  among  its 
adherents  such  names  as  Hobbes,  Locke,  Hume,  Hartley,  Mill, 
Condillac,  and  others  of   less  note. 

We  have  elsewhere  indicated  some  of  the  'fruits'  of  the  new 
philosophy.  We  have  also  explained  that  in  illuminating  the 
physical  field,  it  lias  darkened  the  intellectual  and  moral.  It  has 
furnished  a  lamp  to  guide  our  feet  through  the  outer  world,  but 
none  to  light  our  way  to  the  inward.  It  has  fastened  upon  ethics 
an  earthy  utilitarian  temper,  taking  no  account  of  the  motives 
that  drop  from  the  skies. 

We  have  remarked,  too,  those  profound  reflections  which,  be- 
sides forming  a  treasure  of  ethical  and  political  wisdom,  liave 
stimulated  the  thought  and  suggested  the  inquiries  of  after 
times.  If  to-day  a  scientist  wishes  to  express  compactly  his 
scorn  of  dogmatism,  of  custom,  it  is  to  the  Oi';fan>iia  th;it  he 
goes  for  an  aphorism.  Volumes  have  been  written  in  the  expan- 
sion of   its  statements.      Tfie   ideas  of   the  JaJ^.-on/s  have  beccMiie 


472       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

domesticated,  and  have  been  continually  reproduced,  to  enrich 
and  enlarge  the  individual  and  collective  mind. 

Finally,  mournfully,  my  lord,  you  whose  glorious  day-dream 
is  hourly  accomplishing  around  us,  whose  inductive  spell  has 
proved  more  puissant  than  the  incantations  of  Merlin, —  you 
have  left  to  all  the  children  of  men,  from  your  own  checkered 
life  of  magnificence  and  of  shame,  this  retributive,  warning  in- 
duction, albeit  not  contemplated  in  your  scheme:  When  man 
departs  from  the  divine  memis  of  reaching  the  divine  end,  he 
suffers  harm  and  loss. 


MILTON. 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born, 

Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn; 

The  tirst  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 

The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last: 

The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go, — 

To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  other  two. — Dryderi. 

BiOg^apliy. — Born  in  London,  in  1608,  son  of  a  Puritan 
scrivener;  inherited  from  his  father  literary  tastes  and  a  love 
of  music,  from  his  mother  a  gentle  nature  and  weak  eyes;  was 
instructed  first  by  private  tuition,  sent  to  school  at  twelve,  and  at 
sixteen  entered  Cambridge;  took  the  usual  degrees,  and  returned 
home,  to  spend  five  soft  flowing  years  among  the  woods  of  Hor- 
ton;  read  the  classics  and  wrote;  travelled  on  the  Continent; 
formed  the  acquaintance  of  Grotius  at  Paris,  and  of  Galileo  at 
Florence;  fed  his  imagination  on  Italian  scenery,  art,  and  letters; 
received  some  distinction,  and  was  excluded  from  others  by  his 
liberal  utterances  on  religion;  was  about  to  start  for  Sicily  and 
Greece,  but,  hearing  of  the  pending  rupture  between  the  king 
and  parliament,  hastened  back  to  England,  too  conscientious  to 
pass  his  life  in  foreign  amusements  while  his  countrymen  were 
contending  for  their  rights;  while  waiting  for  a  call  to  service, 
conducted  a  private  school;  taught  many  years  and  at  various 
times;  threw  himself  into  the  raging  sea  of  controversy,  against 
the  Royalists  and  the  Esta]>lished  Church;  at  thirty-five,  within  a 
month  after  meeting  her,  married   Mary  Powel,  who,  four  weeks 


MILTON.  473 

afterwards,  repelled  by  spare  diet  and  austere  manners,  returned 
to  her  parents;  wrote  to  her,  but  got  no  answer;  sent,  and  his 
messenger  was  ill-treated;  determined  to  repudiate  her  for  disobe- 
dience, published  essays  on  Divorce,  held  himself  absolved  from 
the  bond;  paid  court  to  another  lady  of  great  accomplishments, 
but  suddenly,  seeing  his  wife  on  her  knees  imploring  forgiveness, 
received  her  back,  and  lived  with  her  until  her  death ;  in  later  life 
married  twice,  the  last  time  to  a  woman  thirty  years  his  junior; 
meanwhile,  had  become  Latin  secretary  to  Cromwell;  carried  on 
the  wordy  strife  with  puritanical  savageness,  and  lost  his  sight 
willingly  in  the  war  of  pamphlets;  survived  the  funeral  of  the 
Republic  and  the  proscription  of  his  doctrines,  his  books  burned 
by  the  hangman,  himself  constrained  to  hide,  at  length  impris- 
oned, then  released;  living  in  expectancy  of  assassination,  losing 
three-fourths  of  his  fortune  by  confiscations,  bankruptcy,  and  the 
great  fire;  neither  loved  nor  respected  by  his  daug-hters,  who  had 
bitterly  complained  of  his  exactions,  and  the  second  of  whom  on 
being  told  that  he  was  to  be  married,  had  said  that  his  marriage 
would  be  no  news  —  the  best  would  be  his  death;  seeking  solace, 
yet  a  little,  in  meditation  and  in  poverty;  and,  after  so  many 
miseries,  expiring  in  IGT-t,  calm  as  the  setting  sun,  tried  at  once 
by  pain,  danger,  j)overty,  obloquy,  and  blindness, —  pre])ared  by 
culture  for  a  book  of  universal  knowledge,  and,  by  suffering,  for 
a  Christian  epic. 

"Writings. — During  a  long,  sultry  midday  of  twenty  years  — 
1040  to  IGGO  —  Milton  gave  himself  to  the  championship  of  ideas 
—  ideas  that  were  to  emancipate  the  press  —  ideas  that  plucked 
at  thrones  —  ideas  that  were  to  raise  uj)  commonwealths.  At  the 
outset,  as  one  created  for  strife,  he  wrote  against  Episcopacy  with 
incomparable  eloquonce  and  concentrated  rancor: 

'All  months  l)i>iran  to  be  opened  fiirainst  the  bishops.  ...  I  saw  that  a  way  was  open- 
iiisr  for  the  establishment  of  real  liberty:  that  the  fonndation  was  laying;  for  the  deliver- 
ance of  man  from  the  yoke  of  slavery  and  superstition ;  .  .  .  and  as  T  had  from  n.y  youth 
studied  the  distinction  between  religions  and  civil  riirhts,  .  .  .  I  determined  to  relin(iuish 
the  other  pursuits  in  which  I  was  entrasxcd.  and  to  transfer  the  whole  force  of  my  talents 
and  my  industry  to  this  one  iini)ortanI  object.' ' 

Then,  in  conjunction  with  otlicrs,  hurled  himselt'  upon  the  prince 
witli  inexpiable  hatred  ;  and,  when  bishops  and  king  had  l)i'en 
made  to  suffer  for  their  long  despotism,  justified  the  regicide: 


474       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'For  wliat  king's  majesty  sitting  upon  an  exalted  throne,  ever  shone  so  brightly,  as 
that  of  the  people  of  England  then  did,  when,  shaking  off  that  old  superstition,  which 
had  prevailed  a  long  time,  they  gave  judgment  upon  the  king  himself,  or  rather  upon  an 
enemy  who  had  been  their  king,  caught  as  it  were  in  a  net  by  his  own  laws  (who  alone 
of  all  mortals  challenged  to  himself  impunity  by  a  divine  right),  and  scrupled  not  to 
inflict  the  same  punishment  upon  him,  being  guilty,  which  he  would  have  inflicted  upon 
any  other*' ' 

With  like  energy,  armed  with  logic  and  spurred  by  conviction, 

he  attacked  all  prevailing  systems  of  education: 

'Language  is  but  the  instrument  conveying  to  us  things  useful  to  be  known.  And 
though  a  linguist  should  pride  himself  to  have  all  the  tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the  world 
into,  yet,  if  he  have  not  studied  the  solid  things  in  them,  as  well  as  the  words  and  lexi- 
cons, he  were  nothing  so  much  to  be  esteemed  a  learned  man  as  any  yeoman  or  trades- 
man competently  wise  in  his  mother  dialect  only.  Hence  appear  the  many  mistakes 
which  have  made  learning  generally  so  unpleasing  and  so  unsuccessful:  first,  we  do 
amiss  to  spend  seven  or  eight  years  merely  in  scraping  together  so  much  miserable 
Latin  and  Greek  as  might  be  learned  otherwise  easily  and  delightfully  in  one  year."* 

The  pupil  shall  not  begin  with  results,  but  reach  them  by 
experience.  He  is  not  expected  to  construct  a  telescope  —  no 
more  shall  he  be  required  to  construct  a  poem  or  essay  without 
resources  either  of  reflection  or  of  knowledge.  The  seed  must 
be  sown,  and  the  soil  fertilized,  before  the  flower  and  the  fruit 
can  be  gathered: 

'And  that  which  casts  our  i)roticiency  therein  so  much  behind,  is  our  time  lost  partly 
in  a  preposterous  exaction,  forcing  the  empty  wits  of  children  to  compose  themes,  verses, 
and  orations,  which  are  the  acts  of  ripest  judgment,  and  the  final  work  of  a  head  filled, 
by  long  reading  and  observing,  with  elegant  maxims  and  copious  invention.  These  are 
not  matters  to  be  wrung  from  poor  striplings,  like  blood  out  of  the  nose,  or  the  plucking 
of  untimely  fruit."  ' 

Having  demonstrated  wliat  we  should  not  do, — 

'I  shall  detain  you  now  no  longer,  .  .  .  but  straight  conduct  you  to  a  hillside,  where 
I  will  jjoiiit  you  out  the  ri^iit  path  of  a  virtuous  and  noble  education;  laborious,  indeed, 
at  the  first  ascent,  but  else  so  smooth,  so  green,  so  full  of  goodly  iirospect  and  melodious 
sounds  on  every  side,  that  the  har|)  of  Ori)lieus  was  not  more  charming.'  * 

AV)Ove  tlie  roar  of  rcvohition,  his  voice  was  heard  tliundering 
against  the  tvrannv  of  tradition  and  custom.  In  sentences  that 
are  like  the  blasts  of  a  trumpet  calling  men  to  freedom,  he  pro- 
tested against  the  oppression  of  printers  and  tlie  restriction  of 
printing;  and  as  one  who  foresees  the  future  and  reveals  the 
truth,  cxultcil  in  that  cru  of  deliverance  when  every  man  should 
lie  encouraged  to  think,  liowever  divergentlv,  and  to  l)ring  his 
thoughts  to  the  liglit: 

5  Trnrliilf  of  Fii'"'(ition.  We  commend  these  views  to  those  refiners  of  method  in 
education  who,  pavilioned  in  the  ulittcriiiir  pridi'  of  our  superficial  aceouiplishnient-, 
i^ii  in  to  arroL'Mtc  :ill  cxrcllcnce  to  the  iirc-cnt,  and  tf)  fancv  that  all  anterior  is  but  a  dull 
and  u>cKss  blank.  = /W'/.  *  Iht'L 


MILTOX.  475 

'Mcthinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation  rousing  herself  like  a  strong 
man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks:  methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle  mewing 
her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam;  purging 
and  unsealing  her  long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  the  heavenly  radiance; 
while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  those  also  that  love  the 
twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in  their  envious  gabble  would 
prognosticate  a  year  of  sects  and  schisms.'  • 

He  never  wearies  of  railing  at  the  pedantic  theologians,  who 
answer  an  argument  by  a  citation  from  the  Fathers;  nor  of  mock- 
ing and  jeering  at  the  corpulent  prelates,  persecutors  of  free  dis- 
cussion, whose  gaudy  Church  is  a  political  machine  to  uphold  the 
Crown : 

'What  greater  debasement  can  there  be  to  royal  dignity,  whose  towering  and  stead- 
fast height  rests  uiwn  the  unmovable  foundations  of  justice,  and  heroic  virtue,  than  to 
chain  it  in  a  dependence  of  subsisting,  or  ruining,  to  the  painted  battlements  and  gaudy 
rottenness,  of  prelatery,  which  want  but  one  puff  of  the  king's  to  blow  them  down  like  a 
pasteboard  house  built  of  court  cards? '  ^ 

It  is  the  power  of  superabundant  force  which  courses  in  athletic 

limbs.     Irony  is  too  refined  and  feeble.     Invectives  are  blows  that 

ease  ferocity,  and  knock  an  adversary  down: 

'The  table  of  communion,  now  become  a  table  of  separation,  stands  like  an  exalted 
platform  upon  the  brow  of  the  quire,  fortifled  with  bulwark  and  barricado,  to  keep  off  the 
profane  touch  of  the  laics,  whilst  the  obscene  and  surfeited  priest  scruples  not  to  paw 
and  mammock  the  sacramental  bread  as  familiarly  as  his  tavern  biscuit.'  ' 

Then  with  a  vengeful  fury  that  would  have  delighted  Calvin: 

'They  shall  be  thrown  eternally  into  the  darkest  and  deepest  gulf  of  hell,  where, 
under  the  despiteful  control,  the  trample,  and  spurn  of  all  the  other  damned,  that  in  the 
anguish  of  their  torture  shall  have  no  other  ease  than  to  exercise  a  raving  and  bestial 
tyranny  over  them  as  their  slaves  and  ney;roes,  they  shall  remain  in  that  plight  forever 
the  basest,  the  lowermost,  the  most  dejected,  most  underfoot,  and  down-trodden  vassals 
of  perdition.'  * 

Enthusiasm  may  break  out  in  a  moment  into  a  resplendent 
hymn.  His  reasoning  always  ends  with  a  poem  —  a  song  of 
triumph  whose  richness  and  exaltation,  as  in  the  following,  carry 
the  splendor  of  the  Renaissance  into  the  earnestness  of  the  Ref- 
ormation : 

'O  Thou  the  ever-begotten  Light  and  perfect  Image  of  the  Father,  .  .  .  Who  is  there 
that  cannot  trace  thee  now  in  thy  beamy  walk  through  the  midst  of  thy  sanctiuiry, 
amidst  those  golden  caiuilcsticks,  which  have  long  suffered  a  dimness  amongst  us 
through  the  violence  of  those  that  had  sei/.ed  them,  and  were  more  taken  with  tlie  men- 
tion of  their  gold  than  of  their  starry  lislit?  .  .  .  Come  therefore,  O  thou  that  hast  the 
seven  stars  in  thy  right  hand,  appoint  thy  chosen  priests  accord'nL;  to  their  orders  and 
courses  of  old,  to  minister  before  thee,  and  duly  to  i)ress  aiul  pour  out  the  consecrated 
oil  into  thy  holy  and  ever-burning  lamps.  Tliou  hast  sent  out  the  spirit  of  prayer  np(m 
thy  servants  over  all  the  land  to  this  effect,  and  stirred  u|)  their  vows  as  ihu  sound  of 
many  waters  about  thy  throne.  .  .  .  O  perfect  and   acconipli-^h   thy  glorious  acts!  .  .  . 

^Areopagitica.  "^  Of  Reformation  in  Kiuiland.  '/bid.  *  Ibid. 


476       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Conic  forth  out  of  thy  royal  chambers,  O  Prince  of  all  the  kings  of  the  earth!  \nn  on  the 
visible  robes  of  thy  imperial  majesty,  take  up  tliat  unlimited  sceptre  which  thy  Almighty 
Father  hath  bequeathed  thee;  for  now  the  voice  of  thy  bride  calls  thee,  and  all  creatures 
sigh  to  be  renewed." ' 

Do  not  take  these  for  the  whole,  which  is  ponderous  and  dull, 
heavy  with  scholasticism,  and  marred  by  the  grossness  of  the 
times.  They  are  but  fine  isolated  morsels  which  show  the  all- 
powerful  passion,  the  majestic  imagination  of  the  man,  whose 
dominant  need  and  faculty  lead  him  to  noble  conceptions,  and 
have  preordained  him  a  poet.  In  childhood  he  had  written 
verses;  and  at  Cambridge  his  poetic  genius  opened  in  the 
Hymn  on  the  N'ativity,  any  stanza  of  which  was  sufficient  to 
show  that  a  new  and  great  light  was  rising: 

'It  was  the  winter  wild. 
While  the  heaven- born  child 

All  meanly  wrai)i)cd  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 
Nature,  in  awe,  to  him 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim. 

With  lier  great  Master  so  to  sympathise: 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour.' 


Also: 


'No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 
Was  tieard  the  world  around: 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  w'cre  high  up  hung; 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood: 

The  iruinpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng: 
And  kiuu's  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  tti(  y  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by.' 


Or  at 


'But  peaceful  was  tlie  night 
Wliercin  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed. 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Wlio  now  hatli  fpiite  forgot  to  rave. 
While  tiirds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  cliarined  wave.' 

At  Ilortoii,  ere  vrt  lii.s  (>v('  wa.s  dimmed,  while  the  soul  was 
fresh,  and  r(\s])oiisive  to  the  sweet  scenes  of  rural  life,  he  wrote 
the  liappiest  and  I'iclicst  of  his  productions.  The  heart  of  the 
scholar,  transported  from  the  ])H]e  cloister  to  the  flowery  mead, 
is  ojion  to  the  careless  Ix^auty  and   laughing  ])lenty  around   him; 

^Anunu'Jjy  rsiohii  on  the  Reinotislruvts'  Defence. 


MILTON. 


477 


and  the  sensuous  imagination  bodies  forth  its  serene  content  in 
a  succession  of   images  unsurpassed  for  their  charm: 
'Haste  thee.  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee.       And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 


Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  Cranks',  and  wanton  Wiles, 

Nods  and  Becks  and  wreathed  Smiles, 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek. 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come  and  trip  it,  as  you  go. 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 


From  his  icatch-tower  in  the  skies. 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow. 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din. 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin. 
And  to  the  stack  or  the  barn-door 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before:  .  .  . 
W'hile  the  ploughman  near  at  hand. 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  s'lngeth  blithe. 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale. 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale."  * 


This  is  the  mirthful  aspect  of  Nature,  with  the  fadeless  scent 
of  the  hawthorn  hedge.  But  the  pensive  is  nobler.  Milton  pre- 
fers it,  and  summons  Melancholy: 


'Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,  stedfast,  and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain. 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  Cypress  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state. 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait 
And  looks  commercing  ivith  the  skies. 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes."' 


With  her  he  wanders  among  the  primeval  trees, — 


'■Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke. 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt.'' 

Or  in  the  retirement  of  study, — 

'Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  tight  to  counterfe'U  a  gloom  ; 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth.^ 

Or  under  the  'higli  embowered  roof,'  amid  antique  pillars, — 

'And  storied  windous  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  d'lm  religious  light.' 

While  the  growth  of  Puritan  sentiment  was  chilling  the  taste 

for  such  entertainment,  Milton,  conceiving  sublimity,  on  an  altar 

'  L' Allegro.  '•  II  Penseroso. 


478        PHILOSOPHIC    PEKIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS, 

of  flowers,  composed  the  Conius;  a  masque  —  a  lyric  poem  in  the 
form  of  a  play,  an  amusement  for  the  palace;  with  others,  an 
exhibition  of  costumes  and  fairy  tales;  with  him,  a  divine  eulogy 
of  innocence  and  purity.  A  noble  lady,  separated  from  her  two 
brothers,  strays  — 

'Through  the  perploxed  paths  of  this  drear  wood, 
The  nodding  horrour  of  uliose  shady  brows 
Threats  tlie  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger.' 

There  Comus,  son  of  an  enchantress,  amid  the  clamors  of  men 
transformed  into  beasts,  holds  his  wild  revels: 

'Xow  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold; 
And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream; 
And  the  slope  Sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  jrole: 
Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  East. 
Meanwhile,  welcome  joy,  and  feast, 
Midnight  shout,  and  revelry. 
Tipsy  dance,  and  jollity. 
Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine. 
Dropping  odours,  dropping  wine.  .  .  . 
Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground, 
In  a  light  fantastic  round.' 

She  is  troubled  by  the  turbulent  joy  which  she  hears  afar  in  the 
darkness.  A  thousand  fantasies  startle  her,  but  her  strength  is 
in  the  heavenly  guardians   who  watch  over  the  good: 

'O  welcome,  i)ure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hoVring  angel  girt  with  golden  wings. 
And  thou,  unblemish'd  form  of  Chastity  I 
I  si'f  ye  visil)ly,  and  now  believe 
That  He,  I  lie  Supreme  Good,  to  whom  all  things  ill 
Are  l)ut  us  slavish  oftlcers  of  vengeance, 
Would  send  a  irlist'ring  guardian,  if  need  were. 
To  keep  my  life  and  honour  nnassail'd.' 

She  calls  her  brotiiers,  in  .strains  that  steal  upon  the  air  like  rich 
distillcil  pcrfuiiics,  and  roach  the  dissolute  god,  who  approaches, 
clianged   by  a  iiiagir  dust   into  a  gentle  shepherd: 

'Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Rreattie  suih  divine  enchanting  ravishment? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
.\nrl  with  these  rai)tures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  hi-  hidden  re>idenee. 
How  sweetly  did  tli(  y  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence  through   the  eniiity-vaiilted  night. 
At  everv  f:ill  smoothiuir  tin-  ravei)  down 
Of   Darkness  till  it  smiled;    I  liave  oft  heard 


MILTON.  479 

My  mother  Circe  with  the  Syrena  three, 

Amidst  the  tlowery-kirtled  Naiades, 

Ciilliiig  their  potent  herbs,  and  baleful  drugs; 

Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prison"d  soul 

And  lap  it  in  Elysium;   Scylla  wept. 

And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention. 

And  fell  Charybdis  murmur'd  soft  applause: 

Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lull'd  the  sense. 

And  in  sweet  madness  robb"d  it  of  itself; 

But  such  a  sacred,  and  home-felt  delight, 

Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss 

I  never  heard  till  now.     Til  speak  to  her. 

And  she  shall  be  my  queen.' 

Under  pretence  of  leading  her  out  of  the  forest,  he  beguiles  her 
to  his  palace,  and  seats  her,  with  'nerves  all  chained  up,'  before 
a  sumptuous  table.  She  scorns  his  offer,  and  confounds  the 
tempter  by  the  energy  of  her  indignation.  Suddenly  her  broth- 
ers enter,  led  by  the  attendant  Spirit;  cast  themselves  upon  him 
with  drawn  swords,  and  he  flees.  To  deliver  their  enchanted 
sister,  they  invoke  a  river  nymph,  who  sits  — 

'Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 
In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  her  amber-dropping  hair.' 

Sprinkled  by  the  naiad,  the  lady  leaves  the  'venomed  seat,' 
which  held  her  spell-bound.  Joy  reigns.  What  stronger  breast- 
plate than  a  heart  untainted  ?     Therefore, — 

'Love  Virtue;   she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Ileuveii  itself  would  stooi)  to  her.' 

To  the  protracted  storm  succeeded  a  sombre,  reactionary  even- 
ing; and  when  the  blind  old  warrior  turned  again  to  the  dreams 
of  his  vnuth,  lightness  and  grace  were  gone.  Theology,  disap- 
]iointment,  and  conflict  had  subdued  the  lyric  flight,  and  fitted 
him  for  a  metaphysical  theme  —  exploits  of  the  Deity,  battles  of 
the  supernatural,  the  history  of  salvation.  It  had  l)een  among 
his  early  hopes  to  construct  sotnething  which  the  world  would 
not  willingly  let  die.  Bc^fore  entering  upon  his  travels,  he  had 
written  to  a  friend:  'I  am  meditating,  bv  the  help  of  heaven, 
an  immortality  of  fame,  but  my  Pegasus  has  not  vet  featiuM's 
enough  to  soar  aloft  in  the  fields  of  air';  and  after  his  n^turii.  he 
said  to  another:  'Some  dav  I  shall  address  a  work  to  posttM'ity 
which  will   ])erpetuate  my  name,  at   least   in  the  land   in  which  I 


480        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

was  born.'  In  old  age,  his  choice  had  settled  upon  Paradise  Lost, 
whose  composition  occupied  from  1658  to  1665,  though  the  vast 
design  had  long  Vjeen  shaping  itself.  It  opens  with  an  invocation 
to  the  Muse  to  sing  — 

'Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  deatli  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe. 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat.' 

And  a  petition  to  the  Spirit  for  inspiration: 

'What  in  me  is  dark. 
Illumine;   what  is  low,  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
/  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  icays  of  God  to  men.'' 

Out  of  'solid  and  liquid  fire'  is  framed  a  world  of  horror  and  suf- 
fering, vast  and  vague: 

'A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round, 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed;   yet  from  those  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe. 
Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades.' 

There  wallows  the  colossal  Satan,  with  the  rebel  angels,  hurled 
from  the  ethereal  heiglits  into  that  livid  lake: 

'With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed,  his  other  parts  besides 
Prone  on  the  Hood,  extended  long  and  large. 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood.' 

But  '  by  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven,' — 

'Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 
His  mighty  stature;  on  each  hand  the  flames, 
Driv'n  backward,  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and,  roll'd 
In  billows,  leave  1"  th"  midst  a  horrid  vale.' 

Fiercer  than  the  flames  is  the  defiant  spirit  they  enwrap  —  the 
proud  but  ruined  seraph,  who,  preferring  independence  to  ser- 
vility, welcomes  defeat  and  torment  as  a  glory  and  a  joy: 

'Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime. 
Said  then  the  lost  Arch-Angel,  this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  heav'n,  this  mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light?    Be  it  so,  since  he 
Who  now  is  Sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right:  farthest  from  him  is  best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equall'd,  force  hath  made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.    Farewell  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  forever  dwells!    Hail  horrors,  hail 
Infernal  world  1  and  thou  profoundest  Hell 


MILTON.  481 

Receive  thy  new  possessor;  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heav'n  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heav"n. 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same, 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but  less  than  He 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?    Here  at  least 
We  shall  be  free;  th'  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  His  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence : 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell; 
Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven.' 

He  gathers  his  crew,  who  lay  entranced  thick  as  autumnal  leaves, 
and  addresses  them: 

'  He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent. 
Stood  like  a  tower.  .  .  .  His  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek;  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge.  .  .  .  Attention  held  them  mute. 
Thrice  he  essay'd,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn. 
Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth.' 

At  last  his  words  find  utterance,  and  he  comforts  them  with  the 
hope  of  universal  empire.  A  council  of  peers  is  held  in  Pande- 
monium,— 

'A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats ' ; 

And  their  dauntless  king, — 

'High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  East  with  richest  hand 
Show'rs  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold.' 

It  is  resolved  to  go  in  search  of  a  new  kingdom  and  a  new  crea- 
ture, of  which  there  had  been  an  ancient  prophecy  or  report,  and 
to  inflict  upon  them  infinite  misery  in  compensation  for  the  loss 
of  infinite  bliss.     But, — 

'Whom  shall  we  find 
Sufficient?  who  shall  'tempt  with  wand'ring  feet 
The  dark  nnbottom"d  infinite  abyss. 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  aery  flight. 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings 
Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 
The  happy  isle?' 

Each    reads    in    the    other's    coiuitenance    his    own    dismay.      The 
awful   suspense   is   only   broken   by   their   matchless    chief,    who 
31 


482        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

offers  himself  for  the  general  safety,  and  undertakes  the  voyage 
alone,  though  — 

'Long  is  the  way 
And  hard  that  out  of  Hell  leads  up  to  light; 
Our  prison  strong;   this  huge  convex  of  fire, 
Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round 
Ninefold,  and  gates  of  burning  adamant 
Barr"d  over  us  prohibit  all  egress,' 

Then  the  plunge  'into  the  void  profound  of  unessential  Night.' 
Arrived  at  Hell-bounds,  mark  the  horror  and  grandeur  of  the 
situation: 

'Thrice  threefold  the  gates;  three  folds  were  brass, 
Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock. 
Impenetrable,  impaled  with  circling  fire, 
Yet  unconsunied.    Before  the  gates  there  sat    . 
On  either  side  a  formidable  shape; 
The  one  seemed  woman  to  the  waist,  and  fair. 
But  ended  foul  in  many  a  scaly  fold. 
Voluminous  and  vast,  a  serpent  arm'd 
With  mortal  sting:   about  her  middle  round 
A  cry  of  Ilell-hounds  never  ceasing,  bark'd 
With  wide  Cerberean  mouths  full  loud,  and  rung 
A  hideous  peal:  yet,  when  they  list,  would  creep. 
If  aught  disturbed  their  noise,  into  her  womb, 
And  kennel  there,  yet  there  still  bnrk'd  and  bowl'd 
Within  unseen.  .  .  .  The  other  shai)e. 
If  shape  it  might  be  call'd  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb. 
Or  substance  might  be  call'd  that  shadow  seemed. 
For  each  seem'd  either;  black  it  stood  as  Night, 
Fierce  as  ten  Furie-;,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart.     What  seem'd  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat. 
The  monster  moving  onward,  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides.  Hell  trembled  as  he  strode, 
Th'  undaunted  Fiend  what  this  might  be  admired  — 
Admired,  not  feared.' 

Satan,  unterrified,  and  burning  like  a  comet,  advances.     But  the 

snaky  sorceress,  rushing  between  the  combatants,  takes  from  her 

side  the  fatal  key,  and  unlocks  the  gates,  whose  'furnace-mouth' 

would  admit   'a   bainiered  host   with    extended  wings.'     On   the 

frontiers  of  Cliaos,  tli(^  flyi"g  Fiend  weighs  his  spread  wings,  and 

descries  — 

'This  pendent  world,  in  bigness  as  a  star 
Of  smallest  mntrnitude  close  by  the  moon.' 

In  prospect  of  Eden,  he  falls  into  painful  doubts: 

'Me  miserable!   which  way  shall  I  fiy 
Infinite  wrath,  and  infuiile  despair? 
Which  way  I  lly  is  Hell:   myself  am  Hell, 


MILTON.  483 

And  in  the  lowest  deep  a  lower  deep 
Still  threatening  to.  devour  me  opens  wide, 
To  which  the  Hell  I  suffer  seems  a  Heav'n.' 

There  is  no  repentance,  no  pardon,  but  by  submission;  and  that, 
disdain  forbids: 

'So  farewell  hope,  and  with  hope  farewell  fear. 
Farewell  remorse:  all  good  to  me  is  lost: 
Evil  be  thou  my  good;   by  thee  at  least 
Divided  empire  with  Heav'n's  King  I  hold.' 

He  reaches  the  wall,  overleaps  it,  sees  Adam  and  Eve,  hears  them 
converse  as  they  repose  on  the  velvet  green,  amid  sporting  kids 
and  ramping  lions  under  trees  of  ambrosial  fruitage: 

'Sight  hateful!   sight  tormenting!   thus  these  two, 
Imparadised  in  one  another's  arms, 
The  happier  Eden,  shall  enjoy  their  fill 
Of  bliss  on  bliss;  while  I  to  Hell  am  thrust. 
Where  neither  joy  nor  love,  but  fierce  desire. 
Among  our  other  torments  not  the  least. 
Still  unfulfiird  with  pain  of  longing,  pines. 
Yet  let  me  not  forget  what  I  have  gained 
From  their  own  mouths;  all  is  not  theirs,  it  seems; 
One  fatal  tree  there  stands,  of  Knowledge  call'd. 
Forbidden  them  to  taste:   Knowledge  forbidden?' 

He  is  arrested,  by  a  night-watch,  while  tempting  Eve  in  a  dream, 
and  brought  into  the  presence  of  Gabriel,  but  escapes;  returns, 
however,  in  a  rising  mist  at  midnight: 

'Cautious  of  day. 
Since  Uriel,  regent  of  tlie  sun,  descry'd 
His  entrance,  and  forewarned  the  Cherubim 
That  kept  their  watch.' 

Entering  into  the  form  of  a  serpent,  he  spies  Eve  apart,  veiled  in 
a  cloud  of  fragrance: 

'So  thick  the  roses  blushing  round 
About  her  glow'd,  oft  stooping  to  support 
Each  flow'r  of  slender  stalk,  whose  head,  though  gay 
Carnation,  purple,  azure,  or  speck'd  with  gold. 
Hung  drooping  unsustaincd." 

He  knows  she  is  a  woman,  and  therefore  must  first  use  all  his  arts 
to  lure  the  eye,  approaching, — 

'Not  with  indented  wave. 
Prone  on  the  ground,  as  since,  but  on  his  rear. 
Circular  ba<o  of  rising  folds,  that  tower'd 
Fold  above  fold  a  sursring  maze,  his  head 
Crested  aloft,  and  carbuncle  his  eyes: 
With  buniish'd  neck  of  verdant  gftld,  erect 
Amidst  his  circling  spires,  that  on  the  grass 
Floated  redundant.' 


48-i       PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Slie  hears  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves,  but  heeds  not,  because  she 
is  used  to  it.      Bolder  now,  he  presents  himself: 

'But  11*  in  gaze  admiring,  oft  lie  bo\v"d 
His  turret  crest  and  >;leek  enaniel"d  neck, 
Fawning,  and  lick'd  tlie  ground  wliereon  slie  trod, 
His  gentle  dumb  expression  turn'd  ut  lengtli 
The  eye  of  Eve  to  mark  iiis  plaj'.' 

Having  her  attention,  the  next  point  is  to  excite  the  ruling 
passion  —  curiosity,  which  he  does  by  the  most  delicate  of  com- 
pliments. Amazed  to  hear  a  brute  articulate,  she  wants  to  know 
what  it  can  mean,  and  he  explains: 

'Empress  of  tliis  fair  world,  resplendent  Eve, 
Easy  to  me  it  is  to  tell  thee  all 

What  thou  command'st;  and  right  thou  ghould"st  be  obey'd. 
I  was  at  first  as  other  beasts  that  graze 
The  trodden  herb,  of  abject  thoughts  and  low, 
As  was  my  food:   nor  aught  but  food  discern'd. 
Or  sex,  and  apprehended  nothing  high: 
Till  on  a  day  roving  the  field,  I  chanced 
A  goodly  tree  far  distant  to  behold, 
Loadcn  with  fruit  of  fairest  colours  mix'd. 
Ruddy  and  gold.  ...  To  pluck  and  eat  my  fill 
I  spared  not:    for  such  pleasure  till  that  hour 
At  feed  or  fountain  never  had  I  found." 

With  many  wiles  and  arguments  he  overcomes  her  scruples,  and 
induces  her  to  eat.     She  says: 

'  In  the  day  we  eat 
f)f  this  fair  fruit,  our  doom  is,  we  shall  die. 
How  dies  the  serpent?  he  hath  eaten  and  lives. 
And  knows,  and  si)eaks,  and  reasons,  and  discerns, 
Irrational  till  then." 

True  and  conclusive: 

'So  saying,  her  rash  hand,  in  evil  hour, 
Forlli  reaching  to  the  fruit,  she  plucked,  slie  eat  I 
Earth  felt  tile  wound:  aiul  Nature  from  her  seat 
Sighini;,  through  all   lier  works  gave  signs  of  woe, 
That  all  was  lost." 

Satan,  triunq>}iant,  arrives  at  Pandemonium,  and  exultingly  re- 
lates his  success,  lie  awaits  their  shout  of  applause,  but  hears 
instead,  on  all  sides,  only  a  dismal  liiss: 

'He  wonilercd,  hut  not  long 
Had  leisure,  wond'rinir  at  himself  now  more: 
llis  visage  drawn  he  filt  to  sharp  and  spare, 
His  arms  clum:  to  his  ribs,  his  leu's  inlwining 
Kacli  other,  til)   sui)plant<'d  down  he  fell 
A  monstrous  serpent  on  his  belly  prone, 
Keluctant,  but  in  \ain:  a  greater  Pow"r 


MILTON.  485 

Now  ruled  him,  punish'd  in  the  shape  he  sinn'd 
According  to  his  doom.    He  would  have  spoke, 
But  hiss  for  hiss  return'd  with  forked  tongue 
To  forked  tongue/ 

Solaced  by  the  promise  of  redemption,  the  fallen  pair  are  led 
forth  from  Paradise,  casting  back  one  fond  lingering  look  upon 
their  happy  seat, — 

'Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand,  the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  throng'd  and  fiery  arms. 
Some  natural  tears  they  dropt,  but  wiped  them  soon.' 

Style. — The  difficulties  of  his  prose  —  the  heaviness  of  its 
logic,  the  clumsiness  of  its  discussions,  the  involution  of  its  sen- 
tences—  have  almost  sealed  it  to  common  readers;  but  if  it  lacks 
simplicity  and  perspicuity,  it  has  what  is  nobler  —  breadth  of 
eloquence,  wealth  of  imagery,  sublimity  of  diction. 

His  poetical  manner,  with  more  of  richness  and  inversion,  is 
essentially  the  same  —  ample,  measured,  and  organ-like;  not  im- 
pulsive and  abrupt,  but  solid  and  regular,  as  of  one  who  writes 
from  a  superb  self-command.  All  languages,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern, contributed  something  of  splendor,  of  energy,  of  music;  but 
no  exotic  is  so  largely  and  conspicuously  helpful  as  the  stately 
Latin,  as  none  is  so  valuable  for  the  purposes  of  harmony.  Many 
of  his  grandest  lines  consist  chiefly  of  this  element,  as, — 
'■The  palpable  obscure.'' 

^Ruin  ujjon  ruin,  rout  on  rovt. 
Confusion  worse  confounded.^ 

*  'Deep  on  hXi  front  engraven 

Deliberation  sat,  and  public  care.' 

'Sonorous  metal  blowing  mart'ml  sounds.' 

'■J7irones,  dominations,  princedoms,  virtues,  powers.' 

His  fondness  for  Latinisms  is  perceptible  in  every  such  arrange- 
ment as  — 

'■I/i?n  tile  Almitrhty  power 
Hurled  lu-adlong,  flaminLT  down  the  cthorcal  hcislits,' 

and  in  that  strictly  ]ieriodic  structure,  of  which  finer  examples 
can  nowhere  be  found  than  those  already  given.  A  few  of  his 
ejiithets,  taken  at  random,  will  suggest  his  ruling  characteristics, 
— 'hideous  ruin  and  combustion';  'wasteful  deep';  'ge?itle  gales, 
fanning  their  odoriferous  wings';  'gav-enam(dled  colors';  'pon- 
derous shield,  ethereal  teinj^er,  massv,  large,  and  round.' 

His  rhythm  beats  with   no  intermittent  pulse.      lie  is  unerr- 


486       PHILOSOPHIC   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

ingly  harmonious.  To  specify  hut  two  or  three  of  the  modes 
by  which  from  the  iambic  blank  he  obtains  the  most  felicitous 
effects: 

1.  By  the  interchange  of  feet, — 

Trochee '■High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state.' 

AnapiBst ' Created  hw^egt  that  sa'wi  the  ocean  stream.' 

Spondee 'The  force  of  those  dire  artns." 

2.  lit)  a  perpetual  change  of  the  cce.niral  pause, — 

'At  once,      as  far  as  angel's  ken  he  views 

The  dismal  situation,      waste  and  wild; 

A  dungeon  horrible,      on  all  sides  round, 

As  one  great  furnace  llamcd,      yet  from  those  flames 

No  light,      but  rather  darkness  visible. 

Served  only  to  discover      sights  of  woe. 

Regions  of  sorrow,      doleful  shades,      where  peace 

And  rest  can  never  dwell,      hope  never  comes 

That  comes  to  all,      but  torture  without  end 

Still  urges,      and  a  fiery  deluge  fed 

With  ever-burning  sulphur      unconsumed." 

3.  By  an  unequalled  skill  in  the  management  of  sound. 
How  expressive  of  harshness, — 

'On  a  sudden  open  fly. 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound. 
The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinge-^  grate 
Harsh  thunder." 

How  expressive  of  peace, — 

'Heaven  opened  wide 
Her  ever-during  gates,  harmonious  sound, 
On  golden  hinges  turning.'  • 

Or  of  the  uproar  of  contending  liosts, — 

'Arms  on  armor  clashing  bray'd 
Horrible  discord,  and  the  maddini:  wheels 
Of  brazen  chariots  raged.' 

Or  of  the  virgin  charms  of  Eden, — 

'Airs,  vernal  airs, 
BrcatliinL'  thr  smell  of  (ield  and  grove,  attune 
The  tremblins  leaves,  while  universal   Pan, 
Knit  with  the  L'rarcs  and  tlie  hours  in  dance, 
Led  (in  tlic  ctornal  spring.' 

His  natural  niovcniont  is  majestic,  as  of  a  full  deep  stream; 
but  not,  as  we  havo  scon,  without  its  phases.  In  his  master- 
pieces, we  may  see,  in  the  order  of  their  execution,  what  might 
be  expected  a  priori, —  the  intellectual  gaining  upon  the  sensual 
(jualities  of  art:    the  youthful   freshness  of    Comus,  passages  of 


MILTON.  487 

which  might  have  been  written  by  Fletcher  or  Shakespeare;  the 
grave  full-toned  harmonies  of  Paradise  Lost,'  the  rugged  eccen- 
tricities and  harsh  inversions  of  Paradise  Regained;  and  the 
cold,  uncompromising  severity  of  Samson  Agonistes. 

Hank. — As  a  poet,  he  was  little  regarded  by  his  contempora- 
ries. '  The  old  blind  poet,'  says  Waller,  '  hath  published  a  tedious 
poem  on  the  Fall  of  Man.  If  its  length  be  not  considered  as  a 
merit,  it  hath  no  other.'  To  be  neglected  by  them  was  the  pen- 
alty paid  for  surpassing  them.  The  fame  of  a  great  man  needs 
time  to  give  it  due  perspective.  He  was  esteemed  and  feared, 
however,  as  a  learned  and  powerful  disputant.  His  prose  writ- 
ings, in  his  own  day,  seem  to  have  been  read  with  avidity;  but 
the  interests  which  inspired  them  were  accidental,  while  in  argu- 
ment they  have  the  rambling  course  of  indignation,  and  their 
cloth  of  gold  is  disfigured  with  the  mud  of  invective. 

The  poet  of  revealed  religion  under  its  Puritanic  type.  Para- 
dise Lost  is  the  epic  of  a  fallen  cause,  the  embodiment  of 
Puritan  England  —  its  grand  ambitions,  its  colossal  energies, 
its  strenuous  struggles,  its  broken  hope,  its  proud  and  sombre 
horizon.  It  has  the  distinguishing  merit  and  signal  defect  of  the 
Puritan  temper, —  the  equable  realization  of  a  great  purpose,  and 
the  painful  want  of  a  large,  genial  humanity. 

The  last  of  the  Elizabethans;  holding  liis  place  on  the  borders 
of  the  Renaissance,  which  was  setting,  and  of  the  Doctrinal  Age, 
which  was  rising;  between  the  epoch  of  natural  belief,  of  un- 
biased fancy,  and  the  epoch  of  severe  religion,  of  narrow  opin- 
ions; displaying,  under  limitations,  the  old  creativeness  in  new 
subjects;  concentrating  the  literary  past  and  future;  and  when 
liis  proper  era  had  passed  by,  looming  in  solitary  greatness  at  a 
moment  when  imagination  was  extinct  and  taste  was  depraved. 

By  the  purity  of  his  sentiments  and  the  sustained  fulness  of 
his  style,  he  holds  affinity  with  Spenser,  who  calmly  dreams;  by 
his  theme  and  majesty,  with  Dante,  who  is  fervid  and  rapt;  by 
his  profundity  and  learning,  with  Bacon,  who  is  more  comprehen- 
sive; by  his  inspiration,  with  Shakes})eare,  who  is  freer  and  more 
varied:  but  in  sublimity  he  excels  them  all,  even  Homer.  The 
first  two  books  of  Paradise  Lost  are  continued  instances  of  tlie 
sublime. 

Its  heicfht  is  what   distinguishes  the  entire  poem   from  every 


488        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Other.  Its  central  figure,  the  ruined  arch-angel,  is  the  most 
tremendous  conception  in  the  compass  of  poetry;  no  longer  the 
petty  mischief-maker,  the  horned  enchanter,  of  the  middle-age, 
but  a  giant  and  a  hero,  whose  eyes  are  like  eclipsed  suns,  whose 
cheeks  are  thunder-scarred,  whose  wings  are  as  two  black  forests; 
armed  with  a  shield  whose  circumference  is  the  orb  of  the  moon, 
with  a  spear  in  comparison  with  which  the  tallest  pine  were  but  a 
wand;  doubly  armed  by  pride,  fury,  and  despair;  brave  and  faith- 
ful to  his  troops,  touched  with  pity  for  his  innocent  victims, 
pleading  necessity  for  his  design,  actuated  less  by  pure  malice 
than  by  ambition  and  resentment. 

Burns  resolved  to  buy  a  pocket-copy  of  Milton,  and  study  that 
noble  (V)  character,  Satan;  not  that  his  interest  fastened  upon  tlie 
evil,  but  upon  the  miraculous  manifestation  of  energy, —  the  vehe- 
ment will,  the  spiritual  might,'  which  could  overpower  racking 
pains,  and,  in  the  midst  of  desolation,  cry: 

'  Hail,  horrors !  hail 
Infernal  world '.  and  thoti,  ])rofoundest  hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor!' 

But  stoical  self-repression  limits  the  imagination.  If  he  was 
the  loftiest  of  great  ])oets,  none  ever  had  loss  of  that  dramatic 
sensibility  which  creates  and  differentiates  souls,  endowing  each 
witli  its  appropriate  act  and  word.  He  can  neither  forgot  nor 
conceal  himself.  Tlie  most  aft'ecting  passages  in  his  great  epic 
are  personal  allusions,  as  when  ho  reverts  to  the  scenes  which 
exist  no  longer  to  him: 

'Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  ai)i)roacli  of  ev'n  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  lurds,  or  human  face  divine; 
]{ut  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me." 

His  individuality  is  always  present.  Adam  and  Eve  are  often 
dillicult  to  l)o  sojiarated.  They  pay  each  other  pliilosophical 
complimonts,  and  couvorso  in  dissertations.  She  is  too  serious. 
If  you  are  mortal,  you  will  sooner  love  the  laughing  Hosalind, 
with  hor  bird-lik(>  j)otulance  and  volubility: 

•()  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  jirctty  litth-  coz,  that  thou  didst  know  how  many  fathoms  deep  I 
am  in  love." ' 

'W  liy,  how  now,  Orlando,  where  have  you  been  all  this  while?     You  a  lover'' ''' 

1.1. V  }*'/(/  LiKe  If.        'UbiiL 


MILTON.  489 

Or  to  one  who  has  seen  her  lover  in  this  autumn  glade: 

'What  said  he?  how  looked  he?  Wherein  went  lie?  Did  he  ask  for  me?  Where 
remains  he?  How  parted  he  with  thee?  and  when  shalt  thou  see  liini  again?  ...  Do  you 
not  know  that  I  am  a  woman?    Wlien  I  think,  I  must  speak.    Sweet,  say  on."' 

Eve  is  Milton's  ideal.  With  her  he  would  have  been  happy. 
There  would  have  been  no  friction.  He  would  administer  the 
scientific  draughts  required,  and  she  would  reply  becomingly, 
gratefully,  as  he  wished: 

'My  .  .  .  Disposer,  what  thou  bidst. 
Unargued,  I  obey;   so  God  ordains: 
God  is  thy  law,  thou  mine;   to  know  no  more 
Is  woman's  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise. 
With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike." 

As  for  Adam,  no  mortal  Avoman  could  love  liim,  however  siie 
might  admire  him, —  least  of  all  Mary  Powel. 

Milton  could  not  divorce  himself  from  dialectics.  His  Jeho- 
vah is  too  much  of  an  advocate.  He  expounds  and  enforces 
theology  like  an  Oxford  divine.  The  highest  art  is  only  in- 
directly didactic.  Tlie  most  exquisite  can  produce  no  illusion 
when  it  is  employed  to  represent  the  transcendent  and  absolute. 
Spiritual  agents  caimot  be  poetically  expressed  with  metaphysical 
accuracy.  They  must  be  clothed  in  material  forms, —  must  have 
a  sphere  and  mode  of  agency  not  wholly  superhuman.^ 

Character. — He  was  born  for  great  ideas  and  great  service. 
At  ten  lie  had  a  learned  tutor,  and  at  twelve  he  worked  until 
midnight.  John  the  Baptist  is  himself  when  in  Paradise  lie- 
(jained  he  is  made  to  say: 

'Whilo  I  was  yet  a  child,  no  childish  play 
Ti)  me  was  pleasing;  all  my  mind  was  set 
Serious  lo  learn  and  know,  and  thence  to  do. 
What  niiiilit  be  public  good;   myself  I  thought 
Born  to  llmt  end,  born  to  promote  all  truth. 
All  righteous  things.' 

No  man  ever  conceived  a  loftier  ideal,  or  a  firmer  resolve  to  un- 
fold it.  Amid  tlit>  licentious  gallantries  of  the  South  he  })er- 
fected  himself  l)y  study,  without  soiling  himself  by  contagion: 

1  .1.9  You  Like  It. 

-M.  Taiiie  (leiiiands  <if  tlio  jwct  what  is  altogether  inipossilile. —  that  God  and  Mes- 
siali  should  act  and  feel  in  conformity  witli  their  essential  natures.  To  recoiuilf  the 
spiritual  properties  of  supernatural  beinu's  with  the  huuian  modes  of  exisfenee  wliieli  it  is 
vrfftsnrij  to  ascribe  to  tliein,  is  a  difliculty  too  <:reat  for  the  huuian  mind  to  mercome. 
The  intinite  cannot  be  made  to  enter  Unite  limits  without  j:ir  ami  collision.  If  may  be 
justly  insisted,  of  course,  that  the  Deity  shall  not  be  bound  to  a  precise  fornnihi. 


490        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'I  call  the  Deity  to  witness  that  in  all  those  places  in  which  vice  meets  with  so  little 
disconriigement,  and  is  practised  with  so  little  slianie,  I  never  once  deviated  from  the 
paths  of  integrity  and  virtue,  and  perpetually  retlected  that,  though  my  coilduct  might 
escape  the  notice  of  men,  it  could  not  elude  the  inspection  of  God.' 

The  idea  of  a  purer  existence  than  any  he  saw  around  him,  regu- 
lated all  his  toil: 

"He  who  would  aspire  to  write  well  in  laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true 
poem;  .  .  .  not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men  or  famous  cities  unless  he 
have  in  himself  the  experience  and  the  practice  of  all  that  which  is  praiseworthy." 

Not  art,  but  life,  was  tlie  end  of  his  effort, —  to  identify  himself 
and  others  with  all  select  and  holy  images.  Comus  is  but  a 
hymn  to  cliastity.  Two  noble  passages  attest  the  conviction 
which  fired  him,  the  purpose  which  no  temptation  could  shake, 
and  which  gives  such  authority  to  his  strain: 

'Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  Virtue  would 
By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and  moon 
Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.' 

And: 

'This  I  hold  firm;— 
Virtue  may  be  assail'd,  but  never  hurt,— 
Surpris'd  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthrall'd: 
Yea,  even  that,  which  mischief  meant  most  harm. 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory; 
Bui  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil. 
And  mix  no  more  with  goodness:   when  at  last 
Gather'd  like  scum,  and  ge//Ud  to  itself. 
It  .thull  tje  in  eternal  restleax  change. 
Self -fed,  and  self -consumed;  if  this  fail, 
TVie  pillar'd  firmament  is  rottenness. 
And  earth's  base  bnill  on  stubble.' 

The  mind  thus  consecrated  to  moral  beauty,  is  stamped  with  the 
superscription  of  the  Most  High.  Like  the  Puritans,  his  eye 
was  fixed  continually  on  an  Almighty  Judge.  This  was  the  light 
that  irradiated  his  darkness,  and,  early  and  late,  on  all  sides 
round, — 

'As  one  great  furnace  flamed.' 

Tliis  was  the  idea,  strengthened  l)v  vast  knowledge  and  solitary 
meditation,  that  absorbed  all  the  rest  of  his  being,  and  made 
him  the  sublimcst  of  men.  Hence  the  poems  that  rise  like  tem- 
ples, and  the  rhythms  that  flow  like  organ  chants.  Hence  the 
contempt  of  external  circumstances,  the  purpose  that  will  not 
bend  to  opposition  nor  yield  to  seduction,  the  courage  to  per- 
form a  ]H>rilous  duty  and  to  combat  for  what  is  true  or  .sacred. 
Hence   the  calm,  conscious  energv  which    no  subject,  howsoever 


MILTON.  491 

vast  or  terrific,  can  repel  or  intimidate,  which  no  emotion  or 
accident  can  transform  or  disturb,  which  no  suffering  can  render 
sullen  or  fretful.  Hence  the  larger  conception  of  perpetual 
growth,  the  consequent  reverence  for  human  nature,  hatred  of 
the  institutions  which  fetter  the  mind,  devotion  to  freedom  — 
above  all,  freedom  of  speech,  of  conscience  and  worship.  Par- 
ents and  friends  had  destined  him  for  the  ministry,  but, — 

'Coming  to  some  maturity  of  years,  and  perceiving  what  tyranny  had  invaded  the 
church,  that  he  who  would  take  orders  must  subscribe  slave,  and  take  an  oath  withal, 
which  unless  he  took  with  a  conscience  that  would  retch,  he  must  either  straight  perjure, 
or  split  his  faith;  I  thought  it  better  to  prefer  a  blameless  silence  before  the  sacred  office 
of  speaking,  bought  and  begun  with  servitude  and  forswearing/ 

Hence,  too, —  from  the  endurance  of  the  God-idea,  from  the  fixed 
determination  to  live  nobly  and  act  grandly, —  he  preserved  his 
moral  ardor  intact  from  the  withering  and  polluting  infiuences  of 
politics,  which  generally  extinguish  sentiment  and  imagination  in 
a  sordid  and  calculating  selfishness. 

Can  we  expect  humor  here?  —  Only  at  distant  intervals,  and 
then  with  strange  slips  into  the  grotesque,  as  in  the  heavy  witti- 
cisms of  the  devils  on  the  effect  of  their  artillery.  Thus  Satan 
seeing  the  confusion  of  the  angels,  calls  to  his  mates: 

'O  Friends,  why  come  not  on  these  victors  i)roud? 
Ere  while  they  fierce  were  coming;  and  when  we 
To  entertain  them  fair  with  open  front 
And  breast  (what  could  we  more?)  propounded  terms 
Of  composition,  straight  they  changed  their  minds, 
Flew  off,  and  into  strange  vagaries  fell, 
As  they  would  dance;  yet  for  a  dance  Ihey  seem"d 
Somewhat  extravagant  and  wild.' 

And  Belial  answers: 

'Leader,  the  terms  we  sent  were  terms  of  weight. 
Of  hard  contents,  and  full  of  force  urged  home. 
Such  as  we  might  i)erceive  amused  them  all. 
And  stumbled  many;  who  receives  them  right. 
Had  need  from  head  to  foot  well  understand.' 

Naturally,  his  hal)its  of  living  were  austere.  He  was  an  early 
riser,  and  abstemious  in  diet.  The  lyrist,  he  tlunight,  might 
indulge  in  wine,  and  in  a  freer  life;  liut  he  who  would  write  ;in 
epic  to  the  nations,  must  eat  beans  and  drink  water.  His  anuise- 
ments  consisted  in  gardening,  in  exercise  with  tlie  sword,  and  in 
playing  on  th(>  organ.  Music,  he  insisted,  should  form  part  of 
a  generous  education.  His  ear  for  it  was  acute;  tiiid  his  voice, 
it  is  said,  was  sweet  and  harmonious.      In  youth,  handsome  to  a 


492        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

proverb,  he  was  called  the  lady  of  his  college.  The  simplicity  of 
his  later  years  accorded  with  his  inner  greatness.  He  listened 
every  morning  to  a  chapter  from  the  Hebrew  Bible;  and,  after 
meditating  in  silence  on  what  he  had  heard,  studied  till  mid-day; 
then,  after  an  hour's  exercise,  he  attuned  himself  to  majesty  and 
purity  of  thought  with  music,  and  resumed  his  studies  till  six. 

The  most  devout  man  of  his  time,  he  frequented  no  place  of 
worship.  He  was  perhaps  too  dissatisfied  with  the  clashing  sys- 
tems of  the  age  to  attach  himself  to  any  sect.  Finding  his  ideal 
in  none,  he  prayed  to  God  alone  : 

'Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples^  the  upright  heart,  and  pure.'  > 

The  discovery,  in  1823,  of  his  Treatise  on  C/tristian  Doctrine 
excited  considerable  amazement  by  its  heterodox  opinions.  In 
this  he  avers  himself  an  anti-Trinitarian,  and  teaches  that  the  Son 
is  distinct  from  the  Father,  infericjr  to  Him,  created  by  Him,  and 
afterwards  employed  by  Him  to  carry  on  the  creative  work.  He 
is  opposed,  as  were  most  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  to  the  doc- 
trine of  creation  out  of  nothing;  and  maintains  that,  since  there 
can  be  no  act  without  a  passive  nuiterial  on  which  the  act  was 
exerted,  the  world  was  formed  out  of  a  preexistent  substance. 
To  the  question,  What  and  whence  is  this  primary  substance?  he 
answers:  It  proceeded  from  (rod,  'an  efllux  of  tlie  Deity.' ^  He 
differs  from  the  majoritv,  again,  in  the  rejection  of  infant  bap- 
tism, and  in  the  assertion  that  under  the  Gospel  no  time  is  ap- 
pointed for  j)ul)lic  worshiji,  but  that  the  observance  of  the  first 
dav  of  the  week  rests  wholly  on  expediency  and  general  consent. 
On  two  other  i)()ints  he  satisfies  himself  with  the  prevalent  no- 
tions,—  original  sin,  and  redemption  through  Clirist. 

In  the  order  of  ProvjihMice,  the  highest  and  greatest  must  have 
more  or  less  .sympathy  with  their  age.  Hence  his  controversial 
asperity.  GentlciiiiMi  now  ar(^  expected  to  dispute  with  an  elegant 
<ligiiity.  In  thosn  days,  they  soug'ht  to  devour  each  other,  or, 
failing  in  this,  to  cover  each  other  with  filth.  Some  of  his  offend- 
<'rs    deserved    no    mercy.      Salmasius,    a    hired    ])edant,    disgorges 

'  Pnra'lUe  I.Of>'  Iririiralion . 

^  Tho^-c  who  rcprocni,  uitli  Mucaiilny,  ihut  Milton  asserts  tlic  eternity  of  matter,  are 
in  error,  a-  is  evident  from  the  follow  jnt;  |),i-sa'_'e,  than  whifli  nothiiiir  eoiihl  he  more  ex- 
lilieit:  ''I'hat  miller.  I  -^.ly,  shoiiM  have  exi-le(l  from  al!  eternity,  is  in(oncei\al)le.  If, 
on  the  rontrary,  it  'iid  not  exist  from  all  eternity,  it  is  ditVicult  to  nn<li'rslan(l  from  whence 
it  (leri\e-.  its  oriirin,  'I'liere  remain^,  tlnrefoie,  Init  one  solution  of  the  ditlienlty.  ff>r 
which,  moreover,  we  ha\e  the  aiitlKiriiy  of  Scrijitiiri  ,  namely,  that  all  tliin;.'s  are  of  tiod." 


MILTON.  493 

upon  him  a  torrent  of  calumny,  and  he  replies  with  a  dictionary 
of  epithets  —  rogue,  wretch,  idiot,  ass: 

'You  who  know  so  many  tongues,  who  read  so  many  books,  who  write  so  mnch 
about  them,  you  are  yet  but  an  ass." 

Again: 

'O  most  drivelling  of  asses,  you  come  ridden  by  a  woman,  with  the  curled  heads  of 
bishops  whom  you  had  wounded.' 

And  again: 

'Doubt  not  that  you  are  reserved  for  the  same  end  as  Judas,  and  that,  driven  by 
despair  rather  than  repentance,  self-disgusted,  you  must  one  day  hang  yourself,  and  like 
your  rival  burst  asunder  in  your  belly." 

Such  passages  every  admirer  of  Milton  must  lament.  When 
interests  of  infinite  moment  are  at  stake,  the  deeply  moved  soul 
will  speak  strongly.  The  general  strain  of  his  prose,  however, 
must  exalt  him,  notwithstanding  its  occasional  violence;  but  in 
the  more  congenial  sphere  of  poetry,  he  ever  appears  in  the 
serene  strength,  the  sedate  patience,  which  was  proper  to  him. 

To  the  manners  and  spirit  of  his  age,  as  well  as  to  his  severe 
sanctitude,  is  due  his  conception  of  female  excellence  and  the 
relative  position  of  the  sexes: 

'N^ot  equal,  as  tlieir  sex  not  equal  seem"d: 
For  contemplation  he  and  valour  forni'd. 
For  i'oftness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace; 
He  for  God  only,  slie  for  God  in  him. 
His  fair  large  front  and  eye  sublime  declared 
Absolute  rule;  and  hyacintliine  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clusfring,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad: 
She,  as  a  veil  down  to  the  slender  waist. 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 
Dishcvell'd,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  waved 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils;    which  imply'd 
Subjection,  but  required  with  gentle  sway. 
And  by  lier  yielded,  by  liim  best  received; 
Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride, 
And  sweet  reluctant  amorous  delay."  ' 

Milton's  heart  lived  in  a  sublime  solitude.  Disappoititod  of  a 
companionship  there,  he  regarded  the  actual  woman  with  scnno 
thing  of  condescension,  and,  incapable  of  those  attcMitioiis  which 
make  companionship  sw(H^t,  probably  exacted  a  studious  respect. 
As  for  stMisibility  and  tenderness,  it  was  essential  to  his  perfcH't- 
ness  that  the  nature  should  be  quiet.  A  great  iiiind  is  mast(>r  of 
its  enthusiasm, —  the  less  perturbed,  the  closer  its  resemblance  to 

^Paradise  Lot^f,  IV:  .Adam  and  Eve. 


494        PHILOSOPHIC    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

the  Divine.  Its  emotion,  though  more  intense  and  enduring  than 
that  of  other  men,  is  calmer,  and  therefore  less  observed.  We 
have  seen  wliat  susceptibility  breathes  in  Milton's  early  poetry, — 
not  light  or  gay,  indeed,  but  always  healthful  and  bright.  And 
later,  in  his  essay  on  Education,  he  says: 

'In  those  venial  seasons  of  the  year  when  the  air  is  calm  and  pleasant,  it  were  an 
injury  and  siiUeniiess  against  Nature  not  to  go  out  and  see  her  riches,  and  partake  in 
her  rejoicing  with  heaven  and  eartli/ 

When  old,  tried,  and  sightless,  he  could  turn  from  the  stormy 
scenery  of  the  infernal  regions,  and  luxuriate  in  the  loveliness 
of  Paradise,  the  innocent  joy  of  its  inhabitants.  There  is  no 
mistaking  the  fine  sense  of  beauty  and  the  pure  deep  affection  of 
these  exquisite  lines,  which  the  gentle  Eve  addresses  to  her  lover 
in  the  'shady  bowers'  of  Eden: 

'Neither  breath  of  Morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds;   nor  rising  Sun 
On  this  delightful  land;   nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glist'ring  with  dew;   nor  fragrance  after  showers; 
Nor  grateful  ev'ning  mild;  nor  s^ilent  Night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  Moon, 
Or  glitt'ring  star-liglit,  without  thee  is  sweet.' 

An  Independent  in  i)olitics  and  religion,  a  hero,  a  martyr,  a 
recluse,  a  dweller  in  an  ideal  city,  standing  alone  and  aloof  above 
his  times,  and,  when  eyes  of  flesh  were  sightless,  wandering  the 
more  'where  the  Muses  haunt,' — truly — 

'Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart.' 

Influence. —  .Such  men  are  sent  as  soldiers  of  humanity. 
Thev  use  tlic  .sacii'd  fire,  divinely  kindled  within  them,  not  to 
amuse  men  or  to  l)uild  up  a  rejiutation,  Imt  to  awaken  kindred 
greatness  in  otiiiM-  souls.  What  service  Milton  has  rendered  to 
mankind  by  his  love  of  freedom  and  the  high,  brave  morals  he 
taught  I  On  account  of  the  learning  necessary  to  their  full  com- 
])rchension,  his  works  will  never  be  jiopular  in  the  sense  in  which 
those  of  Shakes])('ar('  are  so,  or  Bunyan,  or  Burns,  or  even  I'ope 
and  Cowj^er;  but,  like  the  Or;/(nnmi,  they  move  the  intellects 
which  jnove  the  world.  As  culture  spreads  and  approaches  their 
s])iritual  lu-iglits,  the  more  they  will  reveal  their  efficacy  to 
purify,  invigorate,  and  dcliglit;  the  more  will  man  asj>ire  to  emu- 
late the  zeal,  the  fortitude,  tlie  virtue,  the  t(Ml,  the  heroism,  of 
tliiir  author. 

It  is  a  Chin(\se  maxim,  that  'a  sage  is  the  instructor  of  a  hun- 


MILTON.  495 

dred  ages.'  Talk  much  with  such  a  one,  and  you  acquire  his 
quality, —  the  habit  of  looking  at  things  as  he.  From  him  pro- 
ceeds mental  and  moral  force,  will  he  or  not.  He  is  of  those  who 
make  a  period,  as  well  as  mark  it;  who,  without  ceasing  to  help 
us  as  a  cause,  help  us  also  as  an  effect;  who  reach  so  high,  that 
age  and  comparison  cannot  rob  them  of  power  to  inspire;  who 
turn,  by  their  moral  alchemy, 

'The  common  dust 
Of  servile  opportunity  to  gold, 
Filling  the  soul  with  sentiments  august, 
The  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  holy,  and  the  just." 


INDEX. 


Abelard,  fame  and  influence,  87 :  and 
Eloise,  111:  on  ethical  good,  126; 
heresies,  182. 

iElfric,  translates  Bible,  117. 

Albion,  ancient  name  of  Britain,  3. 

Alchemy,  128,  189.  2,30. 

Alchemist,  quoted  and  criticised,  447. 

Alcuin,  quoted,  86;  allusion  to,  148. 

Alexander,  115. 

Alfred,  laws  of,  61,  66:  position  in 
English  prose,  117;  biography  and 
criticism,  148-1/56. 

Alliteration.  02.  180. 

Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  (juoted  and 
criticised.  427. 

Ancren  Riicle.  quoted,  117. 

Aneurin,  battle  ode  of,  17. 

Angelo,  Michael,  287. 

Angles,  coming  of.  6. 

Anglia,  settled,  7. 

Anglo-Norman  history  in  word- 
forms,  57. 

Anglo-Saxon  language.  See  Lan- 
guage. 

Anglo-Saxons,  origin.  21:  orders  of, 
21;  basis  of  society.  22:  chanicter- 
istics.  22,  33;  government.  23:  fam- 
ily tie,  22:  culture.  23:  sui)crsli- 
tioiis,  23;  theology,  24:  huri.il  cus- 
toms, 27;  nomenclature  for  days  of 
the  week,  25:  jiopular  pliilnsophy. 
30:  savagery,  33;  laws  of,  34:  com- 
pared witli  Celts,  35;  with  tiie  Nor- 
mans. 36;  persistent  sentiments, 
36:  language  of.  53. 

Anselm,  Archl)isliop  ol'  Cnnterliury. 
influence  of,  12:  (pioted.  HIS:  on  tlie 
being  of  (iod.  i:;i. 

Antipodes,  popular  notions  of,  129. 
191, 

Antony  and  Ch'opafra.  (pioted,  378. 

Apology,  325. 

Acpiinas,  Thomas,  perfects  scholasti- 
cism, 132. 

Arcadia,  (pioted  and  criticised.  341. 

Ariosto,  287. 

Aristotle,  philosopiiy  of.  331:  opposed 
Ity  Bruno,  331. 
32 


Arminius,  theology  of.  436. 

Arnold,  Dr.  Thoma.s.  quoted,  1. 

Art.  sovereignty  of,  145. 

Arthur,  legends  of.  7.  105,  107:  the 
death  of,  113:  a  romance  favorite, 
120;  in  Fairy  Queen,  360. 

Aryas,  Aryan,  the  mother-race.  2: 
influence  on  language,  44.  49. 

A.scham,  Roger,  quoted.  292.  293:  as 
critic.  321. 

Aseulanus,  martvrdom  of,  189. 

Ask.  myth  of,  24. 

As.ser,  (juoted,  153,  156. 

Astrology,  127,  189,  256. 

As  You  Like  It,  quoted  aiul  criti- 
cised, 377. 

Atheism,  foolishness  of.  470. 

Augustine,  St. , on  total  depravity,  125. 

Bacon,  Sir  Francis,  quoted,  157:  in- 
stitutes the  essay  form  of  conqxisi- 
tion,  321:  contributions  of.  to  the 
science  of  ethics.  328:  biography 
and  criticism.  456-472. 

Bacon.  Roger,  biography  and  criti- 
cism, 156-163. 

Baker's  Chronicle,  434. 

Bahh'r.  the  (Jood.  30. 

Ballad,  eariv.  247. 

Battle  of  J/aldon.  91. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  literary  C(v 
partiiei'sliip,  416:  (pioted  and  criti- 
cised. 416. 

Beauty,  vivid  sense  of.  in  the  He- 
naissance.  287:  trtu'  source  of.  3(i(i. 
370. 

Jk'cket.  Thomas  a,  piiirrima^-es  to  the 
shrine  of.  216. 

Bede,  .MfredV  translations  of.  117: 
biography  and  criticism,  145-!^. 

Bedford.  Duke  of.  (pioted.  240. 

Beoirulf.  (pioted  and  crit  icised.  95 : 
allusion  to,  137. 

Berenger.  on  transubstantiatioii.  100. 

Herkin's  Cases  of  Conseifin-i'.  437. 

Bernard.  St..  (pioted.  132. 

Bible,  inlluelleeupon  Kllglish  tllotlghl 
aiul  langmm-c.   326:    translated  by 


4!>7 


498 


INDEX. 


JFAhk',  117:  by  Wyoliffe.  200:  by 
Tvndalo.  327:  "revised  bv  Cover- 
dale,  327. 

Bishop  Go! ids,  79. 

Boadicea,  the  warrior-queen,  15. 

Boccaceio.  relation  to  the  Kenais- 
sanee,  174;  allusion  to,  287. 

Boethius'  Consolations  of  Phiiosoph  y, 
translated  by  Alfred,  150. 

Booh  of  Common  Prayer,  quoted,  270. 

Book  of  Scnfcnees,  132. 

Books,  nian\iseript  form  of  early,  and 
their  costliness,  83,  173,  237. 

Borde,  Andrew,  quoted,  330. 

Boyle,  (juoted.  435. 

Breriari/  of  Health,  quoted,  330. 

Britain,  geo<xraphy  of,  1;  area,  2: 
olinuite.  2:  political  divisions.  2; 
Caesar's  invasion  of,  4;  Roman  con- 
quest of.  4:  Aujjlo-Saxon  con(iuesl, 
5:  introduction  of  Christianity  into, 
5:  Danish  concpiest,  S:  Xornuxn 
conciuest,  8:  Celtic  p<'riod  of.  13; 
Danish  period.  18:  Norman  period, 
19:  Anglo-Saxon,  21. 

Britons,  prehistoric,  2;  heroism,  4; 
enervation  mider  Roman  rule,  6; 
apply  to  the  Jutes  for  aid,  6;  dis- 
possessed bv  the  Teutons,  7.  See 
Celts. 

Broken  Heart,  quoted  and  criticised, 
421. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  allusion  to  the 
Hjldriotapltia  of,  100:  quoted  and 
criticised,  429:  in  relation  to  ethics, 
437;  to  science,  440:  on  the  dig- 
nity and  destiny  of  man.  442. 

Bruno,  influence  and  martvi'ilom  of, 
329. 

Brut,  quoted  and  criticised.  112. 

Brutus,  legendary  founder  of  Brit- 
ain. 3. 

l>rvant.  Tlianatop.six.  100. 

BrVnhihl,  27,  35. 

Hurbage,  an  actoi-.  374. 

Burke,  Kdmimd,  qiKitrd.  145.  450. 

Burton,  Robert,  quolcd  and  criti- 
cised, 427. 

Butler,  Samuel,  quote(l.  408. 

Byi-on,  (pioted,  347. 

C;cdmon,  101:  bi<igraphv  and  criti- 
cism, 139-145. 

Ca-sar,  .luliiis.  invades  Britain.  4: 
i|Ui)tc(l.  15. 

Calvin.  .John,  on  prrdt-~lination, 
324. 

CamljriduM'  Universitv.  174. 


Canferburij  Tales,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 2i6. 

Caractacus,  16. 

Carew,  Thomas,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 410. 

Cases  of  Conscience,  437. 

Castle  of  Knoidedge,  330. 

Castle  of  Perseverance,  306. 

Cataline,  quoted  and  criticised.  452. 

Cavaliers,  the,  402. 

Caxton,  William,  243:  biograpiiy  and 
criticism,  259-2(54. 

Celts,  migrations  of,  into  Europe,  3; 
as  Britons.  3;  environment,  13; 
customs,  14:  religion.  14;  ac<]uired 
refinement,  15;  latent  qualities  of 
art,  16;  influence  on  English  na- 
tionality, 18,  138;  on  English  lan- 
guage, 51. 

Chapman,  (jnoted,  425. 

Character  of  a  Happij  Life,  413. 

Charlemagne,  as  legendary  hero.  104. 

Charles  I.  401 . 

Charles  II,  402. 

Charon,  quoted,  158. 

Charon,  the  Stvgian  ferryman,  101, 
452. 

Cliaucer,  quoted,  106,  175;  in  what 
sense  the  father  of  English  poetry, 
187;  biography  and  criticism.  204— 
232. 

Cheke,  321. 

Cheni  C/iase.  old  ballad,  117. 

Chillingworth,  435. 

Chinese  proverb.  39;  royalty,  196; 
l)riuting,  244  (note);  maxim,  494. 

Chivalry,  introduction  of,  10;  influ- 
ence,'lOO,  167. 

Christ,  ])()wer  of,  as  the  ideal  of 
humanity,  82:  Decker's  characteri- 
zation of,  425. 

Christian.  Morals,  437. 

Christianity,  inti'oduction  of,  into 
England,  30:  influence  on  Saxon 
poetry,  99.     .SVp  Church. 

Clironiclers.  early,  their  method,  137. 

Cliurch  of  Rome,  oi'ganizes  the  l''iig- 
lisii  CJuirch,  73;  coriunaiiding 
liosilion  in  the  Middle-agi'.  73; 
monasticisin,  75;  the  mendicant 
Friars,  7():  moral  deterioration, 
7S:  I'csistance  to,  in  England.  79; 
redeeming  excellences,  80;  condi- 
tion in  the  foui'tcenth  century,  171 ; 
l)0])ular  feeling  against,  172;  agen- 
cy in  the  abnliiioii  of  slavery,  173; 
state  of,  in  tlu'  fifteenth  century, 
23b:  persecutions.  242. 


INDEX. 


499 


Cistercians,  the,  76. 
Clergy,  the.     See  Church. 
Climate  and  language,  45. 
Club  Parliament,  the.  235. 
Coleridge,    Samuel   Taylor,    quoted, 

328,  347,  373. 
Colet,  Dean,  289. 
Combat,  trial  by,  61. 
Comines,  quoted,  234. 
Composition,    superiority  of    Saxon 

words  in,  58;  importance  of  meth- 
od in,  338. 
Compurgation,  custom  of.  60. 
Comus,  quoted  and  criticised,  478. 
Canfessio  Amanfi-s,  182. 
Conscience,  393. 
Conversation,  the  law  of,  376. 
Copernicus,  329. 
Court  of  the  Hundred,   60;    of  the 

County,  60. 
Courts  of  Love,  the,  107. 
Council  of  Sens.  87. 
Coverdale.    revises   New  Testament, 

327. 
Cranmer,  as  reformer,  279 ;  Bible  of. 

327;  quoted,  350. 
Creation,  process  of  the  Divine,  131, 

492. 
Creeds,  the  age  of,  435. 
Cromwell.  Oliver.  402;  quoted,  403; 

characterized,  433. 
Cromwell,    Thomas,     quoted,     270; 

Bible,  327. 
Crusades,  influence  of,  12. 
Culture,  end  of,  392. 
Custoui.  influence  of.  157. 
Cymbeline,  or  Cunobelin,  15. 
Cyrtibeline,  quoted,  378. 

Daisy,  the,  226.  230. 

Dance  of  lieatfi,  246. 

Daniel,  Samuel,  quoted.  302;  chron- 
icler, 323. 

Danish  Conciuest.  8:  Caisar  quoted 
concerning.  15:  influence.  18,  52. 

Dante,  (luoted.  79.  198. 

Dark  .\ges,  the.  185. 

Death,  universal  sense  of.  100.  413. 
414;  popular  explanation  of  the 
oriiriii  of.  122:  reflect  ions  on.  28. 
146.  391.  432.  4.33.  470. 

Decker.  Thomas.  ([Uoted.  425. 

Defense  of  Potsi/,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 342. 

Degerando.  {|Uoted.  471. 

Delugi'.  305. 

Descartes.  philosoi)hy  of,  441. 

Destiny,  Teutonic  bi'lie'f  in.  30.  98. 


Destruction  of  Troy.  245. 

Devil,  the,  123.  See  Satan,  and 
Witchcraft. 

Dialects,  46. 

Diodorus,  concerning  the  Gauls,  17. 

DTsraeli,  Isaac,  quoted,  139. 

Donne,  Dr.  John,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 412. 

Dooms  of  Alfred,  154. 

Douglas,  Gawin,  quoted,  307. 

Drama,  product  of  the  English  Re- 
naissfince.  304;  origin  and  growth, 
304;  the  Mysteries.  304:  the  Mo- 
ralities, 305:  the  Interlude.  307; 
first  English  comedy,  308:  first 
English  tragedv,  309;  ascendancy 
of,  311;  the  theatre,  311;  the  Uni- 
ties, 320;  how  affected  by  Puritan- 
ism. 415. 

Drake,  explorer,  267. 

Draper,  Dr.  John  W..  quoted.  463 
{note). 

Drayton.  jNIichael,  quoted,  302. 

Druids,  the,  14. 

Drummond,  of  Ilawthornden,  (pioted, 
413. 

Drunkenness,  107. 

Dryden.  John,  (pioted.  472. 

Di/r/tesf!  of  JIalfi.  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 423. 

Dunbar.  William,  quoted.  247. 

Duty,  tiie  idea  of  fundamental  to 
the  Germanic  race.  36.  276. 

Dwarfs,  the.  25. 

Ecclesiafttical  History  of  the  Eix/lish 
Nation,  Bede's,  146;  Alfred's 
translation.  149. 

Ecclesiasficdl  Politi/,  325. 

Edda,  tlie.  143.  432. 

Eden,  the  garden  of.  196. 

Edward,  the  Confessor.  8,  128.  330. 

Edward  I,  jury  under.  61. 

Edward  II,  weakness  of,  165:  brutal- 
ity. 168. 

Edivdvd  II.  (pioted  and  criticisnl. 
314. 

Edward  III,  order  of,  189. 

Edward  IV.  violence.  233:  charter, 
257. 

Edward  VI,  counsellors  of.  265. 

El  Dorado.  352. 

Elizabeth.  Queen,  adniiiiistratiiui  i>f, 
2(i6. 

Emilia,  nivfh  of.  24. 

Emerson.  "Ralph  Waldo,  (lu.)te.i.  402. 

England,  geography  of.  1.2:  etymol- 
ogy   oi     name,     7:    political    and 


500 


INDEX. 


swial  tlovelopinont  of.  in  the 
Formative  Period,  (50;  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  164;  in  the  fif- 
teenth, 283;  in  tlie  sixteentli,  2G5; 
in  the  seventeenth,  401.  See  Brit- 
ain. 

English  language,  effect  of  Conquest 
upon,  11;  persistency  of,  13;  ele- 
ments, 51;  basis,  53;  originally 
inflected,  5.3;  transition,  54;  pro- 
gress of,  illustrated,  55;  organic 
features,  56 ;  history  in  word-forms 
of,  57;  superiority  of  Saxon,  57; 
general  view  of,  59;  state  of,  in 
thirteenth  ccntnry,  88;  in  the 
fourteenth,  175;  in  the  fifteenth, 
244;  in  the  sixteenth,  293-296. 

Envy,  Spenser's  portrait  of,  365. 

Epithalamion,  quoted  and  criticised, 
367. 

Erasmus,  quoted,  275,  289,  290.  324. 

Erigena,  on  hell-fire,  125;  a  Platon- 
ist.  130. 

Essex,  settled,  6. 

Ethics,  condition  of,  in  theological 
ages.  126.  191,  256.  327;  funda- 
mental distinctions  of,  126;  basis 
of,  according  to  Scotus,  126;  ac- 
cording to  Aljelard.  126;  accord- 
ing to  Occam,  191 ;  true  basis  of, 
327;  gradual  severance  from  the- 
ology, 437;  method  of,  suggested 
by  Bacon,  437. 

Eucharist,  the,  191. 

Paiphiiisin,  345. 

Everij  JJdii,  306. 

Every  Mmi  in,  ///.s  Ilumour,  cjuoted 
and  criticised,  446. 

Evil,  ])oi)ular  genesis  of,  191. 

Evolution  of  language,  40. 

Exclusive  Salvation,  effect  of  belief 
in,  328. 

FaV)liaux.  the,  108. 

Fabyaii.  Kol)ert.  ([uoted,  254. 

Fairy  Queen,  (juoled  and  criticised, 

28o. 
Faitlifiil    Shepherdess,    (juoted    and 

criticised.  418. 
Fall  of  Prinres.  245. 
False    One,    (quoted    and    criticised, 

419. 
I'^ame,  transitorincss  of.  209. 
Famous  Uislortj of  Fruir  Baron,  Kil. 
Fancv,  tlie  Celtic.  17. 
Fate,"  right  use  of,  32. 
Fatliers,   the  Chi'istiau.  and  i)hii(is(»- 

jjliy.  130:  cviinescence  of.  332. 


Faustus,  quoted  and  criticised,  315. 

Feltham's  Resolves,  437. 

Feudalism,  introduction  and  charac- 
ter of,  9,  10;  evanescence  of,  332. 

Fiction,  romantic,  origin  of,  102. 

Fight  at  Finsburg,  war-song,  99. 

Fletcher,  Giles,  413. 

Fletcher,  John.     See  Beaumont. 

Florenf,  quoted  and  criticised,  185. 

Ford.  John,  quoted  and  character- 
ized, 421. 

Formative  Period,  the  general  view 
of,  193. 

Fortescue,  230,  245,  253. 

Four  P's,  ([uoted  and  criticised,  307. 

Fox's  Book  of  3Iartgrs,  quoted,  277. 

France,  genesis  of  modern,  46. 

Free  agency.  392. 

Freeman,  Edward  A.,  quoted,  148. 

French  hmguage,  supersedes  F]ng- 
lish,  10;  formation  of,  46,  47; 
influence,  52;  predominance,  88; 
dialects,  110;  decline  of,  in  Eng- 
land. 175. 

French  poetry,  introduction  of,  into 
England,  11;  predominance,  102; 
illustrated,  110;  decline,  186. 

Friar,  the,  76;  Chaucer's  portrait  of, 
220,  227. 

Froissart,  174,  182. 

Froude,  James  Anthony,  quoted,  60, 
164. 

Fuller,  Doctor,  428,  444. 

Future,  the,  a  vision  of,  340. 

Galileo,  329,  438. 

Games  and  Gambling  in  Early  Eng- 
land, 70. 

Genius  and  Talent,  147.  329. 

GeolTrey  of  ]Monmouth,  119. 

Germans,  origin  of,  21;  character- 
ized, 46;  language  of,  50. 

Gesfa  Rornanorum,  discus.sed  and 
(juoted.  107. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  quoted,  150. 

Giil)ert,  on  magnetism,  330. 

Gleeman,  Saxon  minstrel.  90. 

God,  the  existence  of,  131.  133.  441; 
essence  of,  373:  Plato's  conception 
of.  285. 

Goethe,  (juoted,  60;  Faust  of ,  318. 

(rorhodur,  cliaracterized  and  quoted, 
30. 
j    Gosson,  Stephen,  quoted,  322. 
'    (jower,    Thomas,    quoted   and   criti- 
cised. 1S2,  190. 

(iraal,  the  llolv,  105. 
1    Grar,'.  the.  100,  137. 


INDEX. 


501 


Greek  language,  50. 
Greek  learning,  284. 
Greek  literature,  244. 
Greeks,  characterized,  44,  46. 
Greene,  Robert,  321,  374. 
Gregory,  86,  37,  151. 
Ground  of  Arts,  330. 
Guizot,  quoted,  265. 

Hakluyt,  Richard,  321. 

Hales,  Dr.  Alexander,  133,  435. 

Hall,  Bishop,  quoted,  428. 

Hallain.  Plenrv,  quoted,  358,  459. 

Hamlet.  379.  386. 

Happiness,  Decker's  conception  of, 
425. 

Harrison,  quoted,  268,  291. 

Harvey,  439. 

Hastings,  battle  of,  9. 

llavelock.  107. 

Hell.  29,  83.  124,  141.  475:  Milton's, 
480. 

Hell-gates,  482. 

Henry  I,  and  Saxon  dynasty,  12; 
charter  granted  by.  63. 

Hcnrv  II,  reign  of,  67;  and  i)riests, 
79." 

Henry  II,  quoted,  876. 

Henry  III.  murders  under,  79:  pro- 
chnnation  of.  in  vernaeuhir.  89. 

Henrv  IV.  inaugurates  Lancastrian 
rule,  233. 

iTp/i/-^  ZF,  quoted.  880, 

Henry  V,  his  dream  of  empire  in 
France.  233:  (juoted  on  progress 
of  lani,'uairt'.  244. 

Henry  VF.  career  (jf.  233. 

Henry  VII.  marks  a  new  era,  234. 

Henry  VIII,  tyranny  of.  265:  agency 
of.  in  the  Reformation,  278:  and 
medical  science,  330. 

Heptarchy,  formation  of.  7. 

Herbert,  (reorge.  (pioted  ami  criti- 
cised, 413. 

Heresy.  123.  127.  438. 

Hero."  the.  of  the  Middle  Ages.  95. 
249. 

Ilerrick,  Robert,  (pioted  and  criti- 
cised. 410. 

Hey  wood,  Thomas,  (pioted  and  criti- 
cised. 307;  (pioted,  :)73. 

IIii,'liways  in  thirteenth  eeiiturv,  69. 

Hill.  Tliomas.  330. 

llistorv.  methoil  of.  in  the  at^es  of 
faitli.  118.  187.  254.  3-23:  true  con- 
ception of,  188:  partisan  character 
of,  434. 

llolinshed,  270,  321,  323. 


Holy  Graal.  the.  105. 

Holy  Sepulchre,  the  church  of,  195. 

Homer,  quoted,  156;  translated  by 
Chai)man,  425. 

Hooker,  Richard,  quoted,  325;  influ- 
ence (jn  ethics.  328;  biography  and 
criticism.  347-351. 

Howard.  Earl  of  Surrey,  298. 

Iloune  of  Fame,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 209. 

Houses,  in  the  Middle  Ages.  69,  166, 
236. 

Iludibras.  quoted,  408. 

Hume,  David,  quoted.  60.  351. 

Hundred,  court  of.  60. 

Hundred  Years'  War,  233. 

Hydriotaph  ia .  1 00. 

Ideal,   the,   law   of.    95;   po\yer   and 

necessity  of,  340,  372. 
Idealization,  161. 
II  Penseroso,  quoted  and  criticised, 

477. 
Imagination,  character  of  Northern, 

100;  activitv  of,  in  the  infancy  of 

races,  102. 
Im])osture    in    the    Roman   Church. 

238. 
Indo-European  races,  49;  languages, 

49-51. 
Induction,  the,  quoted  and  criticised, 

310. 
Influence,  immortality  of,  156.  203. 
Imjuiries  into  Vuli/dr  Errors,  (pioted, 

440. 
In.sfaiirafio  2Iaqn(i,  457. 
Interlude,  the.  307. 
Ireland,  geography  of.    1.   2:    subju- 
gation of.  164;  barbarism.  403. 
Irish,  the  ancient.  3.  14. 
Italian  language.  46,  47;  literatuie, 

287. 

James,  of  Scotland,  quoted.  247. 

James  I.  of  Enirland,  401. 

Jewel.  Bishop,  ;}25. 

Jcir  of  Malta,  quoted  and  criticised, 

314. 
Jews,  as  capitalists.  69:  their  exjml- 

sion,  70. 
.John  of  Salisbury,  quoted.  87. 
Johnson.     Dr.    Sanniel,    ([Uoted.    48. 

444. 
Jonson.    Ben.    398.    41(1:    biography 

and  criticism.  444-456. 
Juilith,  quoted.  99. 
.Jury,  trial  by.  61. 
Jutes,  coming  of.  6. 


502 


INDEX. 


Kent,  settled,  6. 
Kepler,  laws  of,  438. 
King  Horn,  107,  115. 
King  Lear,  120. 
Kmq  Lear,  378,  383. 
King  s  Evil,  128. 
Koran,  the,  327. 

Labor  and  Capital.  169. 

Lackpenny,  quoted,  246. 

U Allegro,  quoted  and  criticised.  477. 

Land  of  Cockaigne,  115. 

Langland,  William,  (luoled  and  criti- 
cised, 177. 

Language,  fossil  history  in.  11;  mys- 
tery of,  39;  origin,  40:  legends 
concerning.  40,  41;  {)rinciples  of 
development.  41;  diversities.  43; 
dialects,  46;  idioms,  48;  classifica- 
tion, 4!). 

Langue  I)"Oc,  110. 

Laiigue  D'Oyl.  110. 

Latimer,  Bishop,  (juoted,  271,  273, 
275,  277,  292,  326. 

Latin  race,  46;  language,  47,  52,  100, 
137, 175;  versification  of,  108.  See 
Learning  and  Renaissance. 

Layamon,  quoted,  112. 

Lawyer,  the,  jiopular  hatred  of,  in 
fourteenth  centurv,  178;  Chaucer's 
portrait  of,  220,  227. 

Learning,  state  of,  during  Formative 
Period,  82;  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, 173;  in  the  fifteenth,  242;  in 
the' sixteenth,  284. 

Legends,  40,  41;  formation  of,  105. 

Lihcrfji  of  Pr<ij)ltP.-ii/ing,  436. 

Life.  Saxon  conception  of,  29.  37;  a 
dream.  385,  391;  true  mode  of 
estimating.  431,  469;  on  tlie  con- 
duct of.  437. 

Life  of  Richard  III,  335. 

Lily.  .John,  quoted,  321. 

Literature,  how  affected  during  For- 
mative Period,  193;  an<l  life.  272; 
eras  of,  )iow  discriminated,  444, 

Lollards,  172.     See  Keligidu. 

Loml)ard.  Peter.  12!>.  137. 

Ldug  Parliament,  tlie,  402, 

Liii-d's  Pi-ayer.  versions  of,  in  succes- 
sive (■('iituries.  55.  5(i.  175.  244. 

Love,  idealized  hy  the  worship  of  the 
VirLrin.  lf)6:  in  romance  poetrv, 
105.  110.  181;  woes  of,  212:  [.owIt 
of,  213:  af.ostrophe  to,  344:  Hacon 
concerning.  464:  .lonsori.  453. 

Lov.-Courts.  the.  1S2. 

Lulh.r.  Martin.  272.  273.  324. 


Lvdgatc,  John,  quoted  and  criticised, 
'245. 

Macaulav,   Thomas   B.,   462    (iwie), 

492  {note), 
Ilacbefh,  quoted,  380;  and  ci-iticised, 

384. 
Mad  Lover,   quoted  and  criticised, 

419. 
Magna  Charta,  63. 
Maid  of  Orleans,  290. 
3Iaisfers  of  Oxford's  Catechism,  127. 
Malory,    Sir    Thomas,    quoted    and 

criticised,  253. 
Mammon,  palace  of.  363. 
Man.  creation  of,  in  Norse  mythology, 

24. 
Mandeville,  Sir  John,  biography  and 

criticism,  194-199. 
Manning.  Robert,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 180. 
]\rap,  Walter,  79, 
Marlowe,    Christopher,    quoted    and 

criticised,  313. 
Marriage,  in  the  age  of  chivalry,  107; 

song  of,  367;  reflections  on,  399, 

429':  432,  464. 
Marston,  John,  quoted,  426. 
Mary,  Bloody.  266. 
Maryland,  statute  of.  406. 
^lass,  ceremonial  of  the,  240. 
Massinger,  Philip,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 420. 
Marhematics  in  thirteenth  centin-y, 

127. 
Matter  and  spirit,  unity  of,  492. 
.May-day.  237.  272. 
Medicine,    theory   and    practice    of, 

128,  1S9,  257.  " 
Medi/afions,  quoted,  428. 
Melancholy,  t  he  inspiration  of  genius, 

430. 
Mercia,  settled.  7. 

]\Ier]in,  legend  of,  7;  prophecy  of,  120. 
Metaphor,  discussed  and  illustrated, 

41 ;    the    language   of   excitement. 

39(;. 
Metre,  in  Chaucer.  206. 
Middleton.  Thomas,  (pioted,  426. 
Midland  dialect,  54. 
j\lidKHmnier  JVigliTs  Dream,  (piotcd 

and  criticised,  389. 
Milton,  John,  141,  199,  372,  404,  415, 

436:  biography  and  criticism,  472- 

4!)5. 
Mirror  for  Magistrates,  310. 
Monasteries,  the,  76,   174,  241.     See 

Religion. 


INDEX. 


503 


Monasticism,  some  beautiful  aspects 

of,  75,  84. 
Monks,  75,  226,  241.     See  Church. 
Months,  names  of,  15. 
Moralities,  the,  306. 
Morals.     See  Ethics. 
More,  Sir  Thomas,  269,  270,  290,  321 ; 

biography  and  criticism,  334-40. 
Morte  d/ Arthur,  quoted,  253. 
Mulcaster,  quoted,  295,  321. 
Mundinus,  190. 
Muspel,  24. 
Mysteries,  the,  304. 
Mythology,  Norse,  30. 
Mjths,  radical  similarity  of,  103. 

Napier,  439. 

Nash,  Thomas.  321. 

Nature,  love  of,  116,  238;  in  Chau- 
cer, 208,  226,  229,  230. 

Neiv  Atlantis,  459. 

New  Hanqjshire,  statute  of,  406. 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  438. 

Niflheim,  24. 

Nominalism,  131,  188. 

Normans,  invade  Britain,  8;  effects 
of  invasion,  9;  culture  and  influ- 
ence of,  19;  language  of,  52. 

Northmen,  the,  8,  33. 

Northumberland,  settled,  7. 

Nut-brown  Maid,  117,  245. 

Occam,  188,  191,  327. 

Occleve,  Thomas,  245. 

Odin,  24,  25,  1U4. 

Onomatopa'ia,  41. 

Opi/s  Majus,  157. 

Original  English,  53. 

Originalitv,  395. 

Orm.  113." 

Ormiilnm,  quoted,  114,  137. 

Orosius'  Universal  Ilistori/,  149. 

Orpheus  and  his  harp,  legend  of.  151. 

Ot/tfllo,  quoted,  3T8;  and  criticised, 

382. 
Ou-l  and  Xightinqale,  116,  137. 
Oxford,   university  of,  87.   174,  242, 

289. 

Paganism  and  Christianity.  124. 
Pafanion    ftnd   Arcite,    quoted    and 

criticised.  217. 
Paradise,  the  Norse.  28.  83. 
Paradise  Lost,  quoted  and  criticised, 

480. 
Paradise  lief/ained.  487. 
Parap/irase.  bv  (\-edmon.  140. 
Paris,  Matthew,  78,  119. 


Paris,  influence  of  university  of,  87, 

Parliament,  rise  and  development  of, 
62,  165,  234,  265,  401. 

Parson,Chaucer's  portrait  of  the,  223. 

Pascal,  quoted,  158. 

Passionate  Pilgrim,  375. 

Passionate  Shepherd,  quoted,  318. 

Pa.-<ton  Letters,  252. 

Pathway  of  Knowledge,  330. 

Pecock,  Reynold,  245,  255. 

Pelagius,  theological  tenets  of,  125. 

Perfection,  the  desire  of,  191. 

Persecution,  242,  328. 

Persian  language, 50;  mj'thology,104. 

Personification.  102. 

Petrarch,  concerning  the  Church, 
171;  debt  of  the  Kenaissance  to, 
174;  quoted,  330. 

Philaster,  quoted  and  criticised,  416. 

Philosophy,  characterization  of,  from 
Proclus  to  Bacon,  129;  the  Scho- 
lastic, 130;  Realistic  and  Nominal- 
istic  schools  of,  131;  state  of,  in 
the  fourteenth  century,  188;  in  the 
fifteenth,  257;  in  the  sixteenth, 
331;  in  the  seventeenth,  440. 

Phoenix,  quoted,  93. 

Phvsician,  Chaucer's  {wrtrait  of  the. 
227. 

Picts,  the,  5. 

Piers  the  Ploughman,  172. 

Pietv,  essential  to  character,  154. 

Plaiitagenet,  233. 

Plato,  his  doctrine  of  Ideas,  131; 
spirit  and  influence  of  his  philoso- 
I)hv,  284. 

Plowman's  Creed,  180. 

Poetry,  earliest  form  of  literature, 
89;  Saxon,  91;  relii,nous  tone  of, 
in  Englaml,  99;  romantic,  108; 
characterization  of,  in  fourteenth 
century,  17();  low  state  of  English, 
in  fitteenth  centurv,  24-"):  revival 
of,  298;  sentimentalisin  of,  409. 

Politics.     Sfe  England. 

Prayer,  power  of,  431. 

Predestination,  defined.  324. 

Presbyterians,  43(i. 

Printing,  origin  of.  244  (noir). 

Prose,  order  of  production,  117; 
])arentage  of  English,  117:  general 
view  of,  in  the  fourteenth  ceniury, 
1S7:  in  the  fifteen!!),  2.-)2:  in  I  he 
sixteenth,  321  :  in  the  seventeenth, 
427.  .SV/'  Hisloi-y,  Theology.  Eth- 
ics, Science,   Philosophv. 

Pr()verl)s,  of  Alfred,  152." 

Puici,  (juoted,  2»s. 


504 


INDEX. 


Puritans,  and  the  theatre,  311;  reli- 
gious bias  of,  325;  origin  and 
character,  4()4;  emigration  of,  to 
America,  4t)6;  intolerance,  407; 
superstition,  408;  poet  of,  415. 

Purple  Islnml,  413. 

Puttenham,  George,  298,  321. 

Quadrivium,  the,  87. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  158,  323;  biog- 
rajjliy  and  criticism,  351-350. 

Rcn'i'ii,  llie,  quoted,  109. 

Realism.  131,  188. 

Record,  William,  330. 

Refornuition,  premonitions  of,  30,  80, 
172,  242;  accomplishment  of,  272; 
Ix'ueficent  results  of,  280;  evil 
effects,  281. 

Religion,  the  sentiment  of,  funda- 
menial  to  the  English  mind,  30; 
influence  of,  ui)on  poetry  and  lit- 
erature, 80,  99;  necessity  of,  272; 
the  Puritan,  404.     See  ("liurch. 

Renaissance,  the,  nature  and  charac- 
teristics of,  284;  in  Italv,  287;  in 
England,  289;  results  of,' 333.  See 
Learning. 

Resolves,  4:J7. 

Restoration,  the,  402. 

R<^sumi',  135,  192,  258,  322,  442. 

Retribution.  394.  472. 

Rhvthm.  universal,  87;  in  Chaucer. 
207. 

Richard  11.  105. 

Richard  III,  23:!,  240. 

Ridlev,  martvrdom  of,  277. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  195. 

Ritson,  .lo^eph,  247. 

Rittcr,  (luolcd,  1. 

Robert  of  (Houcester,  113,  115. 

Rohin  Hood.  117.  249. 

Romance,  nations  and  languages,  40; 
iiction,  102,  105:  pcirtrv,  108: 
poets,  110;  prose,  215,  253." 

Romans,  con([U('st  of  Ib-itain  l)y,  and 
its  influeiK-e,  4,  5,  15. 

Rdinmint  of  tlw  Ruse,  (|U()te(l  and 
criticised'.  20s. 

RdiiK-o  {(/id  didii  f,  (juotcd,  370,  379. 

Roscclin,  131. 

Roundlieads,  the,  402. 

Kowcna,  legend  of,  7. 

Runes,  the,  23. 

Jiiii,,,  tlie,  101. 

Sa<k\ille,  Thomas,  fjuoted  and  criti- 
ei-rd,  :!09. 


Sad  Shepherd,  quoted  and  criticised, 
451. 

Sdmnon  Aqonistes,  characterized,  487. 

Santre,  William,  first  English  mar- 
tyr, 242. 

Satan,  72,  240,  488.    See  Witchcraft. 

Satirists,  Anglo-Saxon,  115. 

Sa.xon  laws,  34;  Chronicle,  117,  121; 
poetry,  91. 

Scandinavian  people,  8  {note);  lan- 
guage, 50. 

Scepticism,  services  of.  351. 

Scholasticism,  130,  257,  332. 

Schoolmen,  130,  257. 

School  of  Abuse,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 322. 

School  of  S/clll,  330. 

Science,  inception  of,  120;  astrology 
and  alchemy  the  principal  part  of, 
189;  also,  250;  dawn  of,  on  the 
Continent,  329;  in  England,  439. 

Scotland,  geography  of,  1,  2;  politi- 
cal and  social  condition,  104,  403. 

Scott,  Walter,  quoted,  11. 

Scotts,  the,  0. 

Scotus,  Duns,  on  moral  good,  120; 
on  reason  and  faith,  133,  191. 

Scriptorium,  the,  84. 

Seidell's  Table  Talk,  434,  437. 

Seven  Deadly  Sins.  the.  170. 

Seven  Joi/s  of  (he  Virgin,  254. 

Seven  Sleepers,  legend  of,  195. 

Shakespeare,  William,  quoted,  44, 
108,  128,  237,  283,  294,  290,  347, 
488;  biography  and  criticism,  373- 
400. 

Shirley,  James,  427. 

Sidney,  Sir  Phili|),  on  the  merits  of 
English,  294:  position  of,  301:  on 
the  eipiipiiienisof  tlie  theati'c,  312: 
biogniphy  and  criticism,  341-347. 

Sii'f/i^'  of  Thebes,  245. 

Sigurd'  27. 

Silent  Woman,  quoted  and  criticised, 
448. 

Siiiires,  the.  5. 

Sixteenth  Ceiiturv.  ex|)ansive  force 
of.  3:!4. 

Skeltiin,  .lolin,  ([Uoted  and  criticised, 
2!)7. 

Skrymer.  Norse  giant.  31. 

Slavery,  and  the  Saxons.  03;  and  tlie 
Xonnaiis.  04:  in  Ireland.  08:  and 
the  Church.  81. 

Sieeji.  invocation  to,  344;  the  god  of. 
and  his  (hveliing.  301. 

Siiciety,  English,  aspeets  of,  from 
the  niiitli  to  the  thirteenth  centurv. 


INDEX. 


505 


68;  in  the  fourteenth,  165;  in  the 
fifteenth,  234;  in  the  sixteenth, 
267;  in  the  seventeenth,  403. 

Socrates,  quoted,  157. 

Solomon  ami  /Saifj?*?!, quoted,  126. 

Songof  Aldhelm,  quoted,  109. 

Sonnet,  the,  299. 

Soul,  the,  purgatory  of,  100;  immor- 
tality of,  133;  Plato's  figure  of, 
286. 

SouVs  Complaint,  quoted,  101. 

SoaVs  Errand,  quoted,  354. 

Southern  dialect,  54. 

Speech,  Chaucer's  definition  of,  210. 

Spenser,  Ednuind,  biography  and 
criticism,  358-373. 

Stael,  Madame  de,  quoted,  430  {note). 

Stanihurst,  quoted,  322. 

Sternhold,  quoted,  302. 

Stonehenge.  14. 

Story,  W.  W.,  quoted,  296. 

Stubbes,  quoted,  271. 

Suckling,  Sir  John,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 411. 

Superstitions,  71,  122,  127. 

Surgery,  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
190. 

SurrcA-,  Earl  of,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 298. 

Sussex  settled,  6. 

Syllogism,  defined  and  illustrated, 
"134. 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  quoted,  265. 

Table- Talk,  437. 

Tacitus,  quoted.  13,  33,  105. 

Taine,  II.  A.,  463  (iiofi'),  489  {tiofe). 

Tambnrlaine  the  Great,  (juoted  and 
criticised,  313,  314,  319. 

Tasso,  287. 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  (juoted  and  criti- 
cised, 430. 

Tempi'st,  iho.  quoted,  877,  388. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  (pioted,  204. 

Teutons,  the,  a  generic  race,  21,  46; 
language  of,  50. 

Tliaiiafop.sis,  the,  100. 

Theatre,  the  early.  311. 

Tiicodore,  fnundstlic  Hnglish  Church, 
68. 

Tiieodosius,  Iloinau  general,  6. 

Thomson,  James,  ([uoted,  334,  358. 

Tiior.  Xorse  gixl,  26.  31. 

Tlioutrht,  Kiiiilisli.  limitary  tone  of. 

r  ,   '^'^"• 

Toleranc-c.  a  late  virtue.  330. 

Toiy,  tiie.  402. 

Town,  rise  of  tiie  EiiLrlish.  65. 


Transition  English.  54. 

Transubstantiation,  190. 

Treatise  of  Religion,  418. 

Trevisa,  quoted,  176. 

Trinity  College,  291. 

Trivium,  the,  86. 

Trdilus  and  Creseide,  quoted  and 
criticised,  211. 

Troubadours,  the,  110. 

Trou Veres,  the,  110. 

Trumpet  of  Death,  183. 

Truth,  no  absolute  criterion  of,  409; 
sure  to  triumph,  430. 

Tudor  dynasty,  233. 

Tyndale,  Wilfiam,  294,  327. 

7\va  Corbies,  quoted  and  character- 
ised, 335. 

Udall,  Nicholas,  308. 
Unities,  the  dranuitic.  329. 
University,  of  Cambridge.  174.  290; 

of  Oxford,  87,  174.  242,  244.  289, 

290;  of  Paris.  87. 
Utilitarianism,  dangers  of,  469.  471. 
Utopia,  335. 

Valhalla,  Norse  paradise,  28,  33. 
Valkyries,  the,  28  (note). 
VaTi  Lennep,  quoted,  395. 
Velleda,  Cierman  prophetess,  105^ 
Venus  and  Adonis,  375. 
Vergil,  120. 
Virgil,  quoted,  101. 
Virgin  Mary,  worship  of,  and  its  in- 
fluence, 106. 
Virtue.  126,  397,  479,  490. 
Volpone,  quoted  and  criticised,  449. 
Vortigern,  King  of  the  Britons,  7. 

Wales,  geography  of,  1,  2:  a  refuge 
for  Christianity,  7:  literature  of, 
17;  language,  49;  annexation  of, 
135:  {)rinces  of,  233. 

Waller,  Edmund,  quoted,  487. 

War  of  the  Rosos,  233. 

Warton,  Thonuis,  fjuoted,  233. 

Wi'bster,  Jolni,  (pioted  and  criticised, 
422. 

Week,  nomenclature  of  days  of,  25. 

Wessex  settled.  6:  su])r('Uiacv  of,  7. 

Whrt.sfone  of  Wit,  330. 

Whig,  the,  402. 

Wiiip[)le,  Edwin  P.,  quoted,  455. 

M^hite  Devil,  (pioted  and  trilici-cd, 
422. 

Wife  of  Bath,  (pioted  and  criticised, 
219.  ■ 

William  tiie  Comiueror,  it,  79. 


606 


INDEX. 


Wilson,  Arthur,  quoted,  295. 

Witan,  the,  23,  62. 

Witch,  Sabbath  of  the.  283:  method 

of  trying  the.  408. 
Witelicraft,  240.  281,  408. 
Wither,    George,    quoted   and    eriti- 

cised,  409. 
Wodin.     See  Odin. 
Woman,  position  of,  among  the  Sax- 


ons, 35;  in  romance  poetry.  105; 
how  affected  by  Christianity.  106 
(and  note);  types  of.  219.  222:  in 
Shakespeare.  376;  Milton's  ideal 
of.  493. 

Wordsworth, William, quoted,  14, 225. 

Wotton,  Rey.  William,  413. 

Wveliffe,  John,  172,  190:  biography 
and  criticism,  199-203. 


DEVELOPMENT 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


LANGUAGE 


ALFRED  H.  WELSH,  A.M. 

MEMBER   OF    VICTORIA    INSTITUTE,    THE   PII ILOSOPUICAL   SOCIETY    OP   GREAT    BRITAIN 

.     VOLUME   II 


Books  are  a  real  world,  both  pure  and  good, 

Round  which,  with  tendrils  strong  us  flesh  and  blood. 

Our  pastime  and  onr  hai)piness  may  grow.— Wordsworth 


TIIIHD    EDITION, 


CHICAGO 

S.  C.  GRIUGS  AND   COM  l^  ANY 

188:{ 


Copyright  1882 
Bt  S.  C.  GRIGGS  AND  COMPANY 


I     KNISHT    R    LECNARD  ."^ 


CONTEXTS  OF  VOLUME  II. 


CHAPTER   I. 

First  Tkansition  Period. 

Politics.  Constitutional  Reform.  Society  —  Laxity,  Violence.  Rude- 
ness of  Living.     Religion.     Intolerance.     Incredulity.     Sects  .     .     10 

Poetry.  Society  Verse.  Extravagance.  The  Epic.  Satire  Drama. 
Coarseness.  Lewdness.  Etherege.  Wycherley.  Congreve.  Van- 
brugh.     Farquhar.     Tragedy.     Dryden.     Otway 23 

Prose.  Ease  and  Finish.  Temple.  The  Preachers.  Walton.  Evelyn. 
Pepys.  Baxter.  History.  Clarendon.  Burnet.  Theology.  Scep- 
ticism and  Denial.  Deism.  Ethics.  Hobbes.  Utilitarianism. 
Science.     Newton.    Physics.    Philosophy.     Materialism.    Locke    .     43 

Representative  Authors: 

Blnvax 54 

Drvuen 09 


CHAPTER   II. 

Critical  Period  —  First  Phase. 

Political  Armistice.     .Social  Depravity.     Religion.     Loss  of  Enthusiasm  73 

Poetry.     Polish.     Drama.     Artifice 74 

Prose.     The  Periodical.     Th(>  Novel.     Theology.     Polemics.     Science. 

The  Royal  Society 7t) 

Representative  Authors: 

.Steele '^'^ 

Addison ^■'^ 

De  Foe lU 

Swift 1<>7 

Pope 125 

iU 


IV  CONTENTS   OF   VOLUME    II. 

CHAPTER   III. 

Critical  Period  —  Second  Phase. 

Politics.  Whig  Supremacy.  Social  Corruption.  Religion.  Fashion- 
able Infidelity.  Dead'  Orthodoxy.  Rise  of  Methodism.  Wesley. 
Whitefield " .132 

Poetry.     ^Method  and  Form.     Thomson.     Young.     Akenside.     Gray. 

The  Drama.     Gay.     Garriek 13S 

Prose.  Magazines  and  Reviews.  The  Xovel.  Richardson.  Fielding. 
History.  Hume.  Theology.  Deistical  Writers.  Bolingbroke. 
Middleton.  Hume.  The  Apologists.  Butler.  The  Seer.  Law. 
Science.  Ethics.  The  Intuitional  and  Utilitarian  Schools.  Phi- 
losoi)hy.     Realism.     Materialism.     Idealism 146 

Representative  Authors: 

KlCHARDSOX 151 

Fielding .  157 

Hume 171 

Johnson 178 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Second  Transitiox  Period, 

Politics.     Faction.     Strife.     Society.     Gradual   Kmergencc.     Religion. 

(Jrowth  of  Charity  and  Fervor 181 

Poetry.     Nature.     The  Drama.     Sheridan 182 

Prose.      The    Newspaper       Tlie    Purified    Xovel.       History.       (ubbon. 

Theology.       Sleep  (if  Deism.     Natui'al  Theology.     Paley.     Science. 

Physiology.      Hunter.      Geology.      Hutton.      Ethics.      Philosophy. 

Political  Science.      Adani  Smith.     Orators  —  The  Galaxy  .      .    1!)5 

Representative  Authois: 

(ilHIiON 2(K} 

(Jol.DSMITII 221 

BiKNs 241 

Cowi'ER       ...  256 

CilAPTEH    V. 

.'"^KCoM)    ("kKATIVK    PkRIOD. 

Politics.  Rise  of  Democracy.  Reform.  Industrial  Progros.  The 
Humanities.  Cis'illaiitic  Society.  Heligion.  The  Letter  and  tlie 
Spirit "  .      .      '. 200 


CONTENTS  OF   VOLUME   11.  V 

Poetry.  The  Xew  Impulse.  Literary  Forgeries  of  Macpherson  and 
Chatterton.  Crabbe.  Campbell.  Moore.  Coleridge.  Keats. 
Shelley.     The  Drama.     Knowies 294 

Prose.  The  Perio<lical.  Essayists.  Jeffrey.  Sidney  Smith.  Dc  Quin- 
cey.  Irving.  The  Novel.  Cooper.  History.  Arnold.  Grote. 
Macaulay.  Hallam.  Prescott.  Theology.  Deism  Changes  Its 
Attack.  Paine.  Owen.  Rationalism.  Ethics.  Science.  Lyell. 
Development.     Philosophy.     Hamilton 321 

Itepresentative  Authors: 

Scott 330 

Wordsworth 338 

Byron 35ij 

CHAPTER   VI. 

Diffusive  Period. 

Politics.      The  Victories  of    Peace.      Society.      The   Onward   Battle. 

Religion.     Expansion.     Diffusion 36o 

Poetry.     Modern  Aspects.     Hunt.     Hood.     Landor.     The  Brownings. 

Lytton.    Arnold.    Swinburne.    Dana.    Percival.    Ilallcck.    Willis. 

Poe.     Bryant.      Holmes.      Lowell.     Whittier.      The   Drama.      Its 

Decline 399 

Prose.      Increase  of  the  Periodical.      Sway  of  the  Essay.      Criticism. 

Arnold.      Froude.      Ruskin.      Whipjple.      Thoreau.      The    Xovel. 

Bulwer.     Thackeray.      .Mrs.  Stowe.      History.      Froude.      Buckle. 

Lecky.    Bancroft.    Motley.    Drai)er.    Theology.    Scepticism.    Mill. 

Lecky.     Emer;<on.     Earnest   Unbelief.     Tolerant   Faith.     Ethics. 

Prevalence  of  Utilitarianism.    Science  —  Experimental.    Evolution. 

Darwin.  Tyndidl.  Bain.  Huxloy.  Philosophy  —  P^mpirical  .  .  438 
Representative  Authors: 

DicKKXs 4o4 

C.\RLVLK 470 

George  Eliot 487 

Te.vnv.son' "ioi 

Hawthorne "ibS 

LONUFEI-LOW ~ri'-> 

Emerson 042 

El'lLCMJL'E •')44 

Index •">*5ii 


DEVELOPMENT 

OP 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE  AND  LANGUAGE. 


FIRST   TRANSITION  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FEATURES. 

The  fact  that  'constitutions  are  not  made,  but  grow,'"  is  simply  a  fragment  of  the 
much  larger  fact,  that  under  all  its  aspects  and  through  all  its  ramifications,  Society  is  a 
growth  and  not  a  miumSdcUui.'.— Herbert  Spencer. 

Politics. — To  the  love  of  liberty  succeeded  the  rage  of  fac- 
tion. Ministry  after  ministry  failed  —  the  legal,  the  corrupt,  and 
the  national.  The  king  aimed  only  to  emancipate  himself  from 
control,  and  to  gratify  his  private  tastes.  Ignorant  of  affairs 
and  averse  to  toil,  without  faith  in  human  virtue,  believing  that 
every  person  was  to  be  bought,  promising  everything  to  every- 
body, and  addicted  beyond  measure  to  sensual  indulgence, —  he 
brouglit  the  state  by  maladministration  to  the  brink  of  ruin. 
Retribution  was  speedy.  The  defeated  Roundheads,  passing  below 
the  surface,  began  to  reappear;  and  renouncing  their  republican- 
ism as  impracticable,  took  up  the  watchword  of  constitutional 
reform. 

Alter  fifteen  years  of  dissolute  revels,  Charles  was  succooded 
by  his  brother  James  II,  who  wished  to  achieve,  at  the  same  time, 
a  triumph  for  pure  monarchy  and  for  Romanism.  Again,  as  at 
the  outbreak  of  th(^  Civil  War,  there  was  a  political  struggle  and 
a  religious  struggle,  and  both  were  directed  against  the  govern- 
ment.    The  reaction  which   had   prostrated   the  Whigs  was   fol- 

'  Mackintosh. 


2  FIRST  TRANSITION    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

lowed  by  one  far  more  violent  in  the  opposite  direction;  and  the 
revolution  of  eighty-eight,  which  enthroned  William  of  Orange, 
brought  the  grand  conflict  of  the  seventeenth  century  to  a  final 
issue  —  not  in  the  establishment  of  a  wild  democracy,  but  in  the 
transfer  of  executive  supremacy  from  the  Crown  to  the  House  of 
Commons.  The  ministers,  who  were  chosen  henceforth  from  the 
majority  of  its  members,  became  its  natural  leaders,  capable  of 
being  easily  set  aside  and  replaced  whenever  the  balance  of  power 
shifted  from  one  side  of  the  House  to  the  other.' 

Society. — In  the  eternal  whirl  of  cliange,  heads  were  made 
giddy.  Laxity  of  principle  in  statesmen  became  too  common  to 
be  scandalous.  Austerity,  too,  necessarily  produced  revulsion. 
Profligacy  became  a  test  of  loyalty,  and  a  qualification  for  office. 
Devotion  and  honesty  were  swept  away,  and  a  deep  general  taint 
spread  through  every  province  of  letters.  In  court  circles,  it  was 
the  fashion  to  swear,  to  relate  obscene  stories,  to  get  drunk,  to 
gamVjle,  to  deride  Scripture  and  the  preachers.  Two  nobles, 
nearly  nude,  run  through  the  streets  after  midnight.  Another, 
in  open  day,  stark-naked,  harangues  a  mob  from  an  open  window. 
Another  writes  poems  for  the  haunts  of  vice.  A  duke,  blind  and 
eighty,  goes  to  a  gambling-liouse  with  an  attendant  to  tell  him 
the  cards.  Charles  quarrels  with  his  mistress  in  public,  she  call- 
ing him  an  idiot,  he  calling  her  a  jade.  Men  and  women  appear 
alike  depraved.  Lords  and  ladies  in  festivities  smear  one  an- 
other's faces  with  candle-grease  and  soot,  '  till  most  of  us  were 
like  devils.'  A  duchess  disguises  herself  as  an  orange-girl,  and 
cries  her  wares  in  the  street.  Another  loses  in  one  night  twenty- 
five  thousand  pounds  at  play.     Says  a  contemporary: 

'Here  I  first  nn(lprs;tood  by  thoir  talk  the  meaning  of  company  that  lately  were  Crtllfil 
Ballera  :  Harris  telling  how  it  was  l)y  a  meeting  of  some  young  blades,  where  he  was 
among  them,  and  my  Lady  Bennet  and  her  ladies,  and  their  dancing  naked,  and  all  the 
roguish  things  in  the  world.' 

All  this  wit}K)ut  an  attempt  to  throw  even  the  thinnest  veil  over 
the  evil  evcrvwhero  rampant.  The  regular  and  decent  exterior 
maintained  easily  at  Versailles,  was  here  troublesome. 

'Thus  terminated  in  England  the  contest  which  even  now  is  ragine  in  Germany. 
Within  a  few  days  of  th(^  present  writing,  Emperor  William  has  asserted  his  ritrht  to  dic- 
tate the  policy  of  the  Prussian  L'overnincnt,  without  regard  to  the  Ministry  or  the  Parlia- 
ment. .\  crisis  is  imminent.  PerliM])s  the  time  has  come  for  Germany  to  strike  the  blow- 
that  shall  free  her  from  military  absolutism.  Wise  is  the  ruler  who  is  in  sympathy  with 
the  prevailing.'  leridency,  wliieh.  over  all  Europe,  is  liberal.  The  tyrant  may  di-^lurh  or 
retard,  but  tlie  industrial  organization,  in  its  iriiieral  cour.se,  is  beyond  his  control. 


SOCIETY  —  LAXITY — VIOLENCE.  3 

They  have,  moreover,  the  violent  instincts  of  barbarians. 
The  republicans  were  tried  with  a  shamelessness  of  cruelty.  By 
the  side  of  one  was  stationed  a  hangman,  in  a  black  dress,  with  a 
rope  in  his  hand.  While  one  was  being  quartered,  another  was 
brought  up  and  asked  if  the  work  pleased  him.  Hearts,  still 
beating,  were  torn  out  and  shown  to  the  people.  A  speaker  in 
tlie  Commons  gives  offence  to  the  court,  is  waylaid  by  a  gang  of 
bullies,  and  his  nose  slit  to  the  bone.  Bunyan  has  satirized  the 
mode  of  conducting  state  trials  —  mere  forms  preliminary  to 
hanging  and  drawing.     Ilattgood  is  counsel  for  the  prisoner: 

'■Judge.  Thou  rtinagate,  heretic,  and  traitor,  hast  thon  hoard  what  the:^e  honest 
gentlemen  have  witnessed  against  thee? 

Faithful.    May  I  sin-alc  a  few  words  in  my  own  defence? 

Judge.  Sirrah,  Sirrah!  tliou  dcservest  to  live  no  longer,  but  to  be  slain  immediately 
upon  the  place;  yet,  that  all  men  may  see  our  gentleness  to  thee,  let  us  hear  what  tliou, 
vile  runagate,  hast  to  say.' 

After  the  rising  of  Monmouth,  gentlemen  were  admonished  to  be 
careful  of  their  ways,  by  hanging  to  their  park  gate  the  corpse  of 
a  rebel.  Dynasties  of  gentry,  known  by  the  dreaded  names  of 
Hectors,  Scourers,  Moliaicks,  were  the  terror  of  peaceable  citi- 
zens. The  moral  condition  at  large  is  fearfully  expressed  in  the 
fact  that  in  guide-books  of  the  period  gibbets  and  gallows  are 
referred  to  as  roail-)/H(rks.      For  example: 

'  By  the  gallows  and  three  wind-mills  enter  the  suburbs  of  York." 

'Leaving  tile  forementioned  suburbs  (Durham),  a  small  ascent,  passing  between  the 

gallows  and  Crokehill.' 

'You  pass  through  Hare  street  .  .  .  with  a  gallons  to  the  left." 

'You  pass  by  Peu-niruis  Hall,  .  .  .  and  ascenil  a  small  hill  witli  a  gihbef  on  the  right.' 

'At  the  end  of  the  city  (Wells*  you  cross  a  brook,  and  pass  by  the  gallows.' 

'At  2'3,  leaving  the  acute  way  i.n  the  right  to  Towling,  Kwel,  etc.,  just  at  the  gallow.^, 

or  jihu-e  of  execnliou  of  malefactors,  convicted  at  Soutliwark.     At  8-5  you  pass  by  a  (/<//- 

lowx  tm  the  left.'  .  .  . 

'  .\  small  rill  witli  a  liridm'  over  it  called  Felbridge,  sei)aratiiig  it  from  Surrey,  whence 

by  the  gallows  you  are  cutivcycil  to  East  tirinsted.' 

'I.i'uviug  Petershorougb  you  pass  {\\>.'  gallons  on  the  left.' 

•You  leave  Frainptou,  WiUicrtou,  and  Slicrbeck,  all  on  the  riL'lit,  and  by  a  gi/ihet  on 

the  left,  over  a  -tone  bri(l'_'<-." 

'  I,ea\ Iul;  NotliuLrlium  you  asceiul  an  hill,  and  pass  by  a  gallons.' 

'From  Uristol  .  .   .  you  u'd  up  a  steep  a-ceiil,  Iravini.'  the  gallows  ou  your  right." 

'  You  cross  ttir  Iii\  IT  Saint,  leaving  the  ga'lmrs  on  your  left."  ' 

AV<>  must  not,  liowovcr,  <^\ago<>r;ite  thc^  extent  of  this  reaction. 
Its  more  violent    forms  appear  to  have  be(Mi   confuied  to  tlie  I'api- 
'Ogilby's  /fintrarha/i  Angl'uv. 


4  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

tal  and  the  Court.  When  tlie  frenzy  of  the  Restoration  had 
passed,  it  was  seen  tliat  the  best  portions  of  the  Puritan  spirit 
were  never  extinguished.  The  mass  of  Englishmen,  satisfied 
with  getting  back  their  May-poles  and  mince  pies,  were  essen- 
tially unchanged. 

Perhaps  nothing  shows  the  social  state  more  strikingly  than 
the  provisions  for  locomotion.  Often  the  highway  was  but  a 
narrow  track  rising  above  tlie  quagmire,  and  that  not  infre- 
quentlv  blocked  up  by  carriers,  neither  of  whom  would  yield. 
In  the  dusk,  it  was  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  open  heath 
and  fen  on  either  side.  Wheeled  carriages  were  in  some  districts 
generally  pulled  by  oxen.  On  main  roads,  heavy  articles  were 
commonly  conveyed,  at  enormous  expense,  by  stage-wagons,  in 
the  straw  of  which  nestled  a  crowd  of  passengers  who  could  not 
afford  to  travel  by  coach;  on  by-roads,  by  long  trains  of  pack 
horses.  The  rich  travelled  in  their  own  carriages,  with  from 
four  to  six  horses.  Nor  .could  even  six  always  save  the  vehicle 
from  being  imbedded.  Towards  the  close  of  the  century,  'Fly- 
ing Coaches'  were  established  —  a  great  and  daring  iiniovation. 
^Moving  at  the  rate  of  thirty  to  fifty  miles  a  day,  many  thought 
it  a  tempting  of  Providence  to  go  in  them.  This  spirited  under- 
taking was  vehemently  applauded  —  and  as  vehemently  decried. 
About  IGTC,  a  few  railways,  made  of  timber,  began  to  apj)ear  in 
the  northern  coal  districts.  Wagons  were  the  cars,  and  horses 
the  engines.  But  however  a  journey  might  be  performed,  trav- 
ellers, unless  numerous  and  well-armed,  were  liable  to  be  stopped 
and  ])liuiderod  by  marauders,  many  of  whom  had  the  numners 
and  apjiearance  of  aristocrats.  Iinmmerable  inns  —  for  which, 
since  the  days  of  famous  Tabard,  England  had  been  renowned  — 
gave  the  wanderer  a  cheering  welcome  from  the  fatigues  of 
travel   and  the  dangers  of   darkness. 

Houses  were  not  numbered.  Shops  were  distinguislied  by 
pictorial  signs,  for  the  direction  of  the  connnon  people  who 
were  unal)lc  to  read.  The  streets  of  the  metropolis  are  tlius 
descrilx'd: 

'Tlic  p;irtif  iil:ir  style  (if  IiiiildiiiL'  in  old  Lonrlnn  was  for  one  story  to  project  over 
aiiollur,  with  l)(a\y  lic,iiii~  mikI  coriiii  o,  iIk'  strrcis  Ix'iiii:  paved  with  pebble  stones,  and 
no  jmtli  for  foot  p:is-etiL'ers  but  what  was  toiiiiiioii  for  earria<,'et<,  scarce  a  lamp  to  b<! 
seen,  and  ixcept  a  few  jiriticipal  >tri-et<,  tliey  were  in  j^eneral  very  narrow,  and  Ihoso 
eiHUinbered  with  hea\y  projecting'  ^i;.'ns,  and  l)art)er"i-  jxilo.     London  niiist  have  Inui  a 


SOCIETY  —  MODE   OF    LIFE.  5 

very  gloomy  appearance  when  neighbors  in  a  narrow  street  might  »Iiake  hands  from  the 
opposite  garrets.    No  wonder  the  plague  was  so  dreadful  in  1665: '  > 

After  the  great  fire,  which  desolated  almost  a  square  mile  of 
the  city,  the  streets  were  widened,  and  the  architecture  was 
improved.  Steps  were  taken  to  turn  its  nocturnal  shades  into 
noonday.  On  moonless  nig-hts,  lanterns  glimmered  feebly  before 
one  house  in  ten,  from  six  o'clock  till  twelve.  While  the  inge- 
nious projector  was  extolled  by  some  as  the  greatest  of  benefac- 
tors, by  others  he  was  furiously  attacked.  The  most  fashionable 
localities  bore  what  would  now  be  considered  a  squalid  appear- 
ance. The  finest  houses  in  Bath,  a  celebrated  watering-place, 
would  seem  to  have  resembled  the  lowest  of  rag-shops.  Visitors 
slept  in  rooms  hardly  as  good  as  the  garrets  which  in  the  next 
century  were  occupied  by  footmen.  We  may  easily  imagine 
what  must  have  been  the  homes  of   the  rural  population. 

Hospitality  displayed  itself  in  immoderate  eating  and  drinking. 
The  guest  had  failed  in  justice  to  the  occasion  unless  he  had 
gone  under  the  table.  Receptions  were  no  solemn  ceremonies. 
King  Charles  kept  open  house  daily  and  all  day  long,  for  London 
society,  the  extreme  Whigs  excepted.  All  who  had  been  prop- 
erly introduced  might  go  to  see  him  dine,  sup,  dance. 

Rural  gentry  derived  their  chief  pleasures  from  field  sports  and 
coarse  sensuality.  Their  taste  in  decoration  seldom  rose  above 
the  litter  of  a  farm-yard;  and  their  opinions  were  imbibed  from 
current  tradition.  The  yeomanry,  a  manly  and  true-hearted  race, 
were  an  important  element  of  the  nation.  Not  less  than  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty  thousand  proprietors,  comprising,  with  their  fami- 
lies, more  than  a  seventh  of  the  inhabitants,  derived  their  subsist- 
ence from  small  freehold  estates.  Four-lifths  of  the  peasants 
were  employed  in  agriculture.  Their  ordinary  wages  without 
board  did  not  exceed  four  shillings  per  week,  about  one-third 
what  they  now  are.  Their  chief  food  was  rye,  barley,  or  oats. 
No  journal  pleaded  their  cause.  Only  in  rude  rhymes  did  their 
distress  find  utterance. 

When  authors  lay  it  down  as  a  rule  that  virtue  is  only  a  i>re- 
tciiee,  the  standard  of  f<Mnah^  excellence  will  be  low.  At  an  ear- 
lier period,  ladies  of  rank  had  studied  the  masterpitM'es  of  (Jiccmi^ 
and  Rome;  now  they  were  unable  to  write  an  Knglish  sentence 
witlujut    errors    of    orthography    and    grammar.       To    libertines, 

'  Smitirs  Adlbiuitha  nf  London. 


6  FIRST  TRANSITION   PERIOD — FEATURES. 

moral  and  intellectual  attainments  were  far  less  attractive  than 
ignorance  and  frivolity. 

The  post-office  might  have  moved  the  admiration  of  Spenser 
and  his  contemporaries,  but  it  was  a  very  imperfect  institution. 
Under  the  Commonwealth,  posts  were  established  for  the  convey- 
ance of  letters  weekly  to  all  parts  of  the  Kingdom.  The  bags 
were  carried  on  horseback,  day  and  night,  at  the  rate  of  about 
five  miles  per  hour.  In  the  reign  of  Charles,  a  penny-post  was 
set  up  in  the  capital  for  the  delivery  of  letters  and  parcels  from 
four  to  eight  times  a  day;  but  the  improvement  was  strenuously 
resisted  by  the  long-headed  and  knowing  ones,  who  denounced  it 
as  an  insidious  'Popish  contrivance.'  No  part  of  the  mail  was 
more  important  than  the  Heiosletters, —  weekly  epistles  of  infor- 
mation and  gossip,  gathered  in  the  coffee-rooms,  and  anxiously 
awaited  by  the  rustic  magistrate  or  the  man  of  fortune  in  the 
country.  Already,  in  IGG'^,  a  new  style  of  chronicle  had  ap- 
peared,—  the  I^eicsjyaper.  The  Civil  War  was  fruitful  in  bitter 
and  malicious  sheets, —  Scotch  Doves,  Parliament  Kites,  Secret 
Owls,  the  JVeekli/  Discoverer,  quickly  rivalled  by  the  Weekly 
Discoverer  Stripped  Naked.  They  multiplied  greatly  in  the 
succeeding  reigns,  growing  less  political  and  more  varied.  In 
1(505  appeared  the  London  Gazette,  a  bi-weekly  of  meagre  con- 
tents. None  was  published  oftener,  and  the  largest  contained 
less  than  is  now  comprised  in  a  single  column  of  a  large  daily. 
It  had  long  ago  been  discovered  that  the  press  was  dangerous  to 
monopolists  and  tyrants;  and  in  the  arbitrary  days  of  Charles  II 
it  was  assumed  that  printing  was  not  a  free  trade,  but  always  to 
remain  under  regulation, —  wholly  at  the  disposal  of  the  sover- 
eign. But  from  1G40,  when  restrictions  on  its  freedom  were 
removed,  the  progress  of  the  press  as  a  reflector  of  ])ublic  opin- 
ion has  l)(>en  steadv  and  sure.  Yet  the  words  of  Dr.  Johnson 
are  as  true  at  this  dav  as  at  anv  former  period:  'I'he  danger  of 
unbounded  liberty,  and  the  danger  of  bounding  it,  have  produced 
a  pr()l)leni  in  \\\v  sciencM^  of  government,  which  human  under- 
staixliiig  seonis  unal)l('  to  s<>lve.' 

Religion. — The  old  cfclcsiastical  polity  and  the  old  liturgy 
wci'c  revived.  Episcoj);il  ordination  })eca!ne  the  indispensable 
condition  of  })ref('rnient.  Two  thousand  ministers,  rather  than 
conform,  resigned   tlieir   cures   in   a   sitigle   day,  though   they  and 


RELIGION  —  INTOLERANCE.  7 

their  families  had  all  but  to  starve.  Then  came  a  series  of  odious 
statutes  against  non-conformists.  It  was  criminal  to  attend  a 
dissenting  place  of  worship.  A  magistrate  might  convict  with- 
out a  jury;  and  for  a  third  offence  might  pass  sentence  of  trans- 
portation beyond  the  sea.  If  the  offender  returned  before  the 
expiration  of  his  term  of  exile,  he  was  liable  to  be  executed.  A 
test  was  imposed  on  the  ejected  divines;  and  all  who  refused  to 
take  it  were  prohibited  from  coming  within  five  miles  of  any 
borough,  or  of  any  town  where  they  had  been  wont  to  preach. 
In  twelve  years,  twelve  thousand  Quakers  —  one  of  the  smallest 
of  the  separatist  bodies  —  had  found  their  way  to  the  jails.  Many 
of  the  expelled  clergy  preached  in  fields  and  private  houses,  till 
they  were  seized  and  cast  into  prison,  where  a  great  number  per- 
ished. In  Scotland,  the  prisons  were  soon  filled  to  overflowing, 
and  when  they  could  hold  no  more,  the  victims  were  transported. 
The  savage  mountaineers  were  let  loose  upon  the  people,  and 
spared  neither  age  nor  sex.  Children  were  torn  from  tlieir  par- 
ents, and  threatened  to  be  shot.  Adults  were  banished  by  wliole- 
sale,  some  of  the  men  first  losing  their  ears,  and  the  women  being 
branded  on  the  hand  or  cheek.  The  government,  in  its  arbitrary 
attempt  to  enforce  a  religious  system,  had  not  profited  by  the 
disastrous  experiments  of  preceding  reigns. 

The  tide  of  intolerance,  however,  was  slowly  ebbing.  In  the 
struggle  against  Romanism,  Churchmen  and  Non-conformists 
rallied  together,  and  made  common  cause  against  the  common 
enemy.  The  danger  over,  the  union  of  the  two  abruptly  ceased, 
it  is  true;  but  active  persecution  was  no  longer  possible,  and  in 
1G89  the  Toleration  Act  established  forever  complete  freedom 
of  worship. 

A  large  part  of  the  people  remained  Puritan  in  life,  thougii 
they  threw  aside  many  of  the  outer  characteristics  of  that  belief. 
Purged  by  oppression,  purified  by  patience,  Puritanism  ended  by 
winning  the  public  esteem.  Gradually  it  approached  the  world, 
and  the  world  it.  After  all,  its  essential  ideal  was  what  the  race 
demanded.  Prosperity  had  developed  pride,  and  jiower  corrup- 
tion; but  in  the  moment  of  its  defeat,  its  real  victory  Ix'gaii. 
Its  fruits  compelled  admiration.  CromwelTs  fifty  thousand  vet- 
erans, suddeidy  disbanded  and  without  resources,  brought  not  a 
sinirle    recruit    to    the    va<>-abonds    and    bandits.      'The    liovalists 


8  FIRST  TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

themselves  confessed  that,  in  every  department  of  honest  indus- 
try, the  discarded  warriors  prospered  beyond  other  men,  that 
none  was  charged  with  any  theft  or  robbery,  that  none  was  heard 
to  ask  an  alms,  and  that  if  a  baker,  a  mason,  or  a  waggoner 
attracted  notice  by  his  diligence  and  sobriety,  he  was  in  all  prob- 
ability one  of  Oliver's  old  soldiers." 

The  return  of  the  Stuarts  was  followed,  among  the  gayer 
classes,  by  an  outburst  of  the  most  derisive  incredulity.  From 
mocking  the  solemn  gait  and  the  nasal  twang  of  the  Puritans, 
they  naturally  proceeded  to  ridicule  their  doctrines.  The  higher 
intellectual  influences  were  tending  strongly  in  the  same  direc- 
tion among  the  learned.  Hobbes  had  created  in  his  disciples  an 
indisposition  to  believe  in  incorporeal  substances,  and  a  similar 
feeling  was  produced  by  the  philosophy  of  Bacon,  which  had  then 
acquired  an  immense  popularity.  From  the  endless  controver- 
sies, the  social  and  religious  anarchy,  of  the  period;  from  tlie 
c^'uicism  of  writers,  and  the  frivolity  of  courtiers,  a  new  genera- 
tion was  drinking  in  the  spirit  of  scepticism,  of  doubt,  of  free 
inquiry.  'Four  or  five  in  the  House  of  Commons,'  said  Montes- 
quieu, 'go  to  mass  or  to  the  parliamentary  sermon.  ...  If  any 
one  speaks  of  religion,  everybody  begins  to  laugh.  A  man  hap- 
pening to  say,  "I  believe  this  like  an  article  of  faith,"  everybody 
burst  out  laughing.' 

A  sceptical  movement  shows  an  alteration  in  the  character  of 
the  ago,  of  the  same  nature  as  that  which  now  causes  the  educated 
majority  to  regard  with  indifference  disputes  which,  little  more 
than  a  century  ago,  would  have  inflamed  a  kingdom.  Scepticism 
and  toleration  are  related  as  the  antecedent  and  consequent  of 
])rogress.  A  profound  change  was  soon  effected  in  the  notion  of 
witchcraft.  In  IGGi,  two  witches  were  hung,  under  a  sentence 
of  Sir  Mathew  Hale,  who  justified  it  by  the  aflirmations  of  Scrip- 
ture and  'the  wisdom  of  all  nations' — irresistible  reasoning. 
Throe  were  executed  in  1G82.  But,  while  in  lOGO  the  belief  was 
common,  in  1GS8  the  sense  of  its  improbability  was  equally  gen- 
oral.  In  Scotland  it  j)assed  away  much  more  slowly,  and,  to  the 
last,  found  its  most  ardent  sujiportors  among  the  Presbyterian 
clergy.  In  1004,  nine  women  wore  burned  together,  and  trials 
were  frequent  until  the  close  of  the  century. 

'  Macaiilay. 


RELIGION  —  POSITION   OF    ECCLESIASTICS.  9 

Revolutions  had  changed  completely  the  position  of  ecclesias- 
tics. Once  they  formed  the  majority  of  the  Upper  House,  and 
rivalled  in  their  imperial  pomp  the  greatest  of  the  barons;  now 
they  were  regarded,  on  the  whole,  as  a  plebeian  class.  The  fact 
that  a  man  could  read,  no  longer  raised  a  presumption  that  he 
was  in  orders.  Laymen  had  risen  who  were  able  to  negotiate 
treaties,  and  to  administer  justice.  Prelates  had  ceased  to  be 
necessary,  or  even  desirable,  in  the  conduct  of  civil  affairs;  and 
the  priestly  office,  in  losing  its  worldly  motives,  lost  its  attraction 
for  the  illustrious.  Many  divines  —  especially  during  the  domi- 
nation of  the  Puritans  —  attached  themselves  to  households  in 
the  relation  of  menial  servants.  A  cook  was  considered  the  most 
suitable  helpmate  for  a  parson.  Not  one  benefice  in  fifty  enabled 
him  to  bring  up  a  family  comfortably.  Often  he  fed  swine  or 
loaded  dung-carts  to  obtain  daily  bread.  Nor,  at  the  Restora- 
tion, did  the  dissenters  fare  better.  Says  Baxter,  who  was  one 
of  them: 

'Many  hundreds  of  thesie,  with  their  wives  and  children,  had  neither  house  nor  bread. 
.  .  .  Their  congregations  had  enough  to  do,  besides  a  small  maintenance,  to  help  them 
out  of  prison,  or  to  maintain  them  there.  Though  they  were  as  frugal  as  possible,  they 
could  hardly  live;  some  lived  on  little  more  than  brown  bread  and  water,  many  had  but 
little  more  than  eight  or  ten  pounds  a  year  to  maintain  a  family,  so  a  piece  of  tiesh  has 
not  come  to  one  of  their  tables  in  six  weeks'  time,  their  allowance  could  scarce  afford 
them  bread  and  cheese.  One  went  to  plow  six  days  and  preached  on  the  Lord's  day. 
Another  was  forced  to  cut  tobacco  for  a  livelihood." 

When  at  length  the  Church  was  reinstated,  she  had  suffered  a 
still  further  loss  of  her  ancient  influence.  It  was  observed,  with 
sorrow,  that  she  'recovered  much  of  her  temporal  possessions,  but 
not  her  spiritual  rule.'  Her  cause  was  never  again  to  be  identi- 
fied with  political  reaction.  The  London  clergy  wore  always 
spoken  of  as  a  class  ajiart;  and  it  was  chiefly  they  wlio  upheld 
the  fame  of  their  profession  for  learning  and  eloquence. 

In  Scotland,  on  tlie  contrary,  tlie  clergy  were  supreme.  Their 
very  names  were  sacred.  To  s])eak  disrespectfully  of  tlieni  was 
a  grievous  offence;  to  differ  from  them  was  heresy;  to  jia.ss  them 
without  saluting  them  was  a  crime.  Their  instructions  were 
direct  from  heaven.  When  they  died,  candles  were  mysteriously 
extinguished,  or  stars  miraculously  aj)peare(l  in  the  firmament. 
Fancy  with  what  rapture  each  precious  word  was  received  !  Vet 
a  zealous  pastor  would  discourse  for  two  hours;  a  vigorous  one, 
five   or   six.      On    great    occasions,   several    would    be   present,   in 


10  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

order  that,  when  one  was  exhausted,  he  might  be  succeeded  by 
another.  In  lOTO,  from  one  pulpit  in  Edinburgh,  thirty  sermons 
were  delivered  weekly.  When  sacrament  was  administered,  on 
Wednesday  they  fasted,  with  prayers  and  preaching  for  more 
than  eight  hours;  on  Saturday,  they  listened  to  two  or  three 
sermons;  on  Sunday,  to  so  many  that  the  congregation  remained 
together  more  than  twelve  hours;  on  Monday,  to  three  or  four 
additional  ones  by  way  of  thanksgiving.  Still  the  people  never 
wearied.  Has  history  any  parallel  to  such  eagerness  and  such 
endurance  ? 

Meanwhile,  dissent  had  multiplied  sects,  and  the  Revolution 
established  them, — Anabaptists,  Quakers,  Enthusiasts,  Seekers, 
Arians,  Socinians,  Anti-Trinitarians,  Deists, —  the  list  is  inter- 
minable. No  danger  henceforward  that  Protestantism  would  be 
only  a  new  edition  of  Catholicism.  Divisions  are  at  once  the 
symptoms  and  the  agents  of  progress.  Uniformity  of  opinion 
is  tlic  airy  good  of  emperors  and  popes,  whose  arguments  are 
edicts,  inquisitions,  and  flames. 

Poetry. — It  is  true,  in  general,  of  nations  as  of  individuals, 
that  as  the  reflective  faculties  develop,  the  imaginative  are  en- 
feebled. Memory,  judgment,  wit,  supply  their  place.  The  mind, 
disciplined,  retraces  its  steps.  Criticism  succeeds  invention.  But 
criticism  is  a  science,  and,  like  every  other,  is  constantly  tending 
towards  perfection.  It  was  now  in  a  very  imperfect  state.  The 
age  of  inspired  intuition  had  passed;  the  age  of  agreeable  imita- 
tion had  not  arrived;  and  the  ascendancy  was  left  to  an  inferior 
school  of  ])oetry — a  school  without  the  powers  of  the  earlier  and 
without  the  correctness  of  a  later  —  a  school  which,  blending 
bombasts  and  conceits,  yet  expressed  a  pliase  in  the  revolution 
of  taste  that  was  to  issue  in  the  tieatness  and  finish  of  well- 
ordered  periods,  in  the  truth  of  sentiment  and  the  harmony  of 
versification.  Its  absorbing  care  was  not  for  the  foundation,  but 
for  the  outer  sliaix-.  The  prevailing  immorality  infected  it.  Gal- 
lantry held  the  chief  rank.  The  literature  and  maimers  of  polite 
France  led  the  fashion.  We  have  seen  the  change  foreshadowed. 
A\'e  se(>  it  in  the  occasional  rliymes  of  the  palace  and  the  college; 
in  the  lewd  and  lawless  Earl  of  Rochester,  who  wrote  a  satire 
against  Mankind,  then  an  epistle  on  Nothing,  and  songs  number- 
less, whose  titles  cannot    Ix-  copied.      'i\vo  (jj-  three  are  still  to  be 


WRITERS   OF   FASHION.  11 

found  in  the  expurgated  books  of  extracts.     A  stanza  or  two  will 
be  a  sufficient  revelation  of  him: 

'When,  wearied  with  a  world  of  woe. 
To  thy  safe  bosom  1  retire. 
Where  love  and  peace  and  honour  flow. 
May  I  contented  there  expire.' 

And: 

'My  dear  mistress  has  a  heart 
Soft  as  those  kind  looks  she  gave  me; 
When,  with  love's  resistless  art. 
And  her  eyes,  she  did  enslave  me; 
But  her  constancy's  so  weak, 
She's  so  wild  and  apt  to  wander. 
That  my  jealous  heart  would  break 
Should  we  live  one  day  asunder.' 

An  adept  in  compliments  and  salutations.  So  are  the  others. 
Sedley,  a  charming  talker,  sings  thus  to  Chloris: 

'My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 
And  Cupid  at  my  heart, 
Still  as  his  mother  favoured  you. 
Threw  a  new  flaming  dart.' 

And: 

'An  hundred  thousand  oaths  your  fears 
Perhaps  would  not  remove. 
And  if  I  gazed  a  thousand  years, 
I  could  no  deeper  love.' 

Dorset,  at  sea,  on  the  eve  of  battle,  addresses  a  song  to  the 
ladies: 

'To  all  you  Ladies  now  at  land 

We  men  at  sea  indite; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

IIow  hard  it  is  to  write ; 
The  Muses  now,  and  Xeptune  too. 
We  must  implore  to  write  to  you.' 

Then  for  the  sake  of  speaking: 

'  While  you,  regardless  of  our  woe. 
Sit  careless  at  a  play,— 
Perhaps  permit  some  hajipier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand  or  flirt  your  fan." 

And  in  the  conventional  language  of  the  drawing-room: 

'Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way. 
The  tide  shall  waft  them  twice  a  day.' 

There  is  courtesy  here,  but  a  lack  of  entiuisiasm;  elegance,  luit 
no  weight;  smoothnes.s,  but  no  depth.  It  is  (correct,  or  nearly  .^o, 
but  external  and  cold.  It  is  the  style,  also,  of  Waller,  a  fashion- 
able wit,  in  the  front  rank  of  worldlings  and  courtiers.  Ilis  verses 
resemble  the  little  events  or  little  sentiments  from  which  they 
spring: 


12  FIRST  TRANSITION   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'  Go,  lovely  rose  ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me. 

That  now  she  knows 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be.  .  .  . 

Then  die!  that  she 
The  cc:mmon  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee, 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair.' 

Most  of  his  verses  are  addressed  to  a  lady  whom  he  had  long 
wooed.  When  she  had  ceased  to  be  beautiful,  she  asked  him  if 
he  would  write  others  for  her,  and  he  replied,  as  one  accustomed 
to  murmur,  with  a  soft  voice,  commonplaces  which  he  could  not 
be  said  to  think:  'Yes,  madam,  when  you  are  as  young  and  as 
handsome  as  you  were  formerly.'  A  purely  mechanical  versifier, 
he  survives  mainly  on  the  credit  of  a  single  couplet: 

'The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed. 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  Time  hath  made.' 

Unlike  the  amorous  poets  around  him,  Denham  has  left  not  one 
copy  of  their  vapid  effusions.  In  the  midst  of  insincerity,  he  is 
sincere,  preoccupied  by  moral  motives.  His  best  poem.  Cooper's 
Hill,  is  a  description  of  natural  scenery,  blended  with  the  grave 
reflections  which  the  scene  sus^fffcsts,  and  which  are  fundamental 
to  the  English  mind: 

'My  eye,  descending  from  the  hill,  surveys 
Where  Thames  among  the  wanton  valleys  strays; 
Thames,  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean's  sons 
By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs, 
Hasting  to  i)ay  his  tribute  to  the  sea. 
Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity.  .  .  . 
0  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme ! 
Though  deep,  yet  clear ;  though  gentle,  yet  not  dull; 
Strong  without  rage;  without  o'erflowing,full.  .  .  . 

But  his  proud  head  the  airy  mountain  hides 
Among  the  clouds;  his  shoulders  and  his  sides 
A  shady  mantle  clothes;  his  curled  brows 
Frown  on  the  gentle  stream,  which  calmly  flows. 
While  winds  and  storms  his  lofty  forehead  beat. 
The  common  fate  of  all  that's  high  or  great," 

The  reputation  of  the  ])iocc  rests  almost  entirely  upon  the  famous 
quatrain  in  italics.  As  for  the  rest,  there  is  little  adornment,  less 
ardency,  nothing  to  warm,  or  melt,  or  fascinate.  It  is  argument 
in  statolv  and  regular  verse,  but,  as  such,  is  no  ordinary  perform- 


POETRY  —  STUDIED    STYLE.  13 

ance,  and  is  nearly  the  first  instance  of  manly  and  rhythmical 
couplets. 

It  remains  for  Dryden  to  give  to  the  critical  spirit  vigorous 
form,  and  for  Pope  to  add  to  it  perfection  of  artifice.  Mean- 
while, out  of  season,  in  penury,  pain,  and  blindness,  Milton  pro- 
duces, as  we  have  seen,  the  greatest  of  modern  epics,  himself  a 
benighted  traveller  on  a  dreary  road.  Near  him,  in  sympathy 
with  him,  a  kind  of  satellite,  is  another  Puritan,  Marvell,  very 
unequal,  but  often  melodious,  graceful,  and  impressive.  Thus 
after  a  badinage  of  courtesy  and  compliment  to  his  'coy  mis- 
tres,'  he  adds: 

*But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  Imrrying  near; 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 
Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found; 
■Nor  in  thy  marble  vault  shall  sound 
My  echoing  song.' 

Unhappily,  in  common  with  the  Cowleyan  sect  of  writers,  he  is 
eminently  afflicted  with  the  gift  of  ingenuity: 

'Maria  such  and  so  doth  hush 
The  world,  and  through  the  evening  rush, 
No  new-born  comet  such  a  train 
Draws  through  the  sky,  nor  star  new  slain. 
For  straight  those  giddy  rockets  fail 
Which  from  the  putrid  earth  e.\hale, 
But  by  her  tlames  in  heaven  tried 
Nature  is  wholly  vitrified.' 

This  is  a  play  of  the  intellectual  fancy,  in  which  an  extravagant 
use  of  words  aims  to  effect  the  results  that  living  feeling  had 
heretofore  produced.  The  stamp  of  the  age  —  critical  rather  than 
emotional  —  is  visil^le  in  his  natural  description,  where  he  is 
most  animated: 

'Hcform  Ihe  errors  of  the  spring: 
Make  ihat  the  tulips  may  have  sliari; 
Of  sweetness,  seeuiv'  Iliey  are  fair; 
And  roses  of  their  tliorus  disarm: 
r.ut  most  pro'iire 
Tlint.   viole/s  indij  a  longer  age  endure. 

But  oh,  young  lieauty  of  the  woods, 

Wlioin  nature  eourts  wjtii  fruits  and  flowers, 

(;alher  tlie  IIowit-,   l)ut  ^pare  tlie  buds; 

Lest   Flora,  an<:ry  at  thy  crime 

To  kill  her  infants  in  their  prime, 

Should  (piickly  make  the  e.\ami)le  yours: 

And,  ere  we  see, 

Nip  in  Ihe  blossom  all  our  hopes  in  thee." 


14  FIRST  TRANSITION   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

And,  in  the  Garden  : 

'Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here. 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistalcen  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  conii)anies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow; 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delightful  solitude. 
No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green.' 

This  way  of  treating  Nature  suits  the  time, —  merely  to  picture 
what  the  eye  sees  and  tlie  ear  hears,  to  produce  the  forms  and 
colors  of  things,  the  movements  and  the  sounds  which  pervade 
them.  It  is  the  calm,  unexcited  manner  of  an  inventory.  For 
contrast,  take  an  instance  from  Keats,  when  once  more,  across 
the  next  century,  it  is  given  to  see  into  the  life  of  things,  and 
seeing,  to  make  us  share  his  insight: 

'Upon  a  tranced  summer  night 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighly  woods. 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir. 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  u|)on  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave.' 

No  eye  can  see  deeply  into  the  meaning  of  Nature,  nor  hence 
interpret  her  truly,  unless  it  has  also  looked  deeply  into  the 
moral  heart,  and  sadly,  sweetly,  into  the  mystery  of  human  life 
and  human  history. 

Butler's  IfKdibras  exhibits,  in  buffoonery,  the  style  which 
Donne  and  Cowley  practiced  in  its  more  serious  form.  Sir  Hudi- 
bras  is  a  Presbyterian  knight  who,  with  his  squire,  goes  forth  to 
redress  all  wrongs,  and  correct  all  abuses.  He  is  beaten,  set  in 
stocks,  pelted  with  rotten  eggs,  a  ridiculous  object  from  first  to 
last,  but  serenely  unconscious  that  he  is  laughed  at.  Tlie  author 
desires  to  make  sport  for  a  wiiming  side,  and  the  Puritans  are 
caricatured,  the  terrible  saints, — 

'Who  built  their  faith  Mi)nn 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun, 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery. 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox 
By  ajxjstolic  blows  and  knocks.' 

Wo  can  imagine  that  the  general  hatred  secured  a  hearing.  Xo 
poem   in   fact   rose  at  once  to  greater  reputation.     But  fashions 


DRAMA  —  PREEMINENCE  OF  COMEDY.  15 

change;  what  yesterday  was  apt  may  be  out  of  date  to-morrow. 
Jludihrus  at  present  attracts  few  readers.  There  is  in  it  no 
action,  no  nature;  much  triviality,  much  filth.  It  is  pitiless, 
splenetic,  exaggerated,  discursive.  Besides,  wit,  continued  long, 
fatigues.  Incessant  surprises  become  wearisome.  Enough  re- 
mains, however,  to  render  it  notable.  It  is  a  very  hoard  of  robust 
English  and  sententious  dicta,  many  of  which  are  like  coins 
effaced  and  smoothed  by  currency.  Here  are  some  of  the  less 
familiar: 

'He  could  raise  scruples  dark  and  nice. 
And  after  solve  "em  in  a  trice.' 

'  For  most  men  carry  things  so  even 
Between  this  world  and  hell  and  heaven, 
Without  the  least  oflfense  to  either 
They  freely  deal  in  all  together." 

'He  that  runs  may  fight  again, 
Which  he  can  never  do  thafs  slain.' 

'Fools  are  known  by  looking  wise. 
As  men  tell  wooilcocks  by  their  eyes.' 

Drama. — When  the  Restoration  rooj^ened  the  theatres,  they 
were  invested  with  the  externals  of  French  polish  —  movable 
<lecorations,  music,  lights,  comfort.  Pepys  writes  in  his  diary, 
January,  IGGl:  'To  the  theatre,  where  was  acted  Beggar's  Bush,  it 
being  very  well  done,  and  here,  the  first  time  that  ever  I  saw  women 
come  upon  the  stage.'  In  the  reaction  from  Puritan  proscri})- 
tion,  they  were  thronged.  The  public,  we  have  seen,  was  trans- 
formed. The  animal,  broken  loose,  abandons  itself  to  excess,  and 
tlic  stage  imitates  the  orgie.  Comedy,  drojiping  its  serious  and 
tender  tones,  wallows  in  vulgarity  and  lewdness.  The  new  char- 
acters, gross  and  vicious,  are  in  the  taste  of  the  day.  Dryden, 
who  still  mingles  the  tragic  and  humorous,  adoj)ts  tlio  fashion  of 
society,  though  not  heartily.  One  of  his  gallants  says:  '  I  am 
none  of  those  unreasonable  lovers  that  propose  to  themselves  the 
loving  to  eternitv.  A  month  is  commoiilv  mv  stint.'  AiiotluM': 
'  ^^'o  love  to  got  our  mistresses,  and  ])urr  over  tliom,  as  cats  do 
over  mice,  and  let  them  get  a  little  away;  and  all  the  pleasure  is 
to  pat  them  back  again.'      And  a  tiiird: 

'Is  not  love  love  without  a  priosl  .ind  altars? 
The  tciniih's  are  inaniinate,  and  know  not 
Wluit  vows  are  made  in  theui:    the  i)rii'st  staiuN  ready 
For  lii<  hire,  and  care<  not  what   lieart'^  lie  couples." 


16  FIRST  TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

£!th.ereg^e  is  the  first  to  depict  manners  only  —  the  careless  pleas- 
ures of  the  human  mass.  Pie  defines  a  gentleman  to  be  one  who 
'  ought  to  dress  well,  dance  well,  fence  well,  have  a  talent  for  love- 
letters,  a  pleasant  voice  in  a  room,  to  be  always  very  amorous, 
sufficiently  discreet,  but  not  too  constant.'  But  the  hero  of  the 
libertine  outburst  is  Wycherley.  His  best  play  is  the  Cou)(try 
Wife.  Is  it  possible  that  king  and  nobles,  beaux  and  belles,  the 
elite  of  London,  could  come  and  listen  to  such  scenes  ?  What 
may  we  extract,  that  is  not  at  war  with  beauty  and  delicacy? 
Horner,  who  has  returned  from  France  with  the  cavaliers,  is  a 
vile  rogue,  to  whom  a  lady  says:  'Drink,  thou  representative  of 
a  husband.  Damn  a  husband.'  Another  avows:  'Our  virtue  is 
like  the  statesman's  religion,  the  quaker's  word,  the  gamester's 
oath,  the  great  man's  honour;  but  to  cheat  those  that  trust  us.* 
To  a  third  he  declares:  'I  cannot  be  your  husband,  dearest,  since 
you  are  married.'  And  she  replies:  '  O,  would  you  make  me 
believe  that?  Don't  I  see  every  day  at  London  here,  women 
leave  their  first  liusbands,  and  go  and  live  with  other  men  as 
their  wives?  pish,  pshaw  I '  Viola,  in  Pldia  JJealer,  makes  an 
appointment  to  meet  a  friend,  but  unexpectedly  meets  her  hus- 
band, who  comes  in  from  a  journey;  kisses  him,  and  says,  aside: 
*Ha!  my  husband  returned  !  and  hav(>  I  been  throwing  away  so 
many  kind  kisses  on  my  husband,  and  wronged  my  lover  already?* 
She  sends  him  oiT  on  an  improvised  errand,  and  when  he  is  gone^ 
she  cries  exultingly:  'Go,  liTisband,  and  come  up,  friend:  just  the 
buckets  in  the  well;  the  absence  of  one  brings  the  otiier.  But  I 
hope,  like  them  too,  thev  will  not  meet  in  the  way,  jostle,  and 
clash  togetlxT.'  SIk^  had  already  tired  of  another,  defied  him, 
declaring  herself  to  be  married.  To  his  question,  'Did  you  love 
him  too?'  she  had  answered:  '.Most  j)assionateIy ;  nay,  love  him 
now,  though  I  have  married  liiin.'  She  refused  to  surrender  the 
diamonds  he  ha<I  given  her,  and  justified  the  deception  she  had 
practised:  ''Twas  his  money:  I  luul  a  real  passion  for  that.  Yet 
I  loved  nr)t  that  so  well,  as  for  it  to  take  him;  for  as  soon  as  I 
had  liis  money  I  hastened  his  (l(>parture  like;  a  wife,  who,  when 
slie  has  made  the  most  of  a  dying  husl^and's  lireath,  pulls  away 
his  pillow.'  If  this  is  th(>  Zenith,  judge  of  the  Nadir  I  Need 
we  analvze  these  dramas  —  recount  their  plots?  Their  chief 
merit  is  the  liveliness  of  their  dialogue,  and  their  only  oi'iginality 


DRAMA — CONGREVE.  17 

is  their  prpfligacy.  Nothing  to  raise,  console,  or  purify.  In  the 
ten  selected  by  Mr.  Hunt  from  the  three  hundred  and  eight 
Maxims  and  Meflections,  written  by  Wycherley  in  old  age,  we 
find  but  two  which  seem  to  us  to  be  in  any  degree  novel,  just, 
and  wise: 

^The  silence  of  a  wise  man  is  more  wrong  to  mankind  than  the  slanderer's  speech.' 
'Our  hopes,  though  they  never  happen,  yet  are  some  kind  of  happiness;  as  trees, 
whilst  they  are  still  growing,  please  in  the  prospect,  though  they  bear  no  fruit.' 

Cong^eve  is  perhaps  less  natural,  but  more  scholarly,  more  highly 
bred,  more  brilliant,  more  urbane.  Yet  French  authors  are  his 
masters,  and  experience  supplies  the  colors  of  his  portraits,  which 
display  both  the  innate  baseness  of  primitive  instincts,  and  the 
refined  corruption  of  worldly  habits.  In  -Love  for  Love,  Miss 
Prue  is  left  in  the  room  with  a  dolt  of  a  sailor,  who  wants  to 
make  love: 

'Come,  mistress,  will  you  please  to  sit  down  ?  for  an  you  stand  astern  a  that'n,  we 
shall  never  grapple  together.  Come,  1"11  haul  a  chair;  there,  an  you  please  to  sit  I'll 
sit  by  you. 

Prue.  You  need  not  sit  so  near  one;  if  you  have  anything  to  say  I  can  hear  you 
farther  oflf;  I  an't  deaf. 

Ben.  Wliy,  that's  true,  as  you  say;  nor  I  an't  dumb;  I  can  be  heard  as  far  as 
another;  I'll  heave  olT  to  please  you.  .  .  . 

Prue.    I  don't  Ivuow  what  to  say  to  you,  nor  I  don't  care  to  speak  witli  you  at  all.  .  .  . 

Ben.  Mayhap  you  may  be  shamefaced  ?  some  maidens,  tlio'f  they  love  a  man  well 
enough,  yet  they  don't  care  to  tell'n  so  to's  face:  if  tliat's  the  case,  why  silence  gives 
consent. 

Prue.  But  I  am  sure  it  is  not  so,  for  I'll  speak  sooner  than  you  should  believe  that: 
and  I'll  speak  truth,  thougli  one  should  always  tell  a  lie  to  a  man;  and  I  don't  care,  let 
my  father  do  what  he  will;  I'm  too  big  to  be  whipjied,  so  I'll  tell  you  plainly  I  don't  like 
you,  nor  love  you  at  all,  nor  never  will,  that's  more:  so  there's  your  answer  for  you ;  and 
don't  trouble  nic  no  more,  you  ugly  thing! 

Ben.  Flesh  I  who  are  you?  You  heard  t'otlier  handsome  young  woman  speak  civilly 
to  me  of  her  own  accord:  whatever  you  think  of  yourself,  gad  I  don't  think  you  are  any 
more  to  comiiare  to  lier  tlian  a  can  of  small  beer  to  a  bowl  of  punch. 

Prue.  Well,  and  there's  a  haiulsome  gentleman,  and  a  fine  gentleman,  and  n  sweet 
gentleman,  that  was  here,  tliat  loves  me,  and  I  love  him;  and  if  lie  sees  yon  speak  to  me 
any  more  he'll  thrash  your  jacket  for  you,  lie  will,  you  great  sea-calf! 

Ben.  What,  do  you  mean  that  fair-weather  spark  that  was  here  just  now?  will  he 
thrash  my  jacket  ':*—  lefn  —  let'n.  But  an  he  comes  near  me,  mayhap  I  may  giv'ii  a  salt 
eel  for's  supper,  for  all  lliat.  What  does  father  mean  to  leav«>  me  alone  with  such  a 
dirty  dowdy?  Sea-calf!  I  an't  calf  enough  to  lick  your  chalked  face,  you  cheese-curd 
you." 

The  sweet  and  handsonic  man  is  Tattle,  who  iiistnict.s  lu-r,  ami 
finds  her  an  apt  scliohir: 

'You  must  let  me  s])cak,  miss,  you  must  not  speak  first:  I  must  ask  you  (jui-tions, 
and  you  must  answer. 

Prue.     What,  is  it  like  the  eatccliisin  ?     Come  then,  ask  me. 
Tattle.     D'ye  think  you  can  love  me!' 
Prue.     Yes. 
2 


18  FIRST  TRANSITION   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Tattle.  Pooh!  i)ox!  you  must  not  say  yes  already;  I  shan't  care  a  farthing  for  you 
then  in  a  twinkling. 

Prue.    What  must  I  say  then? 

Tattle.    Why,  you  must  say  no,  or  you  believe  not,  or  you  can't  tell. 

Prue.    Why,  must  I  tell  a  lie  then"? 

Tattle.  Yes,  if  you'd  be  well-bred;  all  well-bred  persons  lie;  besides,  you  are  a 
woman,  you  must  never  speak  what  you  think:  your  words  must  contradict  your 
thoughts;  but  your  actions  may  contradict  your  words.  So,  when  I  ask  you,  if  you  can 
love  me,  you  must  say  no,  but  you  must  love  me  too.  If  I  tell  you  you  are  handsome, 
you  must  deny  it  and  say  I  flatter  you.  But  you  must  think  yourself  more  charming  than 
I  speak  you:  and  like  me  for  the  beauty  which  I  say  you  have,  as  much  as  if  I  had  it 
myself.    If  I  ask  you  to  kiss  me  you  must  be  angry,  but  you  must  not  refuse  me. 

Prue.  O  Lord,  I  swear  this  is  pure  I  I  like  it  better  than  our  old-fashioned  country 
way  of  speaking  one's  mind ;  and  must  not  you  lie  too? 

Tattle.    Hum  I   Yes;  but  you  must  believe  I  speak  truth. 

Prue.  O  Gemini  I  well,  I  always  had  a  great  mind  to  tell  lies;  but  they  frighted  me 
and  said  it  was  a  sin. 

Tattle.    Well,  my  pretty  creature;  will  j'ou  make  me  happy  by  giving  me  a  kiss? 

Prue.    No,  indeed;  I'm  angry  at  you.  [Runs  and  kisses  him. 

Tattle.  Hold,  hold,  that's  pretty  well;  but  you  should  not  have  given  it  me,  but 
have  suffered  me  to  have  taken  it. 

Prue.    Well,  we'll  do't  again. 

Tattle.    With  all  my  heart.    Xow  then  my  little  angel!  [Kisses  her. 

Prue.    Pish ! 

Tattle.    That's  right  — again,  my  charmer!  [Kisses  again. 

Prtie.    O  fy!  nay,  now  1  can't  abide  you. 

Tattle.  Admirable!  that  was  as  well  as  if  you  had  been  born  and  bred  in  Covent- 
garden.' 

These  are  the  natural  in.stincts  of  the  town.  If  we  would  see 
them  transformed  into  systematic  vices,  we  must  look  to  the 
Way  of  the  World,  the  mirror  of  fine  artificial  society.  The 
heroes  are  accomplished  scoundreLs,  the  heroines  are  unchecked 
gossips,  who,  in  their  most  amiable  aspects,  veil  the  animal 
under  genteel  airs.  Fainall,  who  has  been  lavish  of  his  morals, 
is  asked  how  he  is  'affected'  towards  his  wife,  and  answers: 

'Why,  faith,  I'm  thinking  of  it.  Let  me  see;  I  am  married  already,  so  that's  over: 
my  wife  has  played  the  jade  with  me;  well,  that's  over  too.  I  never  loved  her,  or  if  I 
had,  why  that  would  have  been  over  too  by  this  time:  jealous  of  her  I  cannot  be,  for  I 
am  certain:  so  tliere's  an  end  of  jealousy:  weary  of  her  1  am,  and  shall  be;  no,  there's 
no  end  of  that:    no,  no,  that  were  too  much  to  hope.' 

Slie,  whose  youth  has  not  rusted  in  her  possession,  hates  iiim; 
complains  to  Mirabell,  a  trained  expert,  who  appeases  her,  and 
g:ives  her  advice: 

'You  should  have  just  >o  nmcli  disgust  for  your  husband,  as  may  be  suftlcient  to 
make  you  relish  your  lover.' 

Lady  Wishfort,  expecting  Sir  Rowland,  speaks  in  the  style  of 
high  life: 

'But  art  thou  sure  Sir  IJowlaiul  will  not  fail  to  come?  or  will  he  not  fail  when  he 
doe-  cDinr?    Will  he  be  iniportunat>-,  Foible,  and  [nish?    For  if  he  should  not  be  impor- 


DRAMA  —  CONGREVE.  19 

tunatc,  I  shall  never  break  decorums:  I  shall  die  with  confusion,  if  I  am  forced  to 
advance.  Oh  no,  I  can  never  advance!  I  shall  swoon  if  he  should  expect  advances. 
No,  I  hope  Sir  Rowland  is  better  bred  than  to  put  a  lady  to  the  necessity  of  breaking  her 
forms.  I  won't  be  too  coy,  neither.  I  won't  give  him  despair — but  a  little  disdain  is  not 
amiss;  a  little  scorn  is  alluring.' 

Foible.    A  little  scorn  becomes  your  ladyship. 

Lady  Wifih.  Yes,  but  tenderness  become  me  best;  a  sort  of  dyingness;  you  see 
that  picture  has  a  sort  of  a  — ha.  Foible!  a  swimmingness  in  the  eye;  yes,  I'll  look  so; 
my  niece  affects  it;  but  she  wants  features.  Is  !jir  Rowland  handsome?  Let  my  toilet 
be  removed;  I'll  dress  above.  I'll  receive  Sir  Rowland  here.  Js  he  liandsome?  Don't 
answer  me.    I  won't  know;  I'll  be  surprised,  I'll  be  taken  by  surprise." 

But  the  perfect  model  of  the  brilliant  world  is  Mrs.  Millainant, 
haughty  and  wanton,  witty  and  scornful,  witli  nothing  to  hope  or 
to  fear,  superior  to  all  circumstances,  caprice  her  only  law: 

"■Mrs.  Fainall.    You  were  dressed  before  I  came  abroad. 

Mrs.  MUlainanl.  Ay,  that's  true.  O  but  then  I  had;  Mincing,  what  had  I?  why  was 
I  so  long'? 

Mincing.    O  mem,  your  laship  stayed  to  peruse  a  packet  of  letters. 

Mrs.  Mil.  ()  ay,  letters;  I  had  letters;  lam  persecuted  with  letters;  I  hate  letters. 
Nobody  knows  how  to  write  letters,  and  yet  one  has  "em,  one  does  not  know  why.  They 
serve  one  to  pin  up  one's  hair.' 

I^overs  are  lier  creatures,  and  conquests  give  her  no  surprise: 

'Beauty  the  lover's  gift:  Lord,  what  is  a  lover,  that  it  can  give?  Why,  one  makes 
lovers  as  fast  as  one  i)leases,  and  they  live  as  long  as  one  pleases,  and  they  die  as  soon 
as  one  pleases,  and  then,  if  one  pleases,  one  makes  more.' 

Her  airs  give  wa^-  at  last  to  tenderness  (?),  and  she  enters  into 
matrimony,  on  conditions: 

'I'll  never  niiirry,  unhss  I  am  first  made  sure  of  my  will  and  pleasure.  .  .  .  My  dear 
liberty,  shall  I  leave  tliecl  my  faithful  solitude,  my  darling  contemplation,  must  I  bid 
you  then  adieu?  Ay-h  adieu;  my  morning  thoughts,  agreeable  wakings,  indolent  slum- 
bers, all  ye  douceurs,  ye  somnieils  da  matin,  adieu?;  I  can't  do  't,  'tis  more  than  impos- 
sible; positively,  Mirabell,  I'll  lie  abed  in  a  morning  as  long  as  I  please. 

Mir.    Then  I'll  get  up  in  a  morning  as  early  as  I  please. 

.Mil.  Ahl  idle  creature,  get  up  when  you  will;  and  d'ye  hear,  I  won't  lie  called 
names  after  I'm  married;  iiositively  I  won't  be  called  names. 

.Mir.     Naine^: 

.Mil.  .\\\  as  wife,  spouse,  my  dear,  joy,  jewel,  love,  sweetheart,  and  the  rest  of  that 
nauseous  cant,  in  which  men  and  llieir  wives  are  so  fulsoniely  familiar;  I  shall  ne\er 
bear  that;  good  Mirabell,  don't  let  us  lie  familiar  or  fond,  nor  kiss  before  folks,  like  my 
lady  Fadler,  and  Sir  Francis;  nor  lto  Io  Ilyde-park  together  the  first  Sunday  in  .1  new 
chariot,  to  Jirovoke  eyes  and  whis))er<,  and  then  never  to  be  seen  lou'elher  a'.'ain:  as  if 
we  were  iirotid  of  one  anollier  tli<'  lii-t  week,  and  ashamed  of  one  au'ither  ever  after. 
Let  us  never  visit  loirether,  nor  \in  lo  a  play  lo_'ellier;  but  let  us  !)<•  very  stiaiii:e  aiul  wi-ll- 
bred :  let  us  l)e  as  strantre  as  if  we  had  lieeii  married  a  great  while;  and  as  well-bred  as 
if  we  were  not  married  at  all.' 

Tiu'sc  deuiaiids  are  reasonal^li'  —  in  fact,  trilling,  conipart'd  wit h 
others: 

'To  write  and  receive  letters  without  interroiratories.  .  .  .  Coiue  to  ilinuer  when  1 
please;  dine  in  my  ilressinu'  room  .  .  .  without  giving  a  reason ;  .  .  .  to  lie -^ole  einpress 


20  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

of  my  tea-table,  which  you  must  never  presume  to  approach  without  first  asking  leave. 
And  lastly,  wherever  I  am,  you  shall  always  knock  at  the  door  before  you  come  in. 
These  articles  subscribed,  if  I  continue  to  endure  you  a  little  longer,  I  may  by  degrees 
dwindle  into  a  wife.' 

This  is  the  carnival  of  fashion  —  its  finery,  its  chatter,  its  charm- 
ing repartee,  its  foolish  affectation,  the  drapery  of  the  world. 
You  are  amused,  but  what  thought  do  you  carry  away?  Yet 
sensible  and  striding  passages  are  not  wanting,  some  of  which 
have  become  proverbial,  and  whose  origin  is  unknown  to  many 
who  quote  them: 

'Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  a  savage  breast. 
To  soften  rocks,  or  bend  a  knotted  oak.' 

'Heaven  has  no  rage,  like  love  to  hatred  turn"d, 
Nor  hell  a  furj-,  like  a  woman  scorned." 

'For  blessings  ever  wait  on  virtuous  deeds; 
And  though  a  late,  a  sure  reward  succeeds.' 

'If  there's  delight  in  love,  "tis  when  I  see 
That  heart,  wliich  others  bleed  for,  bleed  for  me.' 

'Reason,  the  power 
To  guess  at  right  and  wrong,  the  twinkling  lamp 
Of  wandering  life,  that  winks  and  wakes  by  turns, 
Fooling  the  follower,  betwixt  shade  and  shining.' 

"Vanbrugh.  is  cheerful,  confident,  robust,  easy,  natural,  various, 
and,  of  course,  plain-spoken  —  an  impudent  dog.  Sottishness  is 
still  respectable,  rakes  still  scour  the  streets,  ladies  are  still 
'carried  off  swooning  with  love  from  ante-chambers.'  Squire 
Sullen,  in  Provoked  MVife,  gets  drunk,  rolls  about  the  room,  like 
a  sick  passenger  in  a  storm,  howls  out,  'Damn  morality!  and 
damn  the  watch  !  and  let  the  constable  be  married  !'  Sir  John 
Brute  declares  there  is  but  one  thing  he  loathes  on  earth  beyond 
his  wife, — 'that's  fighting.'  She  would  please  him,  but  is  taunt- 
ingly told  that  is  not  her  talent.     She  refiects: 

'Perhaps  a  good  part  of  what  I  suffer  from  my  luisband  may  be  a  judgment  upon 
me  for  my  cruelty  to  my  lover.  Lord,  with  what  pleasure  could  I  indulge  that  thought, 
were  there  but  a  possibility  of  finding  arguments  to  make  it  good  I  And  liow  do  1  know 
but  there  may?  Let  me  see.  What  opposes  ?  My  matrimonial  vow.  Why,  what  did  I 
vow?  I  think  I  promised  to  be  true  to  my  husband.  Well;  and  lie  promised  to  be  kind 
to  me.     But  he  han't  kept  his  word.    Why,  then,  I  am  absolved  from  mine.' 

The  argument  jiroceod.s,  but  we  have  to  stop.  Listen  to  Lord 
Toppington  in  JirJ'ij/sc.      lie  is  a  newly-created  pillar  of  state: 

'My  life,  madam,  is  a  perpetual  stream  of  jileasure,  that  glides  tlirough  such  a  variety 
iif  cntiTtainments,  I  believe  the  wisest  of  our  ancestors  never  had  the  least  conception 
of  any  of  'em.  I  rise,  madam,  about  ten  a-elack.  1  (lon"t  rise  sooner,  because  it  is  the 
worst  thiiiu'  in  the  wdihl  for  the  coin))lexi<]n :  nat  that  1  i)retend  to  be  a  beau;  but  a  man 


DRAMA  —  VANBRUGH.  21 

must  endeavor  to  looke  wholesome,  lest  he  make  so  nauseous  a  figure  in  the  side-bax,  the 
ladies  should  be  compelled  to  turn  their  eyes  upon  the  play.  So  at  ten  a-clack,  I  t^ay,  I 
rise.  Naw,  if  I  find  it  a  good  day,  I  resalve  to  take  a  turn  in  the  park,  and  see  the  fine 
women;  so  huddle  on  my  clothes,  and  get  dressed  by  one.  If  it  be  nasty  weather,  I  take 
a  turn  in  the  chocolate-hause:  where  as  you  walk,  madam,  you  have  the  prettiest  pros- 
pect in  the  world;  you  have  looking-glasses  all  round  you.' 

He  is  to  be  married  to  a  country  heiress,  'a  plump  partridge,' 
who  has  never  seen  him.  His  brother,  simulating  him,  arrives 
instead.     Miss  Hoyden  is  overjoyed: 

^Nurse.  Oh,  but  you  must  have  a  care  of  being  too  fond;  for  men  now-a-days  hate 
a  woman  that  loves  'cm. 

Iloyd.  Love  him  I  why  do  you  think  I  love  liim,  nurse?  ecod  I  would  not  care  if  he 
were  hanged,  so  I  were  but  once  married  to  him:  No;  that  which  pleases  me,  is  to 
think  what  work  I'll  make  wlicn  I  get  to  London;  for  wlien  I  am  a  wife  and  a  lady  both, 
nurse,  ccod  111  flaunt  it  with  the  best  of  "em." 

The  true  lord  conies  in  at  the  critical  moment,  as  they  think,  the 
imposture  is  discovered,  and  her  father  apologizes: 

'My  lord,  I'm  struck  dumb,  I  can  only  beg  pardon  by  signs;  but  if  a  sacrifice  will 
appease  you,  you  shall  have  it.  Here,  pursue  this  Tartar,  bring  him  back.  Away,  I  say  I 
A  dog!  Cons,  I'll  cut  off  his  ears  and  his  tail,  I'll  draw  out  all  his  teeth,  pull  his  skin 
over  his  head  —  and  —  and  what  shall  I  do  more'/' 

Toppiugton  marries  her,  learns  that  he  has  married  his  brother's 
wife,  but  covers  his  aching  heart  with  a  serene  countenance: 

'Now,  for  my  part,  I  think  the  wisest  thing  a  man  cnn  do  with  an  aching  heart  is  to 
put  on  a  serene  countenance;  for  a  philosophical  air  is  the  most  becoming  thing  in  ilie 
world  to  the  face  of  a  person  of  quality.  I  will  therefore  bear  my  disgrace  like  a  great 
man,  and  let  the  people  see  I  am  above  an  affront.  [Aloud]  Dear  Tain,  since  tilings 
are  thus  fallen  aiit,  iirltlice  give  nie  leave  to  wish  thee  jay;  I  do  it  de  bon  ccei/r.  strike 
me  dumb!  You  have  married  a  woman  beautiful  in  her  jierson,  charming  in  her  airs, 
prudent  in  her  caiiduct,  canstaiit  in  her  inclinations,  and  of  a  nice  niaraliiy,  split  my 
windpipe! ' 

Farquhar  is  an  artist  in  stage  effect,  an  Irishman,  with  the 
Irish  sportiveness,  and  an  agreeable  diversity.  His  best  comedy 
is  the  Beaux''  Str<it(i(/cm.  Boniface  is  still  a  favorite,  one  of  the 
extinct  race  of  landlords.  The  London  coach  suddenly  appears: 
'Chamberlain  I  maid  I  Cherry  I  daughter  Cherry  !  all  aslee])  V  all 
dead?' — 'Here,  here!  why  d'ye  bawl  so,  father';'  d'ye  think  we 
have  no  ears?'  She  deserves  to  have  none,  ho  thinks,  liut  slie 
redeems  herself  l)y  a  cheering  welcome  to  tiu^  guests  who  are 
shown  to  their  chambers.  Thereupon  enter  Aimwell  and  Arclicr, 
gentlemen  of  broken  fortunes,  travelling,  the  one  as  master,  tlie 
other  as  servant : 

'fion.  Tliis  way,  this  way  gentlemen  ! 

Airn.  [To  Ariiu-r.[  Set  down  llie  tilings:  go  to  the  stable,  and  >ee  my  ii<)i>cs  well 
rublicd. 

Ar<h.  1  shall,  sir. 

Aim.  You're  my  landlord,  1  supimse '/ 


22  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Bon.  Yes,  sir,  I'm  old  Will  Boniface,  pretty  well  known  upon  this  road,  as  the 
saying  is. 

Aim.    O  Mr.  Boniface,  your  servant! 

Bon.    O  sir:    What  will  your  honour  please  to  drink,  as  the  saying  is  ? 

Aim.    I  have  heard  your  town  of  Litchfield  much  famed  for  ale;  1  think  I'll  taste  that. 

Bon.  Sir,  1  have  now  in  my  cellar  ten  tun  of  the  best  ale  in  Staffordshire;  'tis  smooth 
as  oil,  sweet  as  milk,  clear  as  amber,  and  strong  as  brandy;  and  will  be  just  fourteen 
year  old  the  fifth  day  of  next  March,  old  style. 

Aim.    You're  very  exact,  I  find,  in  the  age  of  your  ale. 

Bon.  As  punctual,  sir,  as  I  am  in  tlic  age  of  my  children.  I'll  show  you  such  ale! 
Here,  tapster,  broach  number  170C,  as  the  saying  is.  Sir,  you  shall  taste  my  Anno  Domini. 
I  have  lived  in  Litchfield,  man  and  boy,  above  eight-and-fifty  years,  and,  I  believe,  have 
not  consumed  eight-and-flfty  ounces  of  meat. 

Aim.     At  a  meal,  you  mean,  if  one  may  guess  your  sense  by  your  bulk. 

Bon.  J^ot  in  my  life,  sir;  I  have  fed  purely  upon  ale,  1  have  eat  my  ale,  drunk  my 
ale,  and  I  always  sleep  upon  ale. 

Enter  Tapster  with  a  bottle  and  glass,  and  exit. 

Now,  sir,  you  shall  see!  [Pours  out  a  glass.]  Y'our  worship's  health!  Ha!  deli- 
cious, delicious!  fancy  it  Burgundy,  only  fancy  it,  and  'tis  worth  ten  shillings  a  quart. 

Ai7?i.     [Drinks.]    'Tis  confounded  strong! 

Bon.    Strong!  it  must  be  so,  or  how  should  we  be  so  that  drink  it  ? 

Aim.    And  have  you  lived  so  long  upon  this  ale,  landlord  ? 

Bon.  Eight-and-flfty  years,  upon  my  credit,  sir;  but  it  killed  my  wife,  poor  woman, 
as  the  saying  is. 

Aim.    How  came  tluit  to  pass  ? 

Bon.  I  don't  know  how,  sir;  she  would  not  let  the  ale  take  its  natural  course,  sir; 
slie  was  for  qualifying  it  every  now  and  then  with  a  dram,  as  the  saying  is;  .  .  .  the 
fourth  carried  her  off.    But  she's  happy,  and  I'm  contented,  as  the  saying  is.' 

One  or  two  higher  spirits  reach  the  passions  of  the  other  age, — 

Dryden  in  tragedy;   and  by  his  side  a  younger  contemporary, 

Ot"Way,  in  whose  Venice  Preserved  we   encounter  the  sombre 

imagination  of  Webster,  Ford,  and  Shakespeare.     Jaffier,  a  youth 

of  merit  and  promise,  but  the  sport  of  chance,  rescues  from  a 

watery  grave  a  senator's  daughter,  a  genuine  woman,  who  from 

that  liour  loves  liim;   three  years  have  passed  since  their  vows 

were?  pliglited;  she  is  his  wife,  against  the  wishes  of  her  proud 

sire  ;     misfortune    comes  ;    lie    has    just    now    left    the    presence 

of  tlie  offended  aristocrat  with  his  curse   and  his  heart  is  heavy 

between  love  and  ruin: 

M)  Belvidera!    Oh!  stie  is  my  wife  — 
And  wk:  will  bear  our  wayward  fate  together. 
But  ne'er  know  comfort  more.' 

Shr  who  has  been  his  dependent  and  ornament  in  happier  hours, 
proves  his  .stay  and  solace  in  calamity: 

'My  lord,  my  love,  my  refuge! 
IIiipi)y  my  eyes  when  they  l)etiold  thy  face! 
My  lieavy  heart  will  leave  its  doleful  beating 
At  sight  of  thee,  and  l)ound  with  sprightly  joys. 
Oh,  smile  as  when  our  loves  were  in  their  s])ring, 
And  cheer  niv  faintiiiL'  soul! 


DRAMA — TRAGEDY.  23 

Jaf.  As  when  our  loves 

Were  in  their  spring!    Has,  then,  my  fortune  changed  thee? 

Art  thou  not,  Belvidera,  still  the  same. 

Kind,  good,  and  tender,  as  my  arms  first  found  thee? 

If  thou  art  altered,  where  shall  I  have  harbour? 

Where  ease  my  loaded  heart?    Oh  I  where  complain? 
Bel.     Does  this  appear  like  change,  or  love  decaying, 

When  thus  1  throw  myself  into  thy  bosom, 

With  all  the  resolution  of  strong  trmn? 
I  joy  more  in  thee 

Than  did  thy  mother,  when  she  hugged  thee  first, 

And  blessed  the  gods  for  all  her  travail  past. 
Jaf.    Can  there  in  woman  be  such  glorious  faith? 

Sure,  all  ill  stories  of  thy  sex  are  false! 

Oh,  woman,  lovely  woman  !    Nature  made  thee 

To  temper  man;  ice  had  been  brutes  ivilhout  you  f 

Angels  are  j/ainied  fair,  to  look  like  ijou.' 

These  are  but  rare  notes.  For  the  most  part,  he  moves,  like  the 
rest,  in  the  murky  waters  of  the  great  current.  Like  them,  he  is 
obscene;  and  from  all,  we  have  found  it  difficult  to  extract,  with- 
out revolting  decorum,  something  to  suggest  the  new  rhetoric, 
the  sentiments  and  maxims  of  polite  society,  and  the  abyss  from 
which  that  society  and  our  literature  have  since  ascended.  Even 
here  there  were  tokens  of  a  more  serious  and  orderly  life,  signs 
of  a  reaction  in  literary  feelings  and  moral  haVjits.  A  great 
reformer  arose  to  accelerate  the  revolution,  Jeremy  Collier,  a 
heroic  Anglican,  who  threw  down  the  gauntlet  to  the  champions 
of  the  stage,  and  was  victorious. 

Prose. — The  Restoration  may  be  taken  as  the  era  of  the 
formation  of  our  present  style.  Imagination  was  tempered, 
transports  diminished,  judgment  corrected  itself,  artifice  began. 
Among  the  most  agreeable  specimens  of  the  new  refinement  in 
form  are  the  conversations  of  the  drama.  They  foreshadow  the 
Spectator.  The  easy  and  flowing  manner  of  Cowley  is  continued 
by  the  polished  Temple,  a  man  of  the  world,  a  lover  of  elegance, 
who,  if  he  assuages  grief,  must  do  it  with  dignity  and  facility: 

'If  you  look  about  you,  aud  consider  the  lives  of  others  as  well  as  your  own;  if  you 
think  how  few  are  born  with  honor,  and  how  many  die  without  name  or  children:  how 
little  beauty  we  see,  and  how  few  friends  we  hear  of:  how  many  diseases,  and  liow  mucli 
poverty  there  is  in  the  world;  you  will  fall  down  upon  your  knees,  and  instead  of  repin- 
ing at  one  affliction,  will  admire  so  many  blessings  which  you  have  received  from  the 
hand  of  God.' 

Observe  how  the  following  sentence  glides  along: 

'I  have  indeed  heard  of  wondrous  jiretensions  atid  visions  of  men  i)osse<sed  uitli 
notions  of  the  strange  advancement  of  learnini:  aud  science,  on  foot  In  tins  at;e,  and  the 


24  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

progress  they  arc  like  to  make  in  the  next;  as  the  nniversal  medicine,  which  will  cer- 
tainly cure  all  that  have  it;  the  philosopher's  stone,  which  will  be  found  out  by  men  that 
care  not  for  riches;  the  transfusion  of  young  blood  into  old  men's  veins,  which  will  make 
them  as  gamesome  as  the  lambs  from  which  'tis  to  be  derived;  a  universal  language, 
which  may  serve  all  men's  turn  when  they  have  forgot  their  own;  the  knowledge  of  one 
another's  thoughts  without  the  grievous  trouble  of  speaking;  the  art  of  flying,  till  a  man 
happens  to  fall  down  and  break  his  neck;  double-bottomed  ships,  whereof  none  can  ever 
be  cast  away  besides  the  first  that  was  made;  the  admirable  virtues  of  that  noble  and 
necessary  juice  called  spittle,  which  will  come  to  be  sold,  and  very  cheap,  in  the  aix)the- 
caries'  shops;  discoveries  of  new  worlds  in  the  planets,  and  voyages  between  this  and 
that  in  the  moon  to  be  made  as  frequently  as  between  York  and  London.' 

Smoothness  was  the  distinguishing  quality  of  the  man,  as  it  is  of 
his  manner,  -which  sometimes  relaxes  into  prolixity  or  remissness. 
Dryden  has  sounder  taste,  as  well  as  more  vigor.  The  rest  are 
inferior  in  point  of  ornament,  but,  for  the  most  part,  have  the 
same  fundamental  character  —  ratiocination.  Hobbes  is  surpris- 
ingly dry,  idiomatic,  concise,  strong.  The  most  celebrated  ser- 
mons are  instruments  of  edification  rather  than  models  of  elegance. 
Barrow  is  geometrical,  revises  and  re-revises,  then  revises  again, 
dividing  and  subdividing,  having  only  one  desire  —  to  explain 
and  fully  prove  what  he  has  to  say.  Tillotson  has  no  rapture, 
no  vehemence,  no  warmth.  He  wishes  to  convince,  nothing  more- 
South,  an  apostate  Puritan,  is  colloquial,  energetic;  more  popular 
than  these,  because  he  is  more  anecdotic,  abrupt,  pointed, — • 
vulgar,  having  the  plain-dealing  and  coarseness  which  belong  to 
the  stage,  and  which  his  insincerity  permits. 

These  sermons,  once  so  famous,  are  now  hardly  read  at  all. 
They  are  outlived,  in  a  far  humbler  sphere,  by  the  little  work  of 
a  London  linen-draper,  Izaak  Walton,  whose  Complete  Aiujler 
has  what  they  have  not, —  the  touch  of  nature  which  makes  the 
whole  world  kin.  Its  natural  description,  as  also  its  lively  dia- 
logue, has  seldom  been  surj)assed.  A  single  extract  can  hardly 
suggest  its  aVjundance  of  quaint  but  wise  thoughts,  its  redolence 
of  wild  flowers  and  sweet  countrv  air: 

'Well,  scholar,  haviiii;  now  taught  you  to  paint  your  rod,  and  we  having  still  a  mile 
to  Tottenham  High  Cross,  I  will,  as  we  walk  towards  it  in  the  cool  shade  of  this  honey- 
suckle-liedge,  mention  to  you  some  of  the  thoughts  and  joys  that  have  possessed  my  soul 
since  we  two  met  together.  And  these  thoiigtits  shall  be  told  you,  that  you  also  may 
join  with  me  in  thankfulness  to  the  Giver  of  every  good  and  perfect  gift  for  our  happi- 
ness. .  .  .  We  have  been  freed  from  these  and  all  those  many  other  miseries  that 
threaten  huniaii  nature:  let  us  tlicri'fore  rejoice  and  be  thankful.  Nay,  which  is  a  far 
greater  mercy,  we  are  free  from  the  uiiMipportable  burden  of  an  accusing,  tormenting 
conscience  —  a  misery  that  none  can  bear:  and  therefore  let  us  praise  Him  for  His  pre- 
venting grace,  and  say,  Every  misery  that  I  miss  is  a  new  mercy.  Nay,  let  me  tell  you, 
there  may  be  many  that  have  forty  tiiiies  our  estates,  that  would  give  the  greatest  part 


PROSE  —  TRANSFORMATION   OF   STYLE.  25 

of  it  to  be  healthful  and  cheerful  like  us,  who,  with  the  expense  of  a  little  money,  have 
eat  and  drunk,  and  laughed,  and  angled,  and  sung,  and  slept  securely ;  and  rose  nest  day, 
and  cast  away  care,  and  sung,  and  laughed,  and  angled  again,  which  are  blessings  rich 
men  cannot  purchase  with  all  their  money.  Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  I  have  a  rich  neigh- 
bour that  is  always  so  busy  tliat  he  has  no  leisure  to  laugh;  the  whole  business  of  his  life 
is  to  get  money,  and  more  money,  that  he  may  still  get  more  and  more  money;  he  is  still 
drudging  on,  and  says  iliat  Solomon  says,  "The  hand  of  the  diligent  niaketh  rich"';  and 
it  is  true  indeed:  but  he  considers  not  that  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  riches  to  make  a  man 
happy:  for  it  was  wisely  said  by  a  man  of  great  observation,  "that  there  be  as  many  mis- 
eries beyond  riches  as  on  this  side  of  them."  And  yet  God  deliver  us  from  pinching 
poverty,  and  grant  that,  having  a  competency,  we  may  be  content  and  thankful  1  Let  us 
not  repine,  or  so  much  as  think  tlie  gifts  of  God  unequally  dealt,  if  we  see  another 
abound  with  riches,  when,  as  God  knows,  the  cares  that  are  the  keys  that  keep  those 
riches  hang  often  so  heavily  at  the  rich  man's  girdle,  that  they  clog  him  with  weary  days 
and  restless  nights,  even  when  others  sleep  quietly.  We  see  but  tlic  outside  of  the  rich 
man's  happiness;  few  consider  him  to  be  like  the  silkworm,  that,  when  she  seems  to 
play,  is  at  the  very  same  time  spinning  her  own  bowels,  and  consuming  herself;  and  this 
many  rich  men  do,  loading  themseives  with  corroding,  to  keep  what  they  have  probably 
unconscionably  got.  Let  us  therefore  be  thankful  for  health  and  competence,  and,  above 
all,  for  a  quiet  conscience. 

Let  mo  tell  you,  scliolar,  that  Diogenes  walked  one  day,  with  his  friend,  to  see  a 
country  fair,  where  he  saw  ribl)ons,  and  looking-glasses,  and  nut-crackers,  and  fiddles, 
and  hobby-horses,  and  many  other  gimcracks;  and  having  observed  tliem,  and  all  the 
other  tiiinimbnins  that  make  a  complete  country  fair,  he  said  to  his  friend:  "Lord,  how 
many  things  arc  there  in  this  world  of  which  Diogenes  hath  no  need  I "' ' 

Evelyn,  an  amiable  cavalier,  begins  the  class  of  gossiping  me- 
moirs, so  useful  in  giving  color  to  history.  He  writes  a  Dlanj, 
with  the  tone  of  an  educated  and  reflecting  observer.  Here  is  a 
picture  of  the  court  of  Charles  H: 

'I  can  never  forget  the  inexpressible  luxury  and  profancness,  gaming,  and  all  disso- 
luteness, and  as  it  were  total  forgcifulness  of  God — it  being  Sunday  evening— which  this 
day  se'ennight  I  was  witness  of,— the  king  sitting  and  toying  with  liis  concubines.  Ports 
mouth,  Cleveland,  and  Mazarin,  etc. ;  a  French  boy  singing  love-songs  in  that  glorious 
gallery,  whilst  about  twenty  of  the  great  courtiers  and  other  dissolute  persons  were  at 
basset  round  a  large  tal)le,  a  bank  of  at  least  .fi'.itXH)  in  gold  before  them,  upon  which  two 
gentlemen  who  were  with  nie  made  reflections  with  astonishment.  Six  days  after,  all 
was  in  the  dust.' 

And  a  sketch  of  the  Great  Fire: 

'2rf  5e/(^— This  fatal  night,  about  ten,  began  the  deplorable  fire  near  Fish  Street, 
London. 

3d  Sep/.— I  had  public  prayers  at  home.  The  fire  continuing  after  dinner,  I  took  a 
coach  with  my  wife  and  son,  and  went  to  the  Bankside  in  Southwark,  where  we  beheld 
that  dismal  spectacle,  the  wliolc  city  in  dreadful  flames  near  the  water  side;  all  the 
houses  from  the  bridge,  all  Thames  street,  and  upwards  towards  Cheapside,  were  now 
consumed;  and  so  returned  exceedingly  astonished  what  would  become  of  the  rest.  .  .  . 
The  conflagration  was  so  universal  and  the  people  so  astonished,  that  from  the  begin- 
ning, feeling  I  know  not  what  de>ponden('y  or  fate,  they  hardly  stirred  to  quench  it,  so 
that  there  was  nothing  heard  nor  seen  but  crying  out  and  lamentation,  nmiiiiig  aliout 
like  distracted  creatures,  without  at  all  attcui|)ting  even  to  save  their  goods,  such  a 
strange  consternation  there  was  u|)oii  Iheiu,  and  as  it  burned  in  breadth  ami  length,  the 
churches,  public  halls,  exchange,  hospital,  monuments  and  ornament';,  hapintr  after  a 
prodigious  manner  from  house  to  house,  and  street  to  street,  at  great  distances  one  from 
the  other.     For  the  heat,  with  a  long  set  of  fair  and  warm  weather,  had  even  iLrnited  the 


26  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

nir,  luul  prepared  the  nintcrials  to  conceive  the  Are  which  devoured  after  an  incredible 
manner,  lioiises!,  furniture,  and  everything  Here  we  ^aw  tlie  Tliames  covered  with 
goods-  tloatinjr,  all  llie  barges  iind  boat;?  ladened  witli  what  (-ome  had  time  and  courage  to 
save,  as,  on  the  otiier  !*ide,  the  carrying  out  to  tlie  fields,  wliicli  for  many  miles  were 
strewn  with  movables  of  all  sorts,  and  tents  erecting  to  shelter  both  people  and  what 
goods  they  could  get  away.  O,  the  miserable  and  calamitous  spectacle;  such  as  haply 
the  world  has  not  seen  since  the  foundation  of  it,  nor  can  be  out-done  (ill  the  universal 
conflagration  thereof.  All  the  sky  was  of  a  fiery  aspect,  like  the  top  of  a  burning  oven, 
and  the  light  seen  above  forty  miles  round  about  for  many  nights.  God  grant  that  mine 
eyes  may  never  again  behold  the  like;  who  ever  saw  above  10,000  Ivonses  all  in  one 
flame?  Tlie  noise  and  crackling  and  thmuler  of  the  impetuous  flames;  the  shrieking  of 
women  and  children,  the  hurry  of  people,  the  fall  of  towers,  houses  and  churclies,  was 
like  a  hideous  storm,  and  the  air  all  about  so  hot  and  inflametl  that  at  the  last  one  was 
not  able  to  ajjproach  it,  so  that  they  were  forced  to  stand  still  and  let  it  burn  on,  which 
they  did  for  near  ten  miles  in  lengtli  and  one  in  breadth.  The  clouds  of  smoke  also  were 
dismal,  and  reached  ui)on  conii)ulation  near  tifty  miles  in  length.  .  .  .  Loudon  was,  but 
is  no  more." 

Readers  who  take  an  interest  in  the  progress  of  civilization, 
will  be  more  grateful  to  the  garrulous  old  Pepys  for  his  journal, 
than  to  professed  historians  for  the  military  involutions  and 
political  intrigues  that  fill  some  of  their  pages.  His  memoranda, 
recorded  solely  for  his  own  eye,  include  almost  every  phase  of 
public  and  social  life.     Thus: 

''A'Kj.  19.—  .  .  .  Home  to  dinner,  where  my  wife  had  on  her  new  petticoat  that  she 
bought  yesterday,  which  indeed  is  a  very  fine  cloth  and  a  fine  lace;  but  that  being  of  a 
light  colour,  and  the  lace  all  silver,  it  makes  no  great  show." 

'A'Oi'.  SO.— Lord's  /My.— This  morning  I  i)ut  on  my  best  black  cloth  suit,  trimmed  with 
scarlet  ribbons,  very  neat,  with  my  cloak  lined  with  velvet,  and  a  new  beaver,  which 
altogether  is  very  nol)le,  with  my  black  knit  silk  cannons '  I  bought  a  mouth  ago." 

'/>c.  5/.— To  Shoe  Lane  to  see  a  cockfiglit  at  a  new  i)it  there,  a  spot  I  never  was  at  in 
my  life;  but.  Lord!  to  see  the  strange  variety  of  jieople,  from  parliament  men,  to  the 
poorest  "prentices,  l)akers,  brewers,  Ijuichers,  draymen  and  what  not,  and  all  these  fellows 
one  with  another  cursing  and  l)etting.    I  soon  had  enough  of  it." 

Mr.  Pepys  at  divine  service: 

\U(i>j  20,  16C7. — My  wife  and  1  to  church,  where  several  strangers  of  good  condilioii 
came  to  our  i)ew.  .'\ftcr  dinner,  I  by  water  alone  to  Westminster  to  the  parish  church, 
and  tliere  did  entertain  myself  witli  my  pers|)eciive  glass  up  and  down  the  church,  by 
which  I  had  the  great  jilea^ure  of  seeing  and  gazing  at  a  great  many  very  fine  women, 
and  what  witli  that,  and  sleeping,  I  i)assed  away  tlie  time  till  sermon  was  done.  .  .  . 

',4'/y  IS.—  ...  I  walked  towards  Whitcliall,  but,  being  wearied,  turned  into  St.  Dun- 
stan"s  Church,  wlure  I  heard  an  able  sermon  of  the  minister  of  the  place;  and  stood  by  a 
pretty  modest  maid,  whom  I  did  labour  to  lake  by  the  hand;  but  she  would  not,  but  got 
further  and  further  from  me;  and,  at  hisl,  I  could  i)erceive  her  to  take  i)ins  out  of  her 
pocket  to  jirick  me  if  I  should  touch  her  again — which,  seeing,  I  did  forbear,  and  was 
glad  I  did  sjiy  her  design  And  then  I  fell  to  gaze  upon  another  liretty  maid,  in  a  pew 
close  to  me,  and  she  on  me;  and  1  did  go  about  to  lake  her  by  the  hand,  which  she  suf- 
fered a  little  and  then  withdrew.     So  the  sermon  ended." 

Tries  to  admire  Hud'thrns  : 

'Nor.  ?8.— To  Paul's  Churcli  yard,  and  there  looked  upon  the  second  part  of  niidHiru.<<, 
which  I  buy  not,  but  borrow  to  read,  to  see  if  it  l)e  as  good  as  the  first,  which  the  world 

'  Ornamental  toi)s  to  silk  stockings. 


PROSE  —  HISTORICAL    METHOD.  27 

cried  80  mightily  up,  though  it  hath  not  a  good  lilting  in  me,  though  I  had  tried  by  twice 
or  three  limes  reading  to  bring  myself  to  think  it  witty.' 

At  the  theatre: 

•  October  5.— To  King's  house;  and  there,  going  in,  met  with  Knipp,  and  she  took  us 
up  into  the  tircing-roonis:  and  to  the  woman's  shift,  where  Nell  was  dressing  herself, 
and  was  all  unready,  and  is  very  pretty,  prettier  than  I  thought.  And  into  the  scene- 
room,  and  there  sat  down,  and  she  gave  us  fruit:  and  here  I  read  the  questions  to  Knipp, 
while  she  answered  me  through  all  her  part  of  Flora  Figarys,  whicli  was  acted  to-day. 
But,  Lord:  to  see  how  they're  both  painted  would  make  a  man  mad,  and  did  make 
me  loath  them;  and  what  base  company  of  men  comes  among  them,  and  how  lewdly 
they  talk: ' 

Makes  a  great  speech  at  the  Bar  of  the  House: 

'March  5,  1668.— Al\  my  fellowoflicers,  and  all  the  world  that  was  within  hearing, 
did  congratulate  me,  and  cry  up  my  sjjeech  as  the  best  thing  they  ever  heard.  .  .  .  My 
Lord  Barkeley  did  cry  me  up  for  what  they  had  heard  of  it;  and  others.  Parliament- 
men  there,  about  the  King,  did  say  that  they  never  heard  such  a  speech  in  their  lives 
delivered  in  that  manner.  .  .  .  Everybody  that  saw  me  almost  came  to  nic,  as  Joseph 
Williamson  and  others,  with  such  eulogies  as  cannot  be  expressed.  From  thence  I  went 
to  Westminster  Hall,  wliere  I  met  Mr.  G.  Montagu,  who  came  to  me  and  kissed  me,  and 
told  me  that  he  had  often  heretofore  kissed  my  hands,  but  now  he  would  kiss  my  lips; 
protesting  that  I  was  another  Cicero,  and  said,  all  the  world  said  the  same  of  me.' 

Tliis,  it  is  true,  is  not  literature,  if  we  insist  on  finish,  imagery,  or 
sentiment;  but  we  may  accept  it  on  other  ground.  How  far 
above  price  were  so  minute  and  living  a  picture  of  the  age  of 
Bede,  or  of  earlier  and  later  ages  that  appear  only  in  the  liaze 
of  general  descriptions,  dates,  numbers,  and  results ! 

Saxter,  an  eminent  dissenter,  a  great  sufferer,  yet  a  volumi- 
nous writer,  and  an  indefatigable  pastor,  is  the  author  of  a  well- 
known  manual  of  devotion, —  The  iSaint''s  Everlastiuf/  Rest.  It 
is  like  the  Puritan  —  fervent,  masculine,  solid,  direct,  unadorned, 
unpolished.  Karely  lias  a  book,  in  its  day,  aided  so  many  souls 
to  rise  in  spiritual  flights,  or  to  keep  the  heights  which  they  were 
competent  to  gain.  However,  Milton  and  Bunyan  excepted  — 
the  glory  of  Puritanism  is  not  in  its  literary  remains,  but  in  its 
moral  results.  Only  once,  in  this  period,  does  it  attain  elo(|uenoe, 
and  beauty,  and  then  by  accident,  in  The  Pilgrini's  Progrcs,^, 
the  work  of  an  inspired  tinker,  a  birth  of  passionate  feeling  in  a 
time  of  self-conscious  art. 

History.— Turning  to  the  historical  field,  we  find  several 
industrious  collectors  of  materials,  the  most  ])rominent  of  whom 
are  Dugdale,  Rvmer,  and  Wood.  FulltM-'s  well-known  H  o/VA/'a' 
contains  sketches  of  about  eighteen  hundred  iiidi\iduals.  (.)! 
compositions   original,   systematic,  and    dispassionate,   there   i.s  a 


28  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

complete  dearth.  The  most  deserving  are  Clarendon's  Great 
Rehdlion,  Burnet's  Oxen  Times,  and  his  Ilefonnation.  The 
first,  a  Royalist,  is  a  professed  apologist  of  one  side.  His  style, 
often  prolix,  is  on  the  whole  manly;  with  sometimes  a  majesty 
and  beauty  hitherto  unknown.  The  chief  merit  of  the  second 
is  liveliness  and  perspicuity.  His  style,  though  careless  and 
familiar,  partakes  fairly  of  the  improvements  of  his  time. 

The  advancing  spirit  of  scepticism  was  purging  history  of  its 
falsehoods.  We  have  traced  its  progress  from  poetic  narration; 
and  ere  long  we  shall  see  it  pass  into  philosophical  interpreta- 
tion, look  beneath  the  surface  of  events  for  the  springs  of  action, 
search  under  facts  for  principles,  becoming  more  humane  and 
democratic  as  it  becomes  more  critical  and  just.  It  is  important 
to  understand  well  the  significance  of  this  tendency;  for  if  the 
historical  method  advances,  it  is  because  general  knowledge 
advances;  if  the  way  of  contemplating  the  past  is  different, 
it  is  because  the  way  of  contemplating  the  present  is  different. 
Each  is  a  phase  of  the  same  vast  movement. 

Theology. — The  spirit  which  Bacon  carried  into  philosophy, 
Cromwell  into  politics,  and  Chillingworth  into  theology,  now 
culminated  in  open  revolt.  Belief  in  a  God,  coupled  with  dis- 
belief in  a  written  revelation,  became  frequent.  LiOrd  Her- 
bert, brother  of  the  saintly  poet,  may  be  considered  the  founder 
of  the  English  school  of  deists.  All  religions  are  by  him  reduced 
to  one,  which  is  sufficient,  he  maintains,  for  all  the  wants  of  mau- 
kitid.      This  universal  system  consists  of  five  articles: 

1.  That  there  is  on(^  supreme  God. 

2.  That  He  is  to  be  worshipped. 

3.  That  piety  and  virtue  are  the  principal  part  of  His  wor- 
ship. 

4.  That  man  should  repent  of  sin,  and  that  if  he  does  so, 
God  will  pardon  it. 

").  That  there  arc  rewards  for  the  good,  and  punishments  for 
tlie  evil,  partly  in  this  life,  and  partly  in  the  next. 

In  that  ])oliti('al  and  religious  reaction  which  followed  the 
C'romwellian  period,  Deism  arose  in  its  extrenu^  forms,  frequently 
allied  with  the  democratic,  sometimes  with  the  revolutionarv,  ten- 
dencies of   the   nation.      Hobbes,   however,   the  greatest   living 


PKOSE — ENGLISH    DEISM.  29 

anti-Christian  writer,  was  a  servile  advocate  of  royalty  and  of  the 
right  of  the  state  to  coerce  individual  opinions:  'Tliought  is  free, 
but  when  it  comes  to  confession  of  faith,  the  private  reason  must 
submit  to  the  public,  that  is  to  say,  to  God's  lieutenant.'  He 
acknowledges  the  being  of  God,  but  denies  that  we  know  any 
more  of  Him  than  that  He  exists: 

'By  the  visible  tilings  of  tliis  world  and  their  admirable  order,  a  man  may  conceive 
there  is  a  cause  of  them,  which  men  call  God,  and  yet  not  have  an  idea  or  image  of  Him 
in  his  mind.  And  they  that  make  little  inquiry  into  the  natural  causes  of  things  are 
inclined  to  feign  several  kinds  of  jKjwers  invisible,  and  to  stand  in  awe  of  their  own 
imaginations.  And  this  yVar  of  things  invisible  is  the  natural  seed  of  that  which  every 
one  in  himself  calleth  religion.' 

He  also  denies  free-will;  asserts  the  materiality  of  the  soul,  and 
teaches  that  the  belief  in  a  future  state  is  merely  *a  belief  ground- 
ed on  other  men's  saying  that  they  knew  it  supernaturally,  or 
that  they  knew  those,  tiiat  knew  them,  that  knew  others,  that 
knew  it  supernaturally.'  Ho  cuts  with  remorseless  knife  at  the 
very  heart  of  the  general  faith.  'To  say  God  hath  spoken  to 
man  in  a  dream,  is  no  more  than  to  say  man  dreamed  that  God 
hath  spoken  to  him.'  'To  say  one  hath  seen  a  vision  or  heard  a 
voice,  is  to  say  he  hath  dreamed  between  sleeping  and  waking.' 
These  statements,  one  and  all,  are  but  applications  of  his  meta- 
physical theory,  which,  in  connection  with  its  results,  will  be  con- 
sidered in  its  proper  place. 

The  common  ferment  l^rcd  an  astonishing  irruption  of  deists, — 
Shaftesbury,  Toland,  Tindal,  Mandeville,  Bolingbroke  ;  but,  from 
Hobbes  downward.  Deism  grew  more  and  more  materialistic  and 
sensual.  As  might  be  expected,  its  career  was  transient.  Fiftv 
years  after  the  Revolution,  it  was  drowned  in  forgetfulness.  For 
the  system  which  it  ])roposed  to  al^olish,  it  could  olTer,  in  its 
highest  type,  no  substitute  but  lofty  and  dissolving  speculation, 
inij)otent  —  at  least  in  tiiat  stage  of  civilization  —  to  suppiv  mo- 
tives and  means  for  right  conduct. 

Free-thinkers  roused  antagonists:  leaders  of  experimental  sci- 
ence, as  Boyle  and  Xowtoii;  illustrious  scholars,  as  Bciitlcv  and 
Clarke;  popular  wits,  as  Addison  and  Swift;  ])rofouii<l  jiliiloso- 
phers,  as  Cudworth  and  I.ocke.  Apologies,  refutations,  exj)osi- 
tiotis  abounded  and  nuiltij)lied.  Tlie  character  of  tlieological 
literature,  however,  had  changed.  In  all  this  discussion,  ([nota- 
tions are  comparatively  rare.     Christians  no  longer  combated  by 


30  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

authority,  but  by  argument.  An  incessant  reference  to  proof 
liad  indisposed  the  public  to  receive  the  traditions  that  had  once 
enslaved  their  fathers.  It  is  observable,  too,  that  the  progress  of 
Arniinianisni,  as  opposed  to  Calvinism,  was  changing  the  face  of 
the  English  Church.  This  was  displayed  among  those  who,  about 
the  epoch  of  the  Restoration,  were  commonly  known  as  Latitu- 
dinarians,  distinguished  from  High  Churchmen  by  their  strong 
aversion  to  every  compromise  with  Popery, —  and  from  most  Puri- 
tans as  well,  by  their  opposition  to  dogma,  by  their  insistence 
upon  rightness  of  life  rather  than  correctness  of  opinion,  by  their 
advocacy  of  tolerance  and  comprehension  as  the  basis  of  Chris- 
tian unity.  The  questions  most  freely  discussed  or  illustrated  by 
divines  were 'The  Bible  the  only  rule  of  faith,'  and  'Salvation  by 
God's  free  mercy  through  Christ.' 

In  Scotland,  the  stronghold  of  Presbyterianism,  induction  was 
unknown,  bigotry  was  undiminished,  secular  interests  were  neg- 
lected, preaching  was  harsh  and  gloomy.  The  misery  of  man, 
the  anger  of  the  Deity,  the  power  and  presence  of  Satan,  the 
agonies  of  hell,  were  still  the  constant  themes  of  the  j)ulpit. 
The  preacher  delighted  to  freeze  the  blood  of  his  hearers  with 
hideous  imagery.  'Boiling  oil,  burning  brimstone,  scalding  lead,' 
says  one.  'A  river  of  fire  and  brimstone  broader  than  the  earth,' 
says  another.  'Tongue,  lungs,  and  liver,  bones  and  all,  shall 
boil  and  fry  in  a  torturing  fire,'  says  a  third.  There  is  no  end  of 
such  language:  'Oh  !  the  screeches  and  yels  that  will  be  in  hell.' 
'^^'hile  wormas  -dva  sporting  with  thy  bones,  the  devils  shall 
make  pastime  of  thy  paines.'  'There  are  two  thousand  of  you 
here  to-day,  hut  I  am  sure  fourscore  of  you  will  not  be  saved.' ' 
In  the  absence  of  scientific  knowledge,  ami  of  that  rationalistic 
spirit  which  was  liberalizing  and  enlightening  thought  elsewhere, 
all  ])henoniena  were  referred  to  the  arbitrary  will  of  a  passionate 
and  saiiguinarv  God.  As  long  as  this  continued,  as  lf)ng  as  re- 
ligious feelings  were  chicdy  associated  with  the  abnormal  and 
caj)rici()us,  attention  would  ciiieflv  concentrate  upon  disasters, 
and  devotion  would  be  chiefly  connected  with  storm  and  ])esti- 
lence,  famine  and  deatii.  Tlies(\  regarded  as  penal  inflictions, 
would  give  a  congenial  line  to  all  jiarts  of  belief,  whose  central 
ideas  would   Ix'  misery,  eiMU'ltv.  and   terrf)r.      But   when   habits  of 

'  In  conr^e(iucMCt'  three  per^oii^  are  >ai(l  to  have  di-^jialched  theiiiselvos  in  despair. 


PROSE  —  ENGLISH    MATERIALISM.  31 

investigation  acquire  the  ascendancy,  calamities  are  seen  to  be 
the  result  of  general  laws,  terrorism  diminishes,  attention  is  di- 
rected chiefly  to  the  evidences  of  superintending  care,  the  Divine 
presence  is  associated  with  order,  and  tlieology  wears  a  more 
beneficent  aspect.  This,  on  the  whole,  is  precisely  the  change 
that  had  been  going  on  in  England  from  the  early  part  of  the 
century.  The  fact  suggests,  what  must  be  obvious  to  everv  care- 
ful student  of  ideas, —  that  all  theology  is  progressive:  Christi- 
anity lives  because  it  is  developed.  Every  age  must  produce  its 
own  doctrines,  adapted  to  its  peculiar  condition  and  wants. 
Those  of  the  present  can  be  retraced  to  the  successive  points  of 
time  when,  one  after  the  other,  they  reached  a  definite  form. 
Patristic  —  Scholastic  —  Reformative  —  modern  Evangelical  —  this 
is  the  line  of  advance  and  the  order  of  growth.  The  gems  alone 
are  unmodified,  the  eternal  verities,  the  same  to-day,  yesterday, 
and  forever. 

!Eth.ics. — Two  classes  of  tendencies,  two  complexions  or  styles 
of  mind,  contend  for  empire  in  the  individual  and  society, —  the 
one  holding  of  animal  force,  the  other  of  genius;  the  one  of  the 
understanding,  the  other  of  the  soul;  the  one  deficient  in  sympa- 
thy, the  other  warm  and  expansive;  the  one  all  buzz  and  din,  the 
other  all  infinitude  and  paradise;  the  one  hating  ideas  and  cling- 
ing to  a  cor{)oreal  civilization,  the  other  looking  abroad  into  uni- 
versality and  suggesting  the  presence  of  the  invisible  gods;  the 
one  insisting  on  sensuous  facts  as  the  solid  finality,  the  other  on 
Thought  and  Will  as  the  ])rimal  reality,  from  which  as  an  un- 
sounded centre  flow  sensuous  facts  perpetually  outward,  and  of 
which  thev  are  but  a  manifold  symbol.  These  are  the  JLderial- 
i,its  and  the  Idealisf.^  of  the  world.  The  former  think  more  of  the 
beast  than  of  the  scrapli  in  man.  The  only  interests  tlu-y  appre- 
ciate are  such  as  are  paljiable,  and  can  be  touched,  measured,  and 
weighed.  If  tliov  survey  tlu^  rules  of  condiu-t,  or  seek  to  discover 
the  princi])les  which  uiidt'rlii'  thcni,  they  make  much  of  a  o-ood 
stomach,  of  strong  limbs,  of  the  five  senses,  and  ri'acli  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  universal  motive  of  every  act  is  the  desire  of  jilcas- 
ure.  In  their  analvsis  of  moral  j)henomena,  uiiabl(>  to  ascend 
higher  than  their  own  level,  they  stop  at  self-loV(>.  This  is  j)re- 
ciselv  what  now  took  })lace  at  the  l)irth  of  moral  science.  Xor, 
under  the  conditions,  is  it  at  all  sur[)rising.      It  was  natural  that 


32  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

in  the  hands  of  a  logician  and  a  })ositivist,  driven  into  exile  by- 
rebellion,  into  weariness  and  disgust  by  sectarian  violence,  at- 
tached to  a  fallen  goverinnent,  and  yearning  for  repose,  ethical 
philosophy  should  assume  a  form  pleasing  to  a  generation  devoted 
equally  to  monarchy  and  to  vice;  that,  written  in  the  midst  of  an 
overthrown  society  and  a  religious  excess,  for  an  audience  whose 
passions  and  tastes  liad  been  sternly  repressed,  and  who  mingled 
duty  and  fanaticism  in  a  common  reproach,  it  should  wipe  out 
noble  sentiment  and  reduce  human  nature  to  its  merely  animal 
aspect. 

Such  a  theorist  was  ThomaS  Hobbes,'  and  such  the  base  tone 
which  saturates  his  system.  lie  lias  daily  observed  —  as  who  has 
not?  —  that  we  continually  perform  acts,  because  we  see  that 
they  will  issue  in  pleasure;  on  the  other  hand,  that  we  refuse  to 
perform,  because  we  see  that  they  will  issue  in  pain.  Preoccu- 
pied with  favorite  ideas,  the  sight  of  revolutionary  excess  confirms 
him  in  his  principles  and  attachments.  He  accordingly  declares 
that  a  desire  to  ol)tain  jileasure  and  to  avoid  pain  is  the  only  pos- 
sible motive  to  action.  None  seek  or  wish  for  anything  but  that 
which  is  pleasurable: 

'I  concii\o  that  wlicii  a  man  deliberates  whether  he  shall  do  a  thing  or  not  do  it,  he 
does  ii()tliiii;4  el>e  but  consider  whether  it  be  better  for  himself  to  do  it  or  not  to  do  it." 

Willi  him,  as  with  the  courtiers  around  him,  'the  greatest  good 
is  the  preservation  of  life  and  limb;  the  greatest  evil  is  death.' 
In  what,  then,  does  all  the  good  or  evil  of  objects  consist?  Solely 
in  tlieir  property  of  ]'»ro(lucing  happiness  or  the  opposite.  'Good 
and  evil  are  names  that  signif\'  our  appetites  and  aversions.'  To 
determine  the  rmalitv  of  an  act,  vou  have  simply  to  acquaint 
vourself  witli  its  fitness  or  unfitness  to  jiroduce  )>leasure.  Calcn- 
Ititi  well,  therefore,  and  you  are  moral;  calculate  ill,  and  you  are 
innnoral.  All  ])assi()ns  are  thus  resolved  into  one  —  love  of  self. 
What  is  )•(■)'( ri  11  CI-  /  'The  conception  we  have  concerning  another 
that  he  hath  the  p(»\ver  to  do  unto  us  both  good  and  hurt,  but  not 
the  will  to  do  us  hurt.'  AVhat  is  lore/  A  conception  of  the 
utility  of  the  person  loved.  Whv  nr('  J'rie/u/s/n'jts  good?  'lie- 
cause  they  are   useful;    friends   serve   for   defence   and  otherwise.' 

'  -I  inr  Siivioiir,  (iixi-iii.'iii.  li.'id  liccti  tmrn  one  thousand  five  hundred  atid  ei^'hty  years. 
Ill  Spiinish  liMrliiirs  lay  .-inclKired  the  fiiinoiis  hostile  lleet  soon  to  jierish  in  our  sea.  It 
\v;i-  larly  -iiriiiL'-tiine.  and  the  liflh  day  of  .\]>vU  was  dawning'.  At  this  time,  I,  a  little 
wiirui,  wa<  liorn  at  .Mahnesbury.'     lie  died  iit  tiie  aL'e  of  iiinetv-Iwo. 


PROSE  —  UTILITARIANISM.  33 

Why  do  we  pity?  'Because  we  imagine  that  a  similar  misfor- 
tune may  befall  ourselves.'  What  is  charity  /  The  expectation 
of  favors  reciprocated.  'No  man  giveth  but  with  the  expectation 
of  good  to  himself.'  Or  it  is  a  manifestation  of  the  gratified 
sense  of  power: 

'There  can  be  no  greater  argument  to  a  man,  of  his  own  power,  than  to  find  himself 
able  not  only  to  accomplish  his  own  desires,  but  also  to  assist  other  men  in  theirs:  and 
this  is  that  conception  wherein  consisteth  charity.'' 

Parental  affection  is  a  specific  instance  of  this,  but, — 

'The  affection  wherewith  men  often  bestow  their  benefits  on  strangers,  is  not  to  be 
called  charity,  but  either  contract,  whereby  they  seek  to  purchase  friendship;  or  fear, 
which  maketh  them  to  purchase  peace.' 

Why  do  we  weep?     From  a  sense  of  weakness: 

'Men  are  apt  to  weep  that  prosecute  revenge,  when  the  revenge  is  suddenly  stopped 
or  frustrated  by  tlie  repentance  of  their  adversary;  and  sucli  are  the  tears  of  recon- 
ciliation.^ 

Wisdom  is  desirable;  but  money,  being  more  serviceable,  is 
worth  more.  'Not  he  who  is  wise  is  rich,  as  the  Stoics  say;  but 
lie  who  is  rich  is  wise.'  Whence  the  purifying  emotions  which 
art  inspires? 

'Music,  painting,  poetry,  are  agreeable  as  imitations  which  recall  the  past,  because 
if  the  past  was  good,  it  is  agreeable  in  its  imitation  as  a  good  thing;  but  if  it  was  bad,  it 
is  agreeable  in  its  imitation  as  being  past." 

To  sum  up,  nothing  is  in  itself  either  good  or  evil,  but  only  as  it 
affects  us.  Our  duties  are  simply  to  avoid  the  disagreeable,  and 
seek  the  agreeable.  Virtue  is  a  judicious,  and  vice  an  injudi- 
cious, pursuit  of  self-interest.  As  we  cannot  be  affected  other- 
wise than  we  are  Ijv  the  agreeable  and  disagreeable,  our  volitions 
or  desires  are  d(>teniiined  bv  motives  external  to  us,  and  we  are 
coiisequentlv  creatures  of  mechanism.  There  is  no  liberty  but 
liberty  from  ]ihvsical  constraint,  as  that  of  a  chained  prisoner  set 
free.  It  consists  in  tlie  power,  not  of  forming  resolves,  but  of 
doing  what  we  will.  The  true  tlestinv  of  man  is  pletisuic.  He 
is  l)v  nature  inclined  and  instructed  to  do  whatever  will  promote 
this  end.  The  better  to  secure  it,  he  enters  into  a  civil  eomj)aft, 
in  which  he  merges  sonn^  private  rights  in  the  ])ublic  organiza- 
tion. His  law  of  action,  hf)wever,  is  still  the  greatest  degree  of 
personal  enjoyment;   and  iiiiylit  inakcs  riyht. 

Does   liuiiian  conduct,  profoundly  analyzetl,  coniinii  this  view? 
Self-love   is   luidoiibtedly  a  spring  of  activity  —  tlu'   main   one,  if 
3 


34  PIRST  TRANSITION    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

you  will,  but  is  there  no  other?  The  principle  of  interest  exists — 
has  a  right  to  exist;  but  are  there  not  other  principles  quite  as 
real?  Is  intelligence  fortuitous  and  forced?  Is  man  a  mere 
nervous  machine,  whose  wheels  go  blindly,  carried  away  by  im- 
pulse and  weight,  internally  responsive  to  external  shocks?  Does 
not  entire  life,  private  and  public,  turn  on  personal  freedom  ?  Is 
it  not  involved  in  esteem  and  contempt,  in  admiration  and  indig- 
nation, in  punishment  and  reward?  Is  it  not  implicitly  admitted 
by  every  system  that  contains  a  rule  or  a  counsel  ?  When 
Hobbes  advises  us  to  sacrifice  the  agreeable  to  the  useful,  does 
he  not  assume  that  we  are  free  to  adopt  or  reject  advice  ?  Fon- 
tenelle  seeing  a  man  led  to  punishment,  remarked,  'There  is  a 
man  who  has  calculated  badly.'  True,  but  if  he  had  been  more 
adroit  and  escaped  punishment,  would  his  conduct  have  been 
laudable?  Is  the  honest  only  the  useful ?  Is  the  genius  of  cal- 
culation the  highest  wisdom?  Must  a  poor  calculator  be  inca- 
pable of  virtue?  When  you  have  acted  contrary  to  an  enlight- 
ened self-interest,  you  may  lament  your  feebleness  and  your 
failure,  but  do  you  feel  remorse?  Is  tlie  love  of  beauty  nothing 
but  desire?  Is  there  no  deeper  meaning  than  this  in  the  view  or 
worship  of  that  subdued  fairness  of  countenance,  in  sweet  child 
or  cultured  woman,  whose  holy  reference  beyond  itself  glorifies 
our  visions  of  heaven;  in  the  prospect  of  the  peaceful  hills,  with 
their  undulations  of  forests,  rearing  themselves  aslant  their  slopes, 
and  waves  of  greensward,  dim  with  early  dew,  or  smooth  in 
evening  warmth  of  barred  sunshine;  in  the  walk  by  silent,  scented 
paths,  beside  the  pacing  brooks  that  ripple  and  eddy  and  murmur 
in  infinite  seclusion?  Is  the  mute  adoration  of  a  mother,  over 
the  cradle  of  her  sleeping  innocent,  only  a  foresight  of  the  ser- 
vice whicli  that  babe,  at  some  future  day,  may  render?  What 
would  you  think  of  a  lover  whose  devotion  lay  resting  on  the 
single  feeling  that  a  marriage  would  conduce  to  his  own  com- 
forts? or  of  a  jirofessed  jiatriot  who  served  his  country  for  hire? 
or  of  a  son  who  should  say,  '  Father,  on  whom  my  fortunes  de- 
jxMid,  teach  me  to  do  what  pleases  thee,  that  I,  pleasing  thee  in 
all  things,  may  obtain  the  portion  which  thou  hast  promised  to 
obedience  ? ' 

Enough.      Rc^Tson    and    ••xpericncc   attest    that    human    nature 
has    grander   ])arts    and    a    grander    destiny.      Thev    tell    us   that 


PROSE — UTILITARIANISM.  35 

merit  and  demerit,  duty  and  right,  originate  in  an  absolute  good 
—  something  good,  not  from  the  benefit  it  brings  to  one  or  to  all, 
but  from  the  eternal  nature  of  things;  that  our  obligation  is  to 
seek  and  to  do  the  best  which  we  know;  and  if  happiness  come, 
life  will  be  sweet;  if  it  do  not  come,  life  will  be  bitter  —  yet  to 
be  borne  in  lowliness  of  heart  and  nobleness  of  purpose. 

Few  writers  have  been  so  uniformly  depreciated.  '  Hobbism,' 
ere  he  died,  became  a  synonym  for  irreligion  and  immorality; 
and  he  has  been  vilified  unsparingly  in  death.  The  prejudice 
has  sprung,  partly  from  ignorance,  partly  from  a  true  sense  of 
his  dangerous  errors.  He  is  commonly  supposed  to  have  been 
an  atheist.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  a  theist,  though  of  a  modi- 
fied type.  Admitting  the  existence  of  spirit,  he  denied  it  to  be 
immaterial.  Asked  what  position  the  Deity  occupied  in  his  i)hi- 
losophy,  he  answered: 

'I  believe  Him  to  be  a  most  pure,  simple,  invisible  spirit  corporeal.  By  corporeal  I 
mean  a  substance  that  has  magnitude,  and  so  mean  all  learned  men,  divines  an<l  otiiers, 
though  perhaps  there  be  some  common  people  so  rude  as  to  call  nothing  body  but  what 
they  can  see  and  feel.' 

You  may  call  Him  incorporeal,  if  you  wish,  but, — 

'■Incorporeal  shall  pa>s  for  a  middle  nature  between  infinitehj  subtle  and  nothing,  and 
be  less  subtle  than  infinitely  subtle,  and  yet  more  subtle  than  a  thought.' ' 

After  all  that  you  have  heard,  you  may  be  startled  to  hear 
hiin,  not  merely  ])rofess  belief  in  human  immortality,  but  argue 
its  location  —  that,  too,  from  Scripture: 

'Of  the  world  to  come,  St.  Pi.'ter  speaks  (2  Pet.  id,  13).  Xevertheless  we  according  to 
His  promise  look  for  new  hearens  nnd  a  new  earth.  This  is  that  world  wherein  Christ 
coming  down  from  heaven  in  the  clouds,  with  great  power  and  glory,  shall  send  His 
angels,  and  shall  gather  together  His  elect  from  the  uttermost  part-;  of  the  earth,  and 
thenceforth  reign  over  them,  under  His  Father,  everlastingly."' 

Undoubtedly  tlie  speculations  of  Hobbes,  in  their  tendency 
and  effect,  were  harmful.  It  was  the  perception  of  tluMr  results, 
that  caused  Parliament  to  condemn  his  two  great  works  —  De 
Give  and  heviathdn.  It  was  this,  also,  that  raiseil  uj)  strong, 
high-minded  foes,  like  the  Platonic  Cudwortli,  to  found  the  intui- 
tive school  of  ethics,  and  to  assert  with  tlio  whole  force  of  cuii- 
viction    an<l    h^arning,   ahovi^    motives    of    a    personal    ami    st^llish 

'  The  reader  will  pcrrcivc  that  this  must  have  bi'cu,  from  liis  tlieorv  of  rr.:ilion,  -\\\i- 
stantially  the  view  of  Milton. 

'Tliis  sounds  oddly  in  one  whom  we  have  seen  as^,■lil  the  very  llieor.\  of  Iv'rMl.itioii  ■ 
'To  say  he  sjjeaks  by  >upernaf Mr:il  inspir.ition,  is  to  say  h<'  liuds  :ni  :irdeiit  de~irc  to 
speak,  "or  some  strong  opinion  of  himself.' 


36  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

nature,  one  which  is  wholly  impersonal,  disinterested  and  moral. 
Let  us  be  liberal  enough,  however,  to  acknowledge  merit  in  an 
adversary.  He  is  original,  profound,  clear,  precise,  and  weighty. 
The  germs  of  future  systems  of  thought  are  in  him  —  metaphys- 
ical, philological,  political,  ethical.  In  nothing  does  he  deserve 
greater  credit  than  in  having  set  an  example  of  close  observation 
in  speculative  inquiries.  The  very  lucidity  and  boldness  with 
which  he  exhibits  the  system  of  selfishness,  make  it  possible  to 
expose  and  refute  it.  We  shall  see  that  system  reappear  in  the 
next  century  under  different  forms,  all  resolvable,  however  refined 
or  ingenious,  into  sensual  elements.  It  will  be  reproduced,  in 
every  important  era  of  history,  as  long  as  there  is  a  class  of 
tliiid<ers  wlio  regard  the  earth  as  a  stable  and  its  fruit  as  fodder; 
who  measure  all  utilities  by  inches,  and  denote  all  profit  and  loss 
by  dollars  and  cents.  These  are  they  who  complacently  call 
themselves  'practical,'  worthy  of  much  esteem,  indeed,  and  emi- 
nently serviceable,  yet  least  calculated  of  anv,  by  their  habits  of 
mind,  to  distinguish  truth  from  error,  nor  altogether  friendh'  to 
j)rogress  by  the  low  views  which  they  are  accustomed  to  take  of 
humanity.  The  useful,  according  to  them,  consists  in  knowing 
that  we  have  an  animal  nature,  and  in  making  this  our  chief  care. 
They  place  the  glory  of  individuals,  as  of  nations,  in  the  world 
around  us,  not  in  the  world  within  us;  in  the  circumstances  of 
fortune,  not  in  the  attributes  of  the  soul.  Engrossed  with  the 
roar  of  railways,  the  click  of  telegraphs,  the  sounds  of  the 
crowded  mart,  they  think  they  govern  the  world  because  they 
float  on  the  surface,  never  dreaming  that  what  they  imagine  to 
be  under  their  direction  is  a  mighty  force  that  in  its  movement 
sweeps  them  onward. 

Science. — This  suddenly  l)ecame  the  fashion  of  the  day. 
poets  and  courtiers,  wits  and  fops,  crowded  to  the  meetings  of 
the  Tnvisil)le  College,  to  which,  in  token  of  his  sym])athy,  Charles 
II  gave  the  title  of  'The  Koyal  Society.'  Almost  every  ensuing 
year  saw  some  improvement  —  some  expansion  of  the  circle  of 
knowledge.  The  Cireenwich  Observatorv  was  founded.  A  fresh 
inii)ulse  was  given  to  micrf)scopical  research.  The  careful  obser- 
vation of  natiu-e  and  facts  marked  an  era  in  the  healing  art. 
First  light  was  thrown  on  the  structure  of  the  f)rain.  Bovle,  the 
most   eminent  of  Bacon's   early  disciples,  first    directed   attentioTi 


PROSE — EXPANSION   OF  SCIENCE.  37 

to  chemistry  as  the  science  of  the  atomic  constituents  of  bodies. 
The  discussion  of  abstract  questions  of  government  began. 
Hobbes  declared  (1)  that  all  power  originated  in  the  people; 
and  (2)  that  all  power  was  for  the  common  weal.     Locke  added 

(1)  that  the  power  thus  lodged  in  the  ruler  could  be  taken  awav; 

(2)  that  the  ruler  is  responsible  to  his  subjects  for  the  trust 
reposed  in  him;  and  (3)  that  legislative  assemblies,  as  the  voice 
of  the  people,  are  supreme. 

All  names  in  purely  physical  science  are  lost  in  the  lustre  of 
one.  Kepler  had  reduced  planetary  motion  to  a  rule.  He  and 
others  had  sought  to  reduce  it  to  a  cause,  and  some  had  stood  on 
the  verge  of  success.  Newton  crossed  the  barrier,  and  estab- 
lished the  doctrine  of  Universal  Gravitation  —  that  every  particle 
of  matter  attracts  every  other  particle  by  one  common  law  of 
action.  To  pursue  the  interminable  vista  of  new  facts  which  it 
pointed  out,  was  to  be  the  employment  of  the  succeeding  ctMi- 
tury.  Born  in  1G42,  so  tiny  that  his  mother  said  'she  could  jmt 
him  into  a  quart  mug,'  at  twenty-two  he  discovered  the  Binomial 
Tlieorem;  at  twenty-tlu'ee,  the  Method  of  Fluxions;  at  twenty- 
four,  the  law  of  planetary  motion  around  the  sun;  then  turning 
his  attention  to  Lhjlit  and  Color,  laid  the  foundation  of  Optics; 
and  in  1GS7,  having  resumed  his  calculations,  announced  in  his 
faTuous  Pi'incipia  the  mutual  attracticm  of  celestial  bodies.  His 
boyisli  fondness  for  ccjustructing  little  mechanical  toys  —  clocks 
and  mills,  carts  and  dials  —  as  well  as  the  facility  with  which  lie 
mastered  Geometry,  was  the  early  prelude  of  his  eminence.  He 
})ossessed  in  a  very  high  degree  the  elements  of  the  matliematical 
talent, —  fertility  of  invention,  distinctness  of  intuition,  delil)enite 
cf)ncentration,  and  a  strong  tendency  to  generalization.  He  lived 
in  the  trains  of  thought  relating  to  his  character.  Complimented 
on  his  genius,  he  replii'd  witli  modesty  that  if  he  liad  made  any 
discoveries,  it  was  owing  to  jxitlt  iit  <(tti  uth>n  —  his  ability  with- 
out fatigue  to  connect  inference  with  inference  in  one  long  scritvs 
towards  a  determinate  end.  '  I  keep  the  subject  of  my  intiuirv 
constantlv  before  me,  and  wait  till  the  first  dawning  opens  gnulu- 
allv,  1)V  little  ami   little,  into  a  full  ;ind  clear  light."'      The  higher 

'  l)csCMrtc<  arroL'atcd  iidtliiiiL,'  t<>  tlii>  forci'  "f  liis  int. ■licet.  What  li<'  bad  arcnii- 
Iilislu-d  iMori'  than  (itlicr  111(11.  he  attriliiitcd  to  the  siipcriid-ity  ivf  hi-  iiLthod.  '  ( ■.iiiii-,' 
Kavs  HehctiM^.  •  is  luHhiiiL'  but  a  eoiitiiiiicd  attention.'  'Plie  <.'real  Mrs.  Siddoii- attrih- 
utcd  her  unrivalled  siiceess  to  the  more  inleii-e  study  which  she  liestowcd  upon  hi-r 
parts.     A  habit  of  abstractioi!  has  been  inaiiifcsted  almost  akin  to  discasi'  liy  sonn'  of 


38  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

we  ascend,  the  wider  our  field  of  vision,  the  deeper  will  be  our 
humility.     This  chief  of  scientists  said,  at  the  close  of  life: 

'I  know  not  what  tho  world  may  think  of  my  labors;  but  to  myself  I  seem  to  have 
been  only  like  a  boy  playing  on  the  sea-shore,  and  diverting  myself  in  now  and  then 
finding  a  smoother  pebble  or  a  prettier  shell  than  ordinary,  whilst  the  great  ocean  of 
truth  lay  all  undiscovered  before  me.' 

Only  false  science  is  lofty  in  spirit.  Only  it  ignores  the  sphere 
and  limits  to  which  it  is  confined.  Newton  did  not  forget  that 
the  discovery  of  law  is  no  adequate  solution  of  the  problem  of 
causes.  While  he  reduced  the  heavens  to  the  dominion  of  gravi- 
tation, gravitation  itself  remained  an  insoluble  problem.  He 
could  track  the  course  of  the  comet,  and  measure  the  velocity 
of  light,  yet  was  he  powerless  to  explain  the  existence  of  the 
minutest  insect  or  the  growth  of  tlie  humblest  plant.  Through 
all  his  labors  he  looked  reverently  up  to  the  great  First  Cause. 
Thus  ends  his  Principia: 

'We  know  God  only  by  His  properties  and  attributes,  by  the  wise  and  admirable 
structure  of  things  around  us,  and  by  their  final  causes;  we  admire  Ilim  on  account  of 
His  perfections;  we  venerate  and  worshiij  Him  on  account  of  His  government." 

Kepler,  too,  had  thus  opened  his  sublime  views: 

'I  beseech  my  reader  that,  not  unmindful  of  the  divine  goodness  bestowed  on  man, 
he  do  with  me  celebrate?  and  i)raise  the  wisdom  and  greatness  of  the  Creator  which  I 
open  to  him.' 

In  old  age  and  darkness  Galileo  wrote: 

'Alas!  your  dear  friend  and  servant  has  become  totally  and  irreparably  bliiul. 
These  heavens,  this  earth,  this  universe,  which  by  wonderful  observation  I  had  enlarged 
a  thousand  times  beyond  the  belief  of  past  ages,  are  henceforth  shrunk  into  the  narrow 
space  I  myself  occupy.    So  il  pleaxes  God,  it  shall  therefore  please  me  also." 

The  piety  of  Boyle  is  shown  by  his  literary  remains, —  Style  of 
Scriphire,  S'n'upJiic  Lore,  the  Christiati  Virtuoso,  in  which  he 
affirms  that  'a  man  addicted  to  natural  philosophy  is  rather 
assisted  than  iiidis{)()S('(l  thereby  to  be  a  good  Christian.'  In  the 
present  dav,  when  the  studv  of  the  laws  of  matter  has  assumed 
an  extraordinary  development,  it  is  gratifying  to  know  that  the 
mountain  minds  which  mark  the  great  steps  of  scientific  prog'ress, 
and  which  now  tin-ow  their  lengthening  shadows  over  us,  bowed 
their  honored  heads  l)el"ore  the  .Jehovah  of  the  Bil)le. 

Philosophy. — Hobbes'  <'tliics  were   the   result   of    his   p.sy- 

tlir  LTeiilcst  thinker-.  .Xrchiini'ib-s  w.'is  -o  nUsiirlx'd  in  lueditJitimi  that  hewns  first  awan? 
of  the  stonniiii.'  "f  Syrncii-e  by  his  own  (Iciith-woiind.  Plato  reports  that  Socrates,  in  a 
military  cxiieditioii.  was  mcii  by  tlic  .\fhini:iii  iirii\v  to  stand  for  a  wliole  day  and  a  night, 
iiiilil  the  lircakim;  of  tlic  sci-ond  morniiii:.  iiiotionli--s,  witli  a  lixed  ir.-ize. 


PROSE — ENTHRONEMENT   OF   MATTER.  39 

chology.  Good  and  evil  can  be  nothing  else  than  expressions 
for  pleasure  and  pain,  if  ideas  are  nothing  else  than  sensations. 
He  says,  in  general: 

'Concerning  the  thoiightii  of  man,  .  .  .  they  UTe  every  onv  areprffienfation  or ap}x>ar- 
ance  of  some  quality  or  otlier  accident  of  a  body  wiiliout  us,  whicli  is  commonly  called 
an  object.  Which  object  workelh  on  the  eyes,  ears,  and  other  parts  of  a  man'g  Ijoiltj  ;  and 
by  diversity  of  working,  producetli  diversity  of  appearances.  The  original  of  them  all 
is  that  which  we  call  Sense,  for  there  is  no  conception  in  a  man's  mind  which  hath  not  at 
first,  totally  or  by  parts,  been  begotten  upon  the  organs  of  sense.  The  rest  are  derived 
from  that  original.' 

To  be  specific,  thought  is  an  internal  movement  caused  by  an 
external  shock: 

'All  the  qualities  called  sensible  are.  in  the  object  that  catiscth  them,  but  so  many 
several  motions  of  the  matter  by  which  it  pressetli  on  our  organs  diversely.  Neither  in 
us  thai  are  pressed,  are  they  anything  else  but  divers  motions;  for  motion  produceth 
nothing  but  motion.' 

The  gradual  ceasing  of  the  initial  impulse  is  inuKji nation., 
which  he  reduces  to  the  pow(>r  of  forming  images: 

'When  a  body  is  once  in  motion  it  nioveth,  unless  something  hinder  it.  eternally; 
and  whatsoever  hindereth  it,  can  not  in  an  instant,  but  in  time  and  by  degrees,  quite 
extinguish  it;  and  as  we  see  in  the  water,  though  the  wind  cease,  the  waves  give  not  over 
rolliiig  for  a  long  time  after:  so  also  it  happeneth  in  that  motion  which  is  made  in  the 
internal  parts  of  man;  then,  when  he  sees,  dreams,  etc' 

The  cause  of  this  diminution  is  the  impulse  of  some  succeeding 
and  stronger  motion,  by  whicli  the  former  is  obscured,  as  the 
stars  fade  when  the  sua  rises.  If  you  wish  to  denote,  not  the 
decay  itself,  but  the  character  of  it,  as  something  old  and  past, 
vou  will  call  it  memory/.  If  now  you  woidd  know  how  one 
thought  suggests  another  in  a  continuous  and  uninterrii])ted 
chain,  the  explanation  is: 

'All  fancies  (i.e.  images)  are  motions  uithin  ns.  relicts  of  those  made  in  sei/st:  and 
those  motions  that  immediately  succeed  one  another  in  the  sense  continue  also  togither 
after  the  sense:  insomuch  as  the  former  coming  again  to  take  place  and  be  ])red()ininant, 
tlie  latter  foUoweth  by  coherence  of  the  matter  moved,  in  such  manner  as  water  upon  a 
plain  table  is  drawn  which  w;iy  any  one  part  of  it  is  i:ui<le(l  by  the  linger.' 

C-ould  anything  be  more  candid,  clear,  and  distinct?  Sensations, 
and  their  traces,  form  tlu'  elements  of  all  knowledge;  the  various 
commixtures  of  these  form  tin-  intellectual  faculties.  AN'hat  we 
perceive  or  think,  forms  part  of  tlie  material  universe.  Matf' r 
is  th(  onlij  rralif  I/. 

Ilobbes,  apjilving  the  em])irical  metliod  of  Bacon  to  the  iii\t'S- 
tigation  of  nn'iital  and  moral  plienoiruMia.  is  tlius  tlic  precursor  of 
modern  Materialism.      One  of   tin-    names  tliat  mark  an  era  in  the 


40  FIRST  TRANSITION   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

advancement  of  knowledge,  by  creating-  fresh  resources  for  the 
development  of  couiing  ages,  is  that  of  John  LiOCke,  an  Oxford 
scholar,  so  profoundly  contemptuous  of  the  University '  studies 
that  he  regretted  in  after-life  the  waste  of  so  much  time  on  such 
profitless  pursuits,  so  deeply  convinced  of  the  vicious  method  of 
college  education  that  he  went  to  the  other  extreme  of  thinking 
self-education  the  best;  devoted  himself  to  medicine,  then  to  poli- 
tics; incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  Court  by  his  liberal  opinions, 
and  fled  to  Holland,  where  he  finished  his  celebrated  Essay  on 
the  Human  Understanding ;  returned  to  London,  after  the  Rev- 
olution, to  find  security  and  welcome;  wrote  much,  did  much,  to 
strengthen  the  government;  was  appointed  to  a  responsible  and 
lucrative  office,  but  failed  in  health;  passed  his  remaining  years 
in  peaceful  retirement  at  the  house  of  his  friend  Lady  Masham, 
daughter  of  Cudworth,  where  he  expired  in  1704,  aged  seventy- 
two,  having  created,  by  his  ideas  on  speculative  method,  civil 
rule,  value  of  money,  and  liberty  of  the  press,  a  new  vein  of 
thought  for  philosophic  delvers  and  political  economists.  As  a 
man,  upright,  amiable,  and  accomplished;  as  an  author,  his  fame 
and  influence  are  European;  as  a  thinker,  of  a  practical  cast  and 
cautious  habit,  forbidding  himself  lofty  questions  and  inclined  to 
forbid  them  to  us.  Like  Hobbes,  he  pronounced  Psychology  to 
be  a  science  of  observation;  like  him,  he  resolved  to  explore  the 
field  of  intellect  as  Bacon  had  explored  the  field  of  nature.  What 
is  his  philosophy  V 

Its  object  is  to  ascertain  the  origin,  certainty,  limits,  and  uses 
of  our  knowledg'e.  Its  leading  doctrine  appears  to  lie,  that  the 
ultiiiiat<;  source  of  this  knowledge  is  experience,  which,  however, 
is  of  two  kinds, —  sensntion  and  I't'^ffectlon.  Tlie  first  presents 
no  great  difliculty.      Of  the  second  he  says: 

'The  other  r<imit;iln  fruin  wliii-li  experience  furniKlieth  the  iMi(lerst;ui(!int;  willi 
ideas,  is  the  iifrct-iit'uDi  of  thf  uperti/ioim  of  our  O'cn  iiii/i'/f:  irilhiii  iis;  ok  i/  ix  finplotjfil 
itfiO'il  the  vIkix  iI  Iiiix  ijot :  wliicli  nperatiiiiis,  uiieii  tlie  soul  eoines  to  relh^ct  on  and  con- 
sider, do  fiirni-li  the  miiler-tandin^'  willi  another  set  of  ideas,  whieli  conld  n<it  he  liad 
from  thinirs  without:  an<l  >u(li  are  i)erce|)tion,  Iliinkin;;,  donbtinLT,  helievinu,  reasoning;, 
knowinjr,  wiliinir,  ami  all  the  ditTereut  aetin<;s  of  our  own  minds,  whieh  we,  being  con- 
scious of,  and  ol)-ervii]^  in  oursidve<,  do  from  these  receive  into  our  nnderstandinf^s 
ideas  a~  di-tiuil  a~  we  do  froiu  bodies  alTectiuLT  our  senses.  This  source  of  iileas  every 
Diiin  /ill!'-  irliolbj  III  h'linsflf.  and  Itiomjli  it  lif  not  senae,  as  /iiiriu/j  iio/hiii(i  to  do  with  exter- 
iiul  olijirts,  yel  it  i-  very  like  il.  and  niiirhl  iiroperly  eiiouirh  be  called  internal  senile'.    But 

'  Then,  as  now,  attached  to  the  past.  'I'o  this  day,  its  students  are  drilled  in  tlie  phi- 
loM)phy  of  .\ristolle. 


PROSE  —  LOCKIAN    PHILOSOPHY.  41 

as  I  call  the  other  sensation  so  I  call  this  reflection,  the  ideas  it  affords  being  such  only  as 
the  mind  jjets  by  reflecting  on  its  own  operations  within  itself." 

No  ideas  are  allowed  to  be  in  the  mind  except  those  which  can 
be  shown  to  spring  from  one  or  other  of  these  inlets: 

'When  the  understanding  is  once  stored  with  these  simple  ideas,  it  has  the  power  to 
repeat,  coin|)are,  and  unite  them,  even  to  an  almost  inttnite  variety,  and  so  can  make  at 
pleasure  new  complex  ideas.  But  it  is  not  in  tlie  iK)wer  of  the  most  exalted  wit,  or 
enlarged  understanding,  by  any  quickness  or  variety  of  thought,  to  invent  or  frame  one 
new  simple  idea  in  the  mind  not  taken  in  by  the  ways  aforementioned." 

The  thing  perceived  is  the  idea: 

'It  is  evident  that  the  mind  knows  not  tilings  immediately,  but  by  the  intervention 
of  the  ideas  it  has  of  them.  Our  knowledge,  therefore,  is  real  only  so  far  as  there  is  a 
conformity  between  our  ideas  and  the  reality  of  things." 

What  assurance  have  we  of  such  conformity? — The  assumption 
that  God  would  not  constitute  us  with  faculties  fitted  only  to 
deceive: 

'Our  ideas  are  not  Actions  of  our  fancies,  but  the  natural  and  regular  productions  of 
things  without  us  really  operating  upon  us;  and  so  carry  with  them  all  the  conformity 
which  is  intended,  or  which  our  state  retiuires,  for  they  represent  things  to  us  under 
those  appearances,  which  they  are  fitted  to  produce  in  us." 

Whence  this  idea  of  Gudy  As  a  philosopher,  he  argues  that  it 
is  not  innate,  and  holds  that  its  absence  is  a  strong  presumption 
against  innate  ideas  generally;  as  a  theologian,  he  argues  that 
we  can  prove  the  existence  of  God  as  conclusively  as  we  can 
prove  that  the  angles  of  a  triangle  are  together  equal  to  two 
right  ang'les.  The  proof  ujion  which  he  chieflv  insists  is  derived 
from  causation, —  that  for  every  effect  there  must  be  an  elVicient 
cause.  77ie  citH.'O/f  idea  he  derires  from  ej'perh'}ice.  This  would 
be  satisfactorv,  if  by  orifjhi  or  soi/rt^e  were  meant,  not  creation 
(the  sense  in  which  I.ocke  seems  to  employ  (Mthcr  term),  l)ut 
occasion.  It  is  allowed  that,  apart  from  e.xjierience,  the  mind 
can  have  no  ideas;.,  still  it  is  not  experience  which  creates  or  jiro- 
duces  our  /itce.-isiiri/  ideas,  it  is  merely  the  occasion  of  tluMr 
development.  Thus,  without  the  ]>erception  of  body,  then"  could 
be  no  idea  of  space;  but,  while  the  former  is  chronologically  first, 
the  latter  is  its  logical  condition,  and  involves  it,  since  we  (Miuiot 
conceive  of  body  except  as  in  space.  Without  the  observation 
of  an  effei't,  then"  could  be  no  idea  of  cause;  l)iit,  the  foniHT 
being  presented,  the  latter  —  already  jiotentiallv  in  the  mind  — 
is  ready  to  s])ring  up.      We  acknowledges    intuition,'    but    ovcr- 

'  'Soinetiinc^s  the  mind  perrt>ives  the  Mi;rci'ni<'iit  or  disaLrrcniifnt  of  twn  idea-;  ininie- 
diately  hy  themselves  without  the  intervi^ntion  of  any  othir,  and  this  1  think  wt'  may 
call  intuitive  knowledge." 


42  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

looks  its  rules  or  laws  —  the  primitive  cognitions  and  beliefs 
included  in  the  exercises  with  which  the  mind  starts.  He  ac- 
knowledges necessary  truth,  but  it  does  not  form  a  part  of  his 
general  theory,  and  sceptics  have  shown  that  he  cannot  reach  it 
in  consistency  with  his  system. 

On  the  whole,  it  will  be  clear  to  the  most  careless  observer  that 
Locke,  as  a  theorist,  has  a  rational  side;  it  will  be  equally  clear 
that  he  has  a  strong  sensational  side.  The  latter  is  conspicuous 
in  his  account  of  moral  distinctions,  and  leaves  little  behind  but 
ruins.  Like  Hobbes,  he  declares  that  'good  and  evil  are  nothing 
but  pleasure  and  pain,  or  that  which  occasions  or  procures  pleas- 
ure or  pain  to  us.'  The  obligations  to  morality  are  the  Divine 
rewards  and  punishments,  legal  and  social  penalties;  that  is,  a 
more  or  less  far-sighted  love  of  pleasure,  and  an  aversion  to 
misery.  That  the  beauty  of  excellence  alone  should  incite  us,  is 
the  delusion  of  pagans: 

'If  a  Christian,  who  has  the  view  of  happiness  and  misery  in  another  life,  be  as-ked 
why  a  man  must  l\eep  his  word,  lie  will  give  this  as  a  reason,  because  God,  who  has  the 
power  of  eternal  life  and  death,  requires  it  of  us.  But  if  an  Hobbist  be  asked  why,  he 
will  answer,  because  the  public  requires  it,  and  the  Leviathan  will  punish  you  if  you 
do  not.  And  if  one  of  the  old  heathen  philosophers  had  been  asked,  he  would  have 
answered,  because  it  was  dishonest,  below- the  dignity  of  man,  and  opposite  to  virtue, 
the  highest  perfection  of  human  nature,  to  do  otiierwise." ' 

In  opposition  to  the  intuitive  moralists  who  affirm  a  native  power 
of  distinguishing  between  the  higher  and  lower  parts  of  our 
nature,  he  insists  at  great  length  on  the  argument  derived  from 
uncivilized  life, —  that  the  moral  standard  is  variable  in  different 
races  and  ages.  This  only  recalls  the  distinction  already  made 
between  innate  ideas  independent  of  experience  and  iiuiate  fac- 
ulties evcjlrojl  bv  experience.  The  difference  between  a  savage 
and  Angelo  is  not  one  of  mere  acquisition;  it  is  the  difference 
l)etween  the  acorn  and  the  oak, —  the  one  is  in  the  other  as  the 
flower  in  the  bud,  or  as  the  grain  contains  the  ear  that  is  to 
wave  in  the  iie.xt  summer's  sun,  recjuiring  only  favorable  con- 
ditions for  the  full  expansion  of  its  inherent  energy.^ 

'Mr.  T.pwis.  in  dcfcndiiiL'  T.ockc's  oriu'iunlity  against  the  critics  who  assert  that  he 
only  liorrowed  and  i)(ii)iiliiri/.i(l  the  ideas  of  Hobbes,  says  that  Locke  never  alludes  to 
fIol)l)cs  hut  twice  — tlicn  distantly  —  atid  adds,  like  a  warm  admirer  of  his  client :  'Ilis 
second  allusion  is  simply  tliis:  "A  IIol)bist  would  probably  say."'  We  cannot  at  ijrescnt 
lay  (Hir  hands  on  the  passage,  but  it  refers  to  some  moral  question." — Tlii^lorii  of  PliHono- 
jildj.  The  'passage,"  had  he  found  it,  could  hardly  have  been  serviceable  to  ^Ir.  Lewis  as 
an  advocate.  It  must  apjiear  evident  from  single  references  and  from  doctrinal  ))oints  of 
resenil)lance,  that,  so  far  from  liaviuL,'  never  read  Ilie  writings  of  Hobbes,  Locke  was 
familiar  with  them. 

''  Professor  Sedgwick,  in  criticism  of  Locke's  i>otion  of  tlu'  soul  being  originally  like 
a  sheet  of  white  iiaiier,  says:  'Naked  man  comes  from  his  mother"s  womb,  endowed 


RESUME.  43 

Nevertheless,  Locke  speaks  of  the  'eternal  and  unalterable 
nature  of  right  and  wrong,'  and  declares  that  'morality  is  caj)a- 
able  of  demonstration  as  well  as  mathematics.'  This  vacillation 
which  makes  moral  truth  alternately  uncertain  and  demonstrable, 
is  but  another  instance  of  his  general  inconsistency.  His  stvle, 
again,  is  lacking  in  precision.  In  every  page  we  miss  the  trans- 
lucent simplicity  of  Hobbes  and  the  French  psychologists.  There 
has  been  almost  endless  controversy  about  his  meaning.  From 
him  will  be  drawn  the  Utilitarianism  of  Mandeville,  who  will 
make  virtue  a  sham;  the  Idealism  of  Berkeley;  the  Scepticism  of 
Hume;  the  Materialism  of  Condillac  and  his  school,  who,  though 
not  accurately  representing  the  doctrines  of  their  master,  repre- 
sent the  (/eneral  tendency  of  his  teaching.  He  learned  as  he 
wrote,  and,  we  are  disposed  to  add,  has  left  passages  involving 
the  conclusions  of  all  schools.  His  Essay  too  often  suggests 
what  Pope  has  said  of  the  Bible,  and  Hamilton  has  reiterated 
of  Consciousness:' 

'This  is  the  boolc  where  each  his  dofjma  neekx. 
This  is  the  boolc  where  eacti  his  Aogma.  ftniU.' 

Hesume. — English  hereditary  forces, —  moral  instinct  and 
practical  aptitude, —  now  worked  out  their  proper  results.  The 
revolution,  long  in  accomplishment,  was  finally  completed,  by 
the  abolition  of  feudal  tenures  and  the  institution  of  Habeas  Cor- 
pus under  Charles  II,  t)y  the  establislnnent  of  the  Constitution, 
the  act  of  toleration,  and  the  eniancipation  of  the  press,  under 
William  HI. 

Literature  still  sought  in  the  sunshine  of  royal  and  aristocratic 
favor,  where  it  had  chiefly  sprung  and  flourished,  the  warmth  and 
shelter  which  po])uIar  appreciation  was  not  yet  sufhciently  ex- 
tended to  give.  Its  spirit  therefore  wtis  in  th<'  main  courtly.  In 
its  polite  forms,  it  reflected  forcil)ly  the  social  and  political  char- 
acteristics of  the  Restoration.  Manners  were  gross  and  trivial. 
It  stooped  to  l)e  the  jiander  of  every  low  desire.  Tragedy, 
moulded  on  the  tastes  of  Paris,  went  out  in  declamation.  The 
dignity  of  blank  gave  way  to  the  sensual  effect  of  rhyme,      ("oiii- 

with  limbs  and  senses  indeed  well  fitted  to  the  material  world,  yet  nowerles-^  from  want 
of  use;  and  as  for  knowlcdire,  his  soul  is  one  nnvuricd  blank:  vet  has  tlii<  blank  bcrn 
already  touched  bv  a  celestial  hand,  and  when  plnntred  in  the  colors  which  -surround  it, 
it  takes  not  his  tin-re  from  accident  but  desimi,  and  comes  forth  covered  with  a  trlorious 
pattern." 

'Of  such  as  resort  thither  in  confirmation  of  preconceived  opinions.  The  oriL'inal 
of  this  coui)let  is  in  the  Latin  confession  of  a  Calvinist  divine. 


44  FIRST   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

edy  sank  into  a  repertory  of  viciousness.  As  the  readiest  fashion 
of  serving  the  appetitive  life  it  fed,  it  clothed  its  garbage  of  vul- 
garity in  prose.  Striving  to  assume  the  sprightly  refinement  of 
the  French  stage,  it  acquired  new  corruption.  The  abasement  of 
the  drama  consisted,  not  merely  in  licentious  expression,  but  in 
licentious  intrigue.  The  sentimental  enshrinement  of  occasional 
virtue  served  only  to  show  how  fearfully  and  shamelessly  men 
had  fallen  into  vice. 

Artificial  and  frigid  images  replaced  sentiment  and  beauty. 
The  elegant  loved  but  the  varnish  of  truth  —  compliments  and 
salutations,  tender  words  and  insipidities.  Poets  wrote  like  men 
of  the  world, —  with  ease,  wit,  and  spirit,  but  without  noble  ardor 
or  moral  depth.  The  lyric,  chiefiy  amatory,  was  cultivated, 
though  not  a  favorite.  Satire  was  conspicuous.  The  Hudihras 
presents  the  best  embodiment,  perhaps,  of  the  true  spirit  of  the 
cavalier, —  witty,  sensual,  disconnected,  bitter,  exaggerated,  and 
radically  false. 

The  literature  of  a  theological  and  practical  cast  was  largely 
Puritan.  Amid  the  classical  coldness  and  the  social  excess,  two 
minds  possessed  the  imaginative  faculty  in  an  eminent  degree, — 
Milton,  who  lingered  from  the  preceding  age,  and  Bunyan,  the 
hero  and  martyr  of  this. 

As  constructive  power  failed,  style  improved,  becoming  more 
strictly  idiomatic,  polished,  and  fluent.  Theory  and  observation 
sprang  forward  with  emulous  energy.  Boyle  disengaged  chem- 
istry from  astrology,  and  Newton  shed  lustre  upon  the  age  by  his 
brilliant  discoveries  in  astronomy.  The  Royal  Society  afforded 
convenient  and  ornamental  shelter  to  the  gathered  fruits  of 
science,  and  gave  an  impulse  to  progress  by  the  spirit  it  excited 
and  diffused. 

The  bent  which  pliiloso])hy  received  from  Bacon,  though  in 
itself  excellent,  was  ])hysical.  In  Hobbes  it  became  declared 
materialism.  He  denied  the  spontaneity  of  mind,  relaxed  the 
obligations  of  morality,  reduced  religion  to  an  affair  of  state,  and 
resolved  right  into  the  assertion  of  selfishness.  The  dissenting 
tendencv  was  rejjresented  by  Cudworth.  Locke  was  peculiarly 
infiuential  in  liis  vi(^\v  of  the  origin  of  knowledge.  The  mind, 
according  to  him,  is  a  slieet  of  white  pa])er;  the  soul  a  blank 
sensorium.     Its  characters,  its  ideas,  its  materials,  are  traceable 


BUNYAN.  45 

directly  or  indirectly  to  the   senses, —  sensible   objects,   or   the 
states  which  sensible  objects  produce. 

On  the  whole,  a  rocking,  revolutionary  age,  an  age  of  actions 
and  reactions.  The  waves  rushed  forward,  broke,  and  rolled 
back;  but  the  great  tide  moved  steadily  on.  That  movement,  in 
general,  was  from  faith  to  scepticism,  from  enthusiasm  to  cyni- 
cism, from  the  imagination  to  the  understanding.  To  the  creators 
succeeded  the  critics.  To  the  impassioned  and  intuitive  minds 
succeeded  the  plodding  thinkers  and  the  clear  logicians.  In 
polite  letters,  Dryden  is  chief  of  the  transition,  the  central  nexus 
between  a  period  of  creativeness  and  a  period  of  preeminent  art. 


BUNYAN. 


Ingenious  dreamer,  in  whose  well-told  tale 

Sweet  fiction  and  sweet  truth  alike  prevail: 

Whose  humorous  vein,  strong  sense,  and  simple  style. 

May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile. — Cowper. 

'I  have  been  vile  myself,  but  have  obtained  mercy." 

Biography. — Born  near  Bedford,  in  1(J28,  the  son  of  a  despised 
tinker;  sent  to  a  free  school  for  the  poor,  where  he  learned  to 
read  and  write;  but,  idle  and  vicious,  lost  in  youth  wliat  he  had 
learned  in  childhood;  was  bred  to  his  father's  trade;  enlisted, 
while  yet  a  boy,  in  the  army  of  the  Parliament;  and  at  nineteen 
with  the  advice  of  friends,  married  a  girl  of  his  own  rank,  both 
so  poor  that  tiicy  had  not  a  spoon  or  a  dish  between  them.  This 
was  the  turning  point.  She  was  a  pious  wife,  and  had  brought 
to  her  husband,  as  her  only  ])orti()n,  two  volumes  bequeathed  by  a 
dying  parent, —  lite  Prtictlce  of  Picttj,  and  The  Plain  Pratt's 
Pathicay  to  Iledren.  Over  these  she  helped  him  to  recover  the 
art  of  reading,  enticed  him  to  remain  at  home;  ])er.';uad('d  him  to 
attend  tlie  Baptist  church,  of  which  she  was  a  member;  and 
l^rought  him  l)V  words  of  afTection  to  reflect  upon  his  evil  ways. 
Over  wild  heath  and  through  haunted  bog  he  wandered  in  the 
usual  gvpsv  life  of  his  oeciijiation,  alone  witli  his  own  thoughts; 
now  sunk  into  monomania  by  the  sense  of  his  unregenerate  con- 
dition and  the  fear  of  hell,  now  ravished  with  the  trances  of  joy, 


46      FIRST  TRANSITION"  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

then  plunging  again  into  'sin.'  Gradually,  not  without  many- 
spiritual  conllicts,  he  was  transformed.  He  was  appointed  dea- 
con, and  presently,  after  solemn  prayer  and  fasting,  l>egan  to 
preach : 

'Though  of  inys-elf,  of  all  the  i^aiiits  the  most  unworthy,  yet  I,  but  with  great  fear 
and  trembling  at  the  sight  of  my  own  weakness,  did  set  upon  the  work,  and  did  accord- 
ing to  my  gift,  and  the  proiwrtion  of  my  faith,  preach  that  blessed  Gospel  thai  God  had 
showed  me  in  the  holy  Word  of  truth;  which,  when  the  country  understood,  they  came 
in  to  hear  the  Word  by  hundreds,  and  that  from  all  parts,  though  upon  sundry  and  divers 
accounts.' 

In  connectmn  with  his  ministerial  labors,  he  began  to  write,  and 

in  1G58  published  his  second  work, — A  Few  ISighs  from  JTell. 

Two  years  later,  being  a  dissenter,  he  was  arrested,  and  committed 

to  prison.      He  went  cheerfully: 

'Verily,  as  I  was  going  forth  of  the  doors,  1  had  much  ado  to  forbear  saying  to  them, 
that  I  carried  the  peace  of  God  along  with  me,  but  I  held  my  peace,  and  blessed  be  the 
Lord,  went  away  to  prison,  with  God's  comfort  in  my  poor  soul.' 

Here  he  passed  the  time  in  making  tagged  laces  for  the  support 
of  his  indigent  family,  in  musing  and  writing  on  heavenly  thenies. 
With  a  library  of  only  two  books, —  the  Bible  and  the  J3ook  o/ 
Martyrs, —  it  was  the  period  of  his  brilliant  authorship.  Toward 
the  end  of  his  confinement,  rigor  was  relaxed.  He  was  allowed 
to  visit  his  family,  and  often  preached  to  a  congregation  under 
the  silent  stars.  Released  in  1672,  he  went  f'ortli  again  to  pro- 
claim the  Gospel  publicly,  extending  his  ministrations  over  the 
whole  region  between  Bedford  and  London,  with  occasional  visits 
to  the  metropolis  itself.  He  died,  of  a  fever  caused  by  exposure, 
in  1G8H,  with  these  last  words  to  the  friends  around  his  bedside: 

'Weep  not  for  nic,  l)ut  for  yourselves.  I  go  to  the  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
who  will,  no  doubt,  through  tlie  mediation  of  His  blessed  Son,  receive  me,  though  a 
sinner,  where  I  hope  we  ere  long  shall  meet  to  sing  the  new  song,  and  remain  everlast- 
ingly happy,  world  without  end.     Amen.' 

W^ritingS. — We  close  our  eyes  to  draw  a  face  from  memory. 
In  sleej),  ilhisions  are  perfect.  Poesy  (|uen('hed  the  vision  of 
Homer  and  of  Milton  before  she  lifted  the  veil  from  their  glori- 
ous spirits.  It  was  in  a  dungeon,  shut  out  from  the  external 
world,  that  liuiivan  had  his  immortal  dream.  There  he  wrote  the 
first  and  greatest  part  of  his  PiUiririCs  Progress, —  a  record  of 
his  experience;  a  record  of  tlie  soid's  struggles,  battle-agonies, 
and  victories,  in  its  stages  from  conversion  to  glory.  Christlnn, 
dwelling  in  the  Gity  of   Destruction,  against  which  a  voice  from 


nUNYAN.  47 

Heaven  has  proclaimed  vengeance,  flees  to  escape  the  consuming 
fire.  JEcu7igelist  finds  him  in  distress,  and  shows  him  the  right 
road  —  through  yonder  wicket-gate,  over  a  wide  plain,  across  a 
desolate  swamp: 

'Now  he  had  nm  fur  from  his  own  door,  but  his  wife  and  children  perceiving  it, 
began  to  cry  after  him  to  return;  but  tlie  man  put  his  fingers  in  liis  ears,  and  ran  on, 
crying,  "Life!  life!  eternal  life:"" 

His  neighbors  jeer  and  threaten.  Some  follow,  in  order  to  dis- 
suade him.  One,  Pliable,  becomes  his  companion,  but  sinks  in 
the  Slough  of  Despond,  and  leaves  him.  He  struggles  bravely 
on,  but  is  met  by  a  treacherous  man,  Worldlij  Wiseman,  who 
turns  him  aside: 

'He  bid  me  with  speed  get  rid  of  my  burden,  and  I  told  him  it  was  ease  I  sought. 
And,  said  I,  I  am  therefore  going  to  yonder  gale,  to  receive  furtlier  direction  how  I  may 
get  to  the  place  of  deliverance.  So  he  said  that  he  would  show  me  a  better  way,  and 
shorter,  not  so  attended  with  difficulties  as  the  way,  sir,  that  you  set  me  iu;  which  way, 
said  he,  will  direct  you  to  a  gentleman's  house  that  lias  skill  to  take  off  these  burdens; 
so  I  believed  him,  and  turned  out  of  that  way  into  this,  if  haply  1  might  be  soon  eased 
of  my  burden.  But  when  I  came  to  this  place,  and  beheld  things  as  they  are,  I  stopped 
for  fear,  as  1  said,  of  danger:  but  I  now  know  not  what  to  do.' 

Re-directed  and  admonished  by  Eva^Kjtlist,  whom  he  again 
meets,  he  reaches  the  Strait  Gate,  where  Interpreter  points  out 
the  Celestial  City  and  instructs  him  by  a  series  of  visible  shows, 
*the  resemblance  of  which  will  stick  by  me  as  long  as  I  live'; 
especially  three, —  tiie  fire  against  the  wall  (the  omnipotence  of 
grace),  the  man  in  the  iron  cage  (the  hopeless  excess  of  sin),  and 
the  treml)ling  sleeper  rising  from  his  dream  (the  vision  of  the 
Day  of  .Tudgment).  He  passes  before  a  cross,  and  his  burden 
falls.  Slowly,  painfully,  he  climbs  the  steep  Hill  of  Ditficulty, 
and  arriv(^s  at  a  great  castle  where  Watc/ifiil,  the  guardian,  gives 
him  in  charge  to  his  daughters,  Piet tj  and  Prudence,  who  warn 
and  arm  him  against  the  foes  that  im{>eril  his  descent  into  the 
A'allev  of  Huniiiiation.  lie  finds  his  way  barred  by  a  demon, 
A  poll  lion,  whom,  ;ifter  a  long  tight,  he  puts  to  flight: 

'III  this  combat  no  ninii  can  iinayrine,  iinless  he  hail  seen  and  heard,  as  I  did,  what 
yellini:  and  hideous  roariui,' .\pollyon  made  all  the  lime  of  the  llirht:  he  s|)ake  like  a 
drairon:  and  on  the  oIIrt  side,  what  siiihs  .ind  groans  Inirst  from  fhristianV  lirarl.  I 
n('\iT  <aw  liiiii  all  the  while  L'ivc  so  inuch  as  fine  pleasant  look  till  he  inTceiviMi  he  h:id 
wiimideil  ApoUyon  with  his  two-eilL'ed  sword:  then,  indeed,  he  did  smile,  and  look  up- 
ward:  1)111  it  w:i-  the  (Ireadfiillest  sight  that  ever  I  saw.' 

Farther  on  the  vallev  (h'epeiis,  the  sluides  thicken,  ever  ainl  anmi 
sulj)hurous   flames   reveal    tlie    hideous    forms   of   dragons,   rhains 


48      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

rattle,  fiends  howl,  and  unseen  monsters  rush  to  and  fro:  it  is  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.     He  enters  with  drawn  sword: 

'I  saw  then  in  my  dream,  so  far  as  this  Valley  reached,  there  was  on  the  right  hand, 
a  very  deep  ditch:  that  ditch  it  is,  into  which  the  blind  have  led  the  blind  in  all  ages,  and 
have  both  there  miserably  i)erished.  Again,  behold,  on  the  left  hand,  there  was  a  very 
dangerous  quag,  into  which,  if  even  a  good  man  falls,  he  finds  no  bottom  for  his  foot  to 
stand  on.  .  .  . 

The  pathway  was  here  also  exceediisg  narrow,  and  therefore  good  Christian  was  the 
more  put  to  it;  for.  when  he  sought,  in  the  dark,  to  shun  the  ditch  on  the  one  hand,  he 
was  ready  to  tip  over  into  llie  mire  on  the  other:  also  when  he  sought  to  escape  the  mire, 
without  great  carefulness  he  would  be  ready  to  fall  into  the  ditch.  Thus  he  went  on,  and 
1  heard  him  here  sigh  bitterly;  for,  besides  the  danger  mentioned  above,  the  i)athway 
was  here  so  dark,  that  ofitimes,  wlien  he  lifted  up  his  foot  to  set  forward,  he  knew  not 
where,  or  upon  what,  he  should  set  it  next. 

About  the  midst  of  the  Valley,  I  perceived  tlie  mouth  of  hell  to  be,  and  it  stood  also 
hard  by  the  way-side:  Now,  thought  Christian,  what  shall  I  do?  And  ever  and  anon  ilie 
flame  and  smoke  would  come  out  in  such  abundance,  with  sparks  and  hideous  noises, 
.  .  .  thai  he  was.  forced  to  put  up  his  sword,  and  betake  himself  to  anotlier  weapon, 
called  .•\ll-prayer:  so  he  cried  in  my  hearing,  O  Lord,  1  beseech  thee  deliver  my  soul! 
Thus  he  went  on  a  great  while,  yet  still  the  (lames  would  be  reaching  towards  him :  also 
he  heard  doleful  voices,  and  rusliings  to  and  fro,  so  that  sometimes  he  thought  he  should 
be  torn  to  pieces,  or  trodden  down  like  mire  in  the  streets.  This  frightful  sight  was 
seen,  and  these  dreadful  noises  were  heard,  by  him  for  several  miles  together." 

Ahead, — 

'The  way  was  all  along  set  so  full  of  snares,  trai)s,  gins,  and  nets  here,  and  so  full  of 
pits,  pitfalls,  deep  holes,  and  shelvings  down  there,  that  had  it  been  dark,  as  it  was  wlun 
he  came  the  first  part  of  the  way,  had  he  had  a  thousand  souls,  Ihey  had  in  reason  been 
cast  away.' 

And  at  the  end  '  lay  blood,  bones,  ashes,  and  mangled  bodies  of 
men,  even  of  iMlfrrinis  that  had  g'one  this  way  formerly.'  He 
passes  it,  continues  straight  on  till  the  towers  of  a  distant  town 
appear;  and  soon  he  is  in  the  midst  of  the  buyers  and  sellers,  tlie 
loungers  and  jugglers,  of  Vanity  Fair.  He  walks  by  with  k)w- 
ered  eyes,  not  wishing  to  take  part  in  the  festivities  and  deceits. 
The  people  beat  him,  imprison  him,  condemn  him  as  a  traitor, 
and  burn  his  companion  Juiit/ifid.  Escaped  from  them,  he  ad- 
vances bv  the  little  hill  of  the  silver  mine,  through  a  meadow  of 
lilies,  along  the  l)ank  of  a  pleasant  river  which  is  bordered  on 
either  side  by  fruit  trees.  Thinking  to  have  easier  going,  he 
takes  a  by-path,  and  falls  into  the  hands  of  (riant  J)exji(iii\  the 
kee])er  of  l)f)ubtii)g  Castle,  the  court-vard  of  which  is  jiaveil  with 
skulls  of  pilgrims.  The  giant  beats  him,  leaves  him  in  a  jioisoii- 
ous  dungeon  without  ff)od,  fiiiallv  gives  him  dagu'crs  and  cords 
and  advises  him  to  suicide.  Tint  ('hristian  siuldeiily  rememix'rs 
a  key  in  liis  bosom,  calle<l  Promise,  which  will  o]ien  any  lock  in 
the  castle.     Once  more  at  liberty,  he  and  Hopeful  (who  joined  him 


BUNYAN.  49 

at  Vanity  Fair)  come  at  last  to  the  Delectable  Mountains,  from 
the  summit  of  which  they  are  shown,  through  a  perspective  glass, 
the  desired  haven.  Thence  the  way  lies  through  the  fogs  and 
briers  of  the  Enclianted  Ground,  with  here  and  there  a  bed  of 
ease  under  an  arbor  of  green.  Beyond  is  the  land  of  Beulah, 
where  flowers  bloom  perpetually,  where  the  songs  of  birds  never 
cease,  and  where  the  sun  never  sets: 

'Here  they  were  within  sight  of  the  city  they  were  going  to;  also  here  met  them 
some  of  the  inhabitants  tliereof:  for  in  tliis  land  the  sliining-ones  commonly  walked, 
because  it  was  upon  the  borders  of  Heaven.  .  .  .  Here  tliey  heard  voices  from  out  of 
the  city,  loud  voices,  saying,  "Say  ye  to  the  daughter  of  Zion,  Behold  thy  salvation 
cometh!  "... 

Now,  as  they  walked  in  this  land,  they  had  more  rejoicing  than  in  parts  more  remote 
from  the  kingdom  to  which  they  were  bound;  and,  drawing  nearer  to  the  city  yet,  they 
had  a  more  perfect  view  thereof:  it  was  built  of  pearls  and  precious  stones;  also  the 
streets  thereof  were  paved  witli  gold:  so  that,  by  reason  of  the  natural  glory  of  the  city, 
and  the  reflection  of  the  sun-beams  upon  it.  Christian  with  desire  fell  sick.  Hopeful  also 
had  a  fit  or  two  of  the  same  disease:  wherefore  here  they  layby  it  a  while  crying  out, 
because  of  their  pangs,  "If  you  see  my  Beloved,  tell  him  that  I  am  sick  of  love."  ' 

But  between  them  and  the  golden  pavements  a  bridgeless  river 
rolls  its  cold,  black  waters: 

'.\t  the  sight,  therefore,  of  this  river,  the  pilgrims  were  much  stunned;  but  the  men 
that  went  with  them  said,  You  must  go  through,  or  j'ou  cannot  come  at  the  gate.  .  .  . 

The  pilgrims  then  (especially  Christian)  began  to  despond  in  their  minds,  and  looked 
this  way  and  that;  but  no  way  could  be  found  by  tliem  by  which  they  might  escape  the 
river.  .  .  . 

Then  they  addressed  themselves  to  the  waters,  and  entering.  Christian  began  to 
sink,  and  crying  out  to  his  good  friend  Hopeful,  he  said,  1  sink  in  deep  waters;  Ihe  bil- 
lows go  over  my  liead,  all  the  waters  go  over  me. 

Then  said  the  other.  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  brother;  I  feel  the  bottom,  and  it  is  good. 
Then  said  Cliristian,  Ah  I  my  friend,  the  sorrow  of  death  hath  compassed  me  about;  I 
shall  not  see  the  land  that  Hows  with  milk  and  luuiey.  And  with  that  a  great  darkness 
and  horror  fell  upon  Cliristian,  so  that  he  could  not  see  before  him.  Also  liere  in  a  great 
measure  he  lost  his  senses,  so  that  he  could  neither  remember  nor  orderly  talk  of  any  of 
those  sweet  refreshments  tliat  he  had  met  with  in  the  way  of  his  pilgrimage." 

Faith  su.stains  tlicni,  and  they  touch  the  further  shore,  divested 
of  their  mortal  garments: 

'They  therefore  went  ui)  heri'  witli  mnch  atrility  and  speed,  though  the  founilation 
upon  whicli  tlie  <'ity  was  fraiueil  w:is  higher  tlian  the  clouds:  they,  therefore,  went  up 
through  the  region  of  the  air,  sweetly  talking  as  they  went,  being  comforted.  becMuse 
they  liad  got  safely  over  tlie  river,  and  had  siirli  glorious  comiianions  to  attend  tliein. 

The  talk  tliey  had  with  the  sliininL:  ones  was  about  the  glory  of  the  place;  who  told 
them  that  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  if  was  ine.\i)ressible.  Tln're.  said  tliev,  i-  "Mount 
/ion,  tlie  lieavenly  .Ieru--aleni,  the  iniiumerable  company  of  auLrel-^,  and  llie  spiiil-^  of  ju-t 
men  made  i)erfect."  You  are  gointr  now,  said  they,  to  the  Paradise  of  (lod,  wlureiti  >  nu 
shall  see  the  tree  of  life,  and  eat  of  tln^  ue\er-fadiiiir  fruits  thereof:  and.  ulnii  you  emne 
there,  you  shall  have  white  rolies  given  you.  and  your  walk  and  talk  ^llaIl  lie  e\ery  day 
with  the  King,  vwn  all  the  days  of  eteriiily.  .  .  .  There  came  al-o  out  at  Ihi-  time  lo 
meet  tlieni  several  of  the  King's  trumpeters,  clothed  in  white  and  shiniuLT  raiment,  who. 


50      FIRST  TKAXSITIOX  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

with  melodious  and  loud  noises,  made  even  the  iieavens  to  echo  with  their  sound.  These 
trumpeters  saluted  Cliristiiiii  and  his  fellow  with  ten  thousand  welcomes  from  the  world, 
and  this  tiny  did  with  shoutin;:  and  sound  of  iniuipet. 

This  done,  they  compassed  them  round  about  on  every  side;  some  went  before, 
some  behind,  and  some  on  the  rii^lit  hand,  some  on  the  left  (as  it  were  to  guard  them 
through  the  upper  regions),  continually  sounding  as  they  went  with  melodious  noise,  in 
notes  on  high;  so  that  the  very  sight  was  to  them  that  could  behold  it,  as  if  Heaven  itself 
was  come  down  to  meet  them.  .  .  .  Now  were  these  two  men,  as  it  were,  in  Heaven,  be- 
fore they  came  at  it:  being  swallowed  up  with  the  sight  of  angels,  and  with  hearing  their 
melodious  notes.  Here  also  they  liad  the  city  itself  in  view,  and  thought  they  heard  all 
the  bells  therein  to  ring,  to  welcome  tlu'm  thereto.  Hut  above  all,  the  warm  and  joyful 
thoughts  that  they  had  about  their  own  dwelling  there  with  such  company,  and  that  for 
ever  and  ever:   Oh;  by  what  tongue  or  pen  can  their  glorious  joy  be  expressed  I  .  .  . 

Now  I  saw  ill  my  dream  that  these  two  men  went  in  at  the  gate;  and  lo,  as  they 
entered,  they  were  transligured;  and  they  had  raiment  put  on  that  shone  like  gold  There 
were  also  that  met  them  with  harps  and  crowns,  and  gave  to  them  the  harps  to  praise 
withal,  and  the  crowns  in  token  of  honour.  Then  I  heard  in  my  dream,  that  all  the  bells 
in  the  city  rang  again  for  joy,  and  that  it  was  said  unto  them,  "Enter  ye  into  the  joy  of 
your  Lord."  I  also  heard  the  nun  themselves,  that  they  sang  wit!)  a  loud  voice,  saying, 
"Blessing,  lionour,  and  glory,  and  power,  be  to  Him  tliat  sitteth  upon  the  throne,  and  to 
the  Lamb  for  ever  and  over." 

Now,  just  as  the  gates  were  opened  to  let  in  the  men,  I  looked  in  after  them,  and 
behold,  tile  city  shone  like  tlie  sun:  tlie  streets  also  were  paved  with  gold,  and  in  them 
walked  many  men  with  crowns  on  their  heads,  palms  in  their  hands,  and  golden  harps  to 
sing  ])raises  withal. 

There  were  also  of  them  that  had  wings,  and  they  answered  one  another  without 
intermission,  saying,  '-Holy,  holy,  holy,  is  the  Lord."'  .Vnd,  after  that,  they  shut  tip  the 
gates:  which,  when  I  had  seen,  1  wished  myself  among  them."  ' 

Style. — Simple,  iiia-emiou.s,  idiomatic.  Ninety-three  per  cent 
of  lii.s  vocal)ulary,  it  is  estimated,  is  Sa.\on.  Revealing,  in  its 
diction,  an  intimate  acquaintance  witli  Scripture,  and,  in  its 
imajrery,  the  fulness  of  supernatural  impressions;  often  })ictur- 
escpie  and  ])()etical,  and  everywhere,  like  a  nursery  tale,  level  to 
the  meanest  capacity.      Tiie  following'  is  representative: 

'  Prayer  is  a  sincere,  sensiltle,  and  an  affectionate  pourinir  out  of  the  soul  to  God.  O 
the  heat,  -itrength,  life,  viL'or.  a)id  (ifffclion,  that  i<  in  right  prayer!  .  .  .  .Mas  1  the  great- 
est part  of  men  make  no  cohseienee  at  all  of  the  duty:  and  as  for  them  that  do,  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  many  of  them  are  very  grc.it  stranL'ers  to  a  sincere,  sensible,  and  affectionate 
Ijouriiii.'  out  of  their  hearts  nr  souls  to  (Jod;  hut  even  cont<;nt  themselves  with  a  little  lip- 
labor  and  bodily  exrrci-c,  inuinlilinL'  over  a  few  iiiia:rinary  i)rayers.  When  the  affi-etinns 
arc  indeed  fiiLrairiMl  in  praver,  then  the  whole  man  is  euiraged:  and  that  in  such  sort,  that 
the  soul  will  spend  it-rlf  to  iiothintr.  as  it  were,  rather  than  it  will  u'o  without  that  srood 
de-^ired,  I'veii  iiniiiiiunion  and  sdlace  with  Christ.' 

This  is  rarclv  ln-autiful : 

'The  doitriii''  if  th.-  (hi<|j.!  i^  likr  the  dew  and  the  small  rain  that  distilleth  upon 
the  tender  ::rass,  v\hereuith  it  ilulli  llourish,  and  is  kept  green.  — />«'//.  .r.rxii,  -'.     Chris- 

i  Parta  /  and  //  relate  the  clc^tial  iiil-riinau'e  of  fliristian's  wife  and  children.  I'arf 
///op,.|w: 

•After  the  two  fonnrr  dn'Min-.  .  .  .  1  dreainerl  another  dream,  and.  behold,  there  a))- 
l)eared  unto  me  a  L'leat  iinilliliide  of  pe(ii)le,  in  several  distinct  coinpimies  and  bands, 
IravelliiiL'  from  the  eilv  i>(  De-tructidii.  the  town  of  ('.•irnalpoljcv.  the  \  illatre  of  Moralitv, 
an<l  from  tin-  re<t  of  the  citie-,  town-,  viHau'es,  and  hamlets,  that  belong  to  the  Valley  of 
l)e-tnietion.' 


BUNYAN.  51 

tlans  are  like  the  several  flowers  in  a  garden,  that  have  upon  each  of  them  the  clew  of 
heaven,  which  being  shaken  with  the  wind,  they  let  fall  their  dew  at  each  other" i^  roots*, 
whereby  they  are  jointly  nourished,  and  become  nourishers  of  one  another.  For  Chris- 
tians to  commune  savourly  of  God's  matters  one  witli  another,  it  is  as  if  they  oiiened  to 
each  other's  nostrils  boxes  of  perfume.' 

H^nk. — In  popular  celebrity,  the  greatest  name  among  the 
theological  writers  of  the  age.  He  has  written  the  noblest 
example  of  allegory  in  English  prose,  as  Spenser  had  done  in 
English  verse.  Other  allegories  please  the  understanding  or 
amuse  the  fancy;  his  alone  touches  the  heart.  Dr.  Johnson,  who 
hated  to  read  a  book  through,  wished  this  one  longer;  and  thous- 
ands have  loved  it  who  were  too  simple  to  discern  the  significance 
of  the  fable. 

The  secret  of  this  unique  success  is  twofold, —  the  subject  and 
the  execution.  Few  have  been  so  lucid;  fewer  still  have  had 
such  power  of  representation.  His  abstractions  are  life-like.  His 
personifications  are  men.  His  imaginary  objects  are  as  clear  and 
complete  as  ordinary  perceptions.  What  he  describes  he  has 
seen  vividly,  and  has  the  dramatic  faculty  of  making  others  see. 

We  go  no  further.  Although,  if  we  apply  the  test  of  (jentrdl 
attraction,  the  PiUjrlm^s  Progre'is  carries  off  the  palm  from  the 
Fairy  Queen  and  (juitc  as  decidedly  from  J^aradi.-^e  Lost,  yet 
between  the  power  which  ])ro(luced  them  and  the  power  which 
produced  it,  there  is  a  great  distinction,  not  unlike  that  which 
exists  between  Jiohin  Jlood  and  Jlamht.  Invention  Buiiyan 
undoubtedly  has  in  a  high  degree;  but  his  adaptation  of  Scrip- 
tural incident  and  language  has  caused  him  to  a])pear  more  crea- 
tive than  he  rcallv  is.  We  do  not  insist  upon  the  inconsistcMicies 
which  it  reciuii'cs  no  careful  scrutiny  to  detect, —  notably  those 
passages  in  which  the  disguise  is  altogether  droi)pe(l,  and  figura- 
tive history  is  interrupted  by  religious  di.squisitions. 

Character. — A  visionary  and  an  artist,  ])0()r  in  ideas,  l)ut 
full  of  images;  ignorant,  impassioned,  inspinMl.  His  distinguish- 
ing- quality  was  an  ingenious,  vivid,  and  sha])ing  imagination, 
besieged  and  al)sorb('d  l)v  the  terrors  of  eternal  fire. 

In  youtli, — 

'.Vniid  M  round  of  \:iin  ddi^'hts  he  lived, 
.And  look  liis  (ill  of  i)lciisiirc;  never  tliouirlit 
Tliiit  life  liiid  hiLjluT  ohjects,  nobler  luins. 
Than  just  to  i;it.  iiiid  drink,  and  |)ass  aw:iy 
Tlie  precious  liours  in  revelry  and  mirth." 


52      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

He  was  so  profane  that  the  profane  were  shocked.  A  wicked 
woman  heard  him,  and  protested: 

'She  was  made  to  tremble  to  hear  me;  and  told  me  farther  that  I  was  the  ungodliest 
fellow  for  swearing  that  she  ever  heard  in  all  her  life;  and  that  I,  by  thus  doing,  was 
enough  to  spoil  all  the  youth  in  the  whole  town.' 

In  the  strong  terms  of  pious  excitement,  he  says: 

'  When  it  pleased  the  Lord  to  begin  to  instruct  my  soul,  lie  found  me  one  of  the  ijlack 
sinners  of  the  world.  He  found  nie  making  a  sport  of  oaths,  and  also  of  lies;  and  many 
a  soul-poisoning  meal  did  I  make  out  of  divers  lusts,  as  drinking,  dancing,  playing  — 
pleasure  with  the  wicked  ones  of  tlie  world.' 

When  only  a  child  —  but  nine  or  ten  years  old — he  had  fearful 
dreams: 

'For  often,  after  I  had  spent  this  and  the  other  day  in  sin.  I  have  in  my  bed  been 
greatly  adlicted,  while  asl<"ep,  with  the  apprehensions  of  devils  and  wicked  spirits,  who 
still,  as  I  then  thought,  labored  to  draw  me  away  with  them,  of  which  I  could  never  be 
rid.' 

In  a  Sunday  pastime,  he  had  thrown  his  ball,  and  Avas  aoout  to 
begin  again,  when  he  heard  a  voice,  '  Wilt  thou  leave  thy  sins 
and  go  to  heaven,  or  have  thy  sins  and  go  to  hell?'  One  of  the 
favorite  sports  was  bell-ringing.  When  he  had  given  it  up,  he 
would  go  into  the  belfry  to  watch  the  ringers: 

'  But  quickly  after,  I  began  to  tliink,  "How  if  one  of  the  bells  sliould  fall?"'  Then  I 
chose  to  stand  under  a  main  beam,  that  lay  overthwart  the  steeple,  from  side  to  side, 
thinking  here  I  miglit  stand  surer  but  then  I  thought  again,  should  the  bell  fall  with  a 
swing,  it  might  first  liil  Iho  wall,  and  then  rebounding  upon  me,  might  kill  me  for  all  this 
beam.  This  made  me  stand  in  tlie  steeple-door:  and  now,  thought  I,  I  am  safe  enough, 
for  if  a  bell  should  tlu'n  fall,  I  can  slip  out  behind  these  thick  walls,  and  so  be  preserved 
notwithstanding.  So  after  this  I  would  yet  go  to  see  them  ring,  but  would  not  go  any 
farther  than  the  steeple-door:  but  Ilien  it  came  into  my  bead,  '-How  if  the  steeple  itself 
should  fall?"  .And  this  thought  (it  may.  for  aiigbt  I  know,  when  I  stood  and  looked  on) 
did  continually  so  shake  my  mind  that  I  durst  not  stand  :>t  the  steeple-door  any  longer, 
but  was  forced  to  lice,  for  fear  the  steei)le  sliould  fall  upon  my  head." 

Once  he  saw  th<>  heavens  on  fire.  Again,  in  the  midst  of  a  ban- 
quet, the  earth  opened,  and  tossed  up  figures  of  men  in  bloody 
flames,  falling  back  with  .shrieks  and  execrations,  whilst  inter- 
mingled devils  laughed;  and  just  as  he  was  himself  sinking,  one 
in  shining  raiment  |)luck(Ml  him  from  the  circling  flame.  From 
the  City  of  Destruction,  tlircnigh  the  Slougli  of  Despond  and  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow,  he  press(>s  to  the  fruitful  and  happy 
region  of  Beulah. 

•.\b()Mt  this  time,  the  slate  and  lia|)pinc><  of  llicse  poor  people  at  Hedford  was  thus, 
in  a  dream  or  vision,  rcprcsciit<'(l  to  nie.  I  saw  as  if  they  were  set  on  the  sunny  side  of 
some  hiirli  mountain.  Ihirc  rcfrcsliiii','  theuisclvcs  with  the  pleasant  l)eanis  of  the  sun, 
while  I  was  slijvcriiiL'  and  sliriiikiuL'  in  the  cold  atllictcd  with  frost,  snow,  and  dark 
clouds.     Methought  al-o,  betwixt  iiic  and  them,  1  s.iw  a  wall  that  did  coinijass  about  tliis 


BUNYAN.  53 

mountain;  now  through  this  wall  my  soul  did  greatly  desire  to  pass,  concluding  that  if  I 
could  I  would  go  even  into  the  very  midst  of  them,  and  there  also  comfort  myself  with 
the  heat  of  their  sun. 

About  this  wall  I  thought  myself  to  go  again  and  again,  still  prying,  us  I  went,  to  se« 
if  1  could  find  some  way  or  [jussage,  l)y  which  I  might  enter  therein;  but  none  could  I 
find  for  some  time.  At  the  last,  1  saw,  as  it  were,  a  narrow  gap,  like  a  doorway,  in  the 
wall,  through  which  I  attempted  to  pass;  l)ut  the  passage  being  very  strait  and  narrow, 
I  made  many  efforts  to  get  in,  but  all  in  vain,  even  until  I  vas  well  nigh  (piite  beat  out, 
by  striving  lo  get  in;  at  last,  with  strong  striving,  methought  1  at  lirst  did  get  in  my  head, 
and  after  that,  by  a  sidling  striving,  my  shoulders,  and  my  wliole  body;  then  1  was 
exceeding  glad,  and  went  and  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  so  was  comforted  with 
the  light  and  heat  of  their  sun.' 

We  see  now  how  this  man  could  write  the  Pllf/rlni's  Prof/rts.<; 
how  he  should  be  so  solicitous  to  win  souls  ;  what  would  be  his 
pulpit  themes, —  death,  judginetit,  eternity,  the  mission  and  suf- 
ferings of  Christ;  why,  though  with  trembliriir,  he  shoidd  preach 
with  power.  There  could  be  nothing  of  modern  languor  in  his 
exhortations.  His  heart  was  in  them;  he  was  possessed  by  them. 
Hell  yawned  before  him;  and  the  burden  of  his  thought  was  to 
snatch  from  destruction  the  perishing  siruiers  that  slumbered,  as 
he  had  slept,  on  its  brink.  Wrath  and  salvation  are  thus  the 
essential  facts, —  all  else  is  but  shadowy  and  dim.  This  convic- 
tion levels  inequalities,  renders  the  inflamed  brain  eloquent  and 
efTective.  Charles  H  is  said  to  have  asked  Dr.  Owen  how  a  man 
of  his  erudition  could  'sit  to  hear  a  tinker  prate.'  'May  it  please 
your  Majesty,'  was  the  reply,  'could  I  possess  that  tinker's  abili- 
ties, I  would  gladly  give  in  e.vchange  all  my  learning.' 

InJ9.ueilCe. — He  was  universally  esteemed  ffir  the  beauty  of 
his  character  and  the  liberality  of  his  views,  while  the  fame  of 
his  sufTerings  and  tlie  power  of  his  discourse  drew  midtitudes  to 
hear  him  preach.  In  London,  let  but  a  day's  notice  be  gi\cn, 
and  the  liouse  would  not. contain  the  half.      Says  an  eye-witness: 

'1  have  seen,  by  my  cDtiiputiition.  about  twelve  hundred  i)er>oiis  to  hear  liiiii  ;it  a 
morniiiLT  Iccnire,  on  a  workini:  day  in  dark  workinir  lime.  1  alM)  coinpiited  about  llirce 
thous.md  that  lame  to  bear  liim  iit  a  town's  eiul  iiuvtini.'  lioii^c:  so  tlial  h.ilf  were  fain  to 
go  l)a(k  ML'aiii  for  want  of  room:  and  tlicrc  himself  was  fain  at  a  l)a(k  door  to  !»■  piillcd 
almosi  over  people  to  L'ct  11])  stairs  to  the  pulpit." 

iiut  he  has  a  larger  audience  now.  li  is  l)v  the  Plhjr'iii  tliiit 
he  affects  the  minds  and  hearts  of  survivors,  more  and  iiioi-e 
widely  as  generations  pass  away.  The  historian  will  value  it  as 
an  efT'eet, —  a  record,  in  part,  of  contemponirv  iiist  it  tit  ions  and 
ideas,  and  an  expression  of  tiic  new  imaginative  force  that  had 
been   i>-iven   to   common  Englisii   life   bv   the   studv   of   the  Bible. 


54      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

The  poople  will  treasure  it  for  its  artless  story  of  Ciiristian  expe- 
rience,—  for  its  perpetual  narrative  of  their  personal  recollections. 
'More  than  a  hundred  thousand  copies  circulated  in  England  and 
America  during  his  life.  Since  his  death,  it  has  been  rendered 
into  every  language  of  Europe,  and  into  more  other  languages 
than  any  book  save  the  Scriptures.  The  Religious  Tract  Society 
alone  printed  it  in  thirty  different  tongues.  Seven  times,  at  least, 
it  has  been  turned  into  verse.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  by 
some  alterations  and  omissions,  it  was  adapted  to  the  creed  of 
the  Roman  Church. 

Did  never  monarch  sit  upon  a  throne  so  roval  ;  was  never 
})olitical  empire  so  vast  and  so  enduring.  Wherever  thought 
finds  exi)ression  or  there  are  hearts  to  be  impressed,  this  tinker 
of  Bedford  will  shape  character  and  destiny  when  the  chiselled 
lines  of  the  granite  have  crumbled,  and  the  headstone  shall  claim 
kindred  with  the  dust  it  connnemorates.  '/A-,  heimj  dead,  yet 
speaketh.'' 


D  R  V  D  E  N . 


The  only  qtialitio^  I  can  find  in  Dryilen,  that  are  cssrcntially  poetical,  ai-e  a  certain 
ardour  and  impetiiosily  of  mind  with  an  excellent  ear.  .  .  .  There  is  not  a  swingle  image 
from  nature  in  tlic  whole  of  his  works. —  Wordgivorlh. 

Biography. — Born  in  the  county  of  Northampton,  in  1031, 
of  good  family;  studied  in  Westminster  School,  and  afterwards 
sjient  seven  years  at  Cambridge;  became  secretary  to  a  near 
relative,  a  member  of  tlie  Upper  House;  turned  Royalist,  married 
an  earl's  daughter,  and  enjoyed  the  king's  patronage;  succeeded 
Davenant  as  Poet  Laurc^ate,  and  Howell  as  Historiographer,  with 
a  yearly  salary  of  two  hundred  ]")Ounds;  declared  himself  a  Catho- 
lic, lost  his  appointment  at  the  Revolution,  and  for  twelve  years, 
})urden(>d  with  a  family,  earned  his  l)r(>ad  by  his  pen;  long  aniict- 
ed  with  gout,  then  with  ervsi])elas,  insulted  bv  pul)lishers  whose 
hireling  lie  was,  and  ])ersecuted  by  enemies;  died  in  1  TOO,  of  a 
neglected  inflammation  in  the  foot,  and  was  interred  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  between  tlie  toiiil)s  of  Chaucer  and  of  Cowlev. 

Writings.^ Drvdeii    liega/i    in    fustian    and   enormity.      The 


DKYDEN.  55 

subject  was  Lord  Hastings,  who  died  of  small-pox  at  the  age  of 
nineteen: 

'His  body  was  an  orb,  his  sublime  soul 
Did  move  on  virtue's  and  on  learnini,'"s  pole." 

The  pustules  are  compared  to  'rose-buds  thick  in  the  lilv  skin 
about';  and, — 

'Each  little  pimple  had  a  tear  in  it 
To  wail  the  fault  its  rising  did  commit.' 

But  he  has  not  yet  done  his  worst: 

'No  comet  need  foretell  his  change  drew  on 
Whose  corpse  might  seem  a  constellation.' 

Such  excesses  announce  a  literary  revolution.  Greedy  of  glorv 
and  pressed  for  money,  he  pandered  to  the  tastes  of  a  debauclied 
and  frivolous  audience  —  the  world  of  courtiers  and  the  idle,  who 
wanted  startling  scenes,  infamous  events,  forced  sentiments, 
splendid  decorations.  'I  confess,'  he  says,  'my  chief  endeavors 
are  to  delight  the  age  in  which  I  live.  If  the  humour  of  this  be 
for  low  comedy,  small  accidents,  and  raillery,  I  will  force  \\\\ 
genius  to  obey  it.'  Accordingly,  as  lie  writes  by  calculation,  he 
is  only  capable  of  discussions.  Of  the  appropriate  excellence  of 
the  drama  —  the  j)ower  of  exhibiting  real  human  beings,  he  is 
utterly  destitute.  Hfis  comedies  are  as  false  to  nature  as  they 
are  offensive  to  morality.  His  tragedies,  without  depth  of  feel- 
ing or  consistency  of  plot,  strive  towards  superhuman  ideals,  and 
attain  to  boml:)ast. 

The  Conquest  of  Grermdd  (1G72)  owes  its  celebrity  to  its  ex- 
travagance. The  Spaiiis/i  F'rlar  (1082)  is  less  exaggerated,  but 
rarelv  impresses  sympathy,  and  never  commands  tears.  S((h(s- 
tirin  (1000),  though  rejecting  more  of  the  French  alloy,  is  yet 
grandiose  —  more  noisy  than  signiiicant.  Lacking  the  art  of 
dramatic  truth,  he  sought  a  substitute  for  illusion  sometimes  in 
wit,  more  frequently  in  disguis(>s,  intrigues,  sur])rising  disclosures, 
smooth  versification,  and  declamatory  magnificence.  Courtly 
nerves  could  best  be  stirred  by  shocks,  profanity,  ol)sc(Miiti('S, 
and  barbarities  —  bv  heroines  who  were  courtesans,  imlcceiit, 
violent,  reckless;  and  by  heroes  who  were  drunken  savages,  or 
monstrous  chimeras,  resembling  nothing  in  heaven  above  or  in 
the  earth  beneath. 

But  tliough  bad  as  wholes,  his  plays  —  n(>arly  thirty  in  number 
—  contain  passages  which  only  the  great  masters  liuve  surpassed, 


56      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

and  which  no  subsequent  writer  for  the  stage  has  equalled.  Even 
in  rhyme,  which  so  often  forced  him  to  a  platitude,  and  which  he 
so  reluctantly  abandoned,  he  is  not  seldom  the  genuine  poet,  a 
musician  and  a  painter.     For  example: 

'No;  like  his  better  Fortune  I'll  appear, 
With  open  arms,  loose  veil,  and  flowing  hair. 
Just  Jltjing  forward  from  her  rolling  sphere.' ' 

And  this  happy  comparison,  which  is  surely  an  '  image  from 
nature': 

'As  callow  birds, 
Whose  mother's  killed  in  seeking  of  the  prey. 
Cry  in  their  nest  and  think  her  long  away. 
And,  at  each  leaf  that  stirs,  each  blast  of  wind. 
Gape  for  the  food  which  they  must  never  find."- 

Or  the  following,  which  is  vigorous  and  striking: 

'Her  rage  was  love,  and  its  tempestuous  flame, 
Like  lightning,  showed  the  heaven  from  whence  it  came." ' 

And  these  verses,  which  read  like  maxims,  expressed  in  the  finest 
manner  of  the  new  school.  They  show  a  reasoner,  accustomed  to 
discriminate  his  ideas: 

'When  T  consider  life,  "tis  all  a  cheat; 
Yet,  fooled  wtth  hope,  men  favour  the  deceit. 
Trust  on,  and  think  to-morrow  will  repay. 
To-morrow's  falser  than  tlie  former  day; 
Lies  worse;  and  while  it  says,  "We  shall  be  blest 
With  some  new  joys,"  cuts  off  what  we  possessed. 
Strange  cozenage!     None  would  live  past  years  again, 
Yet  all  hope  pleasure  in  what  yet  remain; 
And  from  the  dregs  of  life  think  to  receive 
Wliat  the  lifst  sprightly  running  could  not  give. 
I'm  tired  of  waiting  for  this  cheniic  gold. 
Which  fools  ns  young,  and  beggars  us  when  old. 
'Tis  not  for  nothing  that  we  life  pursue; 
It  pays  our  liopes  with  something  still  that's  new.'* 

But  Dryden,  as  he  himself  tells  us, — 

'Grew  weary  of  his  long-loved  mistress  Rhyme; 
Passion's  loo  fierce  to  be  in  fetters  bound. 
And  Nature  flies  him  like  enchanted  ground." 

No  experiment  could  be  more  decisive;  for,  though  he  was  the 
best  writer  of  the  heroic  couplet  in  our  language,  yet  the  plays 
which,  from   their  first   appearance,  have   been  considered   finest, 

^Conquest  of  (iranadn. 

''Indian  Ernjieror.    Wordsworth   himself  never  wrote  anvtliing  more   tenderly  pa- 
thetic. 

^Maiden  Queen.  ^Aurungzebe. 


DRYDEN. 


57 


are  in  blank.     Here  his  diction  gets  wings.     The  following  alone 
would  vindicate  his  claim  as  a  poet: 

'  Something  like 
That  voice,  methinks  1  should  have  somewhere  heard; 
But  floods  of  woe  have  hurried  it  far  off 
Beyond  my  ken  of  soul.' ' 

What  image  could  be  more  delicately  exquisite  than  this?  — 

'I  feel  death  rising  higher  still  and  higher, 
Within  my  bosom;   every  breath  1  fetch 
Shuts  up  my  life  within  a  shorter  compass. 
And,  like  the  vanishing  sound  of  bells,  grows  less 
And  less  each  pulse,  till  it  be  lost  in  air."' 

And  this: 

•A  change  so  swift  what  heart  did  ever  feel: 
It  rushed  upon  me  like  a  mighty  stream, 
And  bore  me  in  a  moment  far  from  shore. 
I've  loved  away  myself;   in  one  short  honr 
Already  am  I  gone  an  age  of  passion. 
Was  it  his  youth,  his  valour,  or  success  ? 
These  might,  perhaps,  be  found  in  other  men. 
'Twas  that  respect,  that  awful  homage  paid  me; 
That  fearful  love  which  trembled  in  his  eyes, 
And  with  a  silent  earthquake  shook  his  soul. 
But  wlu'u  he  spoke,  what  tender  words  he  said  I 
So  softly  that  like  flakes  of  feathered  snow. 
They  melted  as  they  fell."' 

The  following  is  nobly  wrouglit: 

^Berenice.    Now  death  draws  near;   a  strange  perplexity 
Creeps  coldly  on  me,  like  a  fear  to  die; 
Courage  uncertain  dangers  may  abate, 
But  who  can  bear  the  approach  of  certain  fate? 
S(.  Catherine.    The  wisest  and  the  l)est  some  fear  may  show, 
And  wish  to  stay,  though  they  resolve  to  go. 
Berenice.     As  some  faint  pilgrim,  standing  on  the  shore. 
First  views  the  torrent  he  would  venture  o'er. 
And  then  his  1nn  upon  the  farther  ground. 
Loath  to  wade  ttirougti,  and  loather  to  go  round: 
Then  dipping  in  his  staff,  does  trial  make 
How  deep  it  is,  and,  sighing,  pulls  it  l)ack ; 
Sonietiinos,  resolved  to  fetch  his  leap;    and  then 
Huns  to  the  bank,  but  stops  short  again. 
So  I  at  once 

Both  heavenly  faith  .uul  human  fear  obey: 
And  feel  before  nie  in  an  unknown  way. 
For  this  blest  voyage  I  with  joy  prepare. 
Yet  am  ashamed  to  be  a  stranger  there.'* 

Perhaps  the  best  of  his  dramatic  {)ieces  is  the  tragedy  of  All 
For  Love  —  the  only  one,  lie  informs  lis,  written  to  please  him- 
self. It  is  in  this  that  he  recovers  most  of  the  old  naturalness 
and  energy.      In  the  preface  he  says: 


^Sebastian. 


''Rival  Ladies. 


'Spanish  Friar. 


*  Hoy  III  Miirtijr. 


58      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

'In  my  style  I  have  professed  to  imitate  the  divine  Shaliospeare ;  which  that  I  might 
perform  more  freely,  I  have  disincumbered  myf^elf  from  rhyme.  .  .  .  Yet,  I  hope,  I  may 
affirm,  and  without  vanity,  that,  by  imitating  him,  I  have  excelled  myself  thronghont  the 
play;  and  particularly,  that  I  prefer  the  scene  betwixt  Antony  and  Ventidius  in  the  first 
act,  to  anything  which  I  have  written  In  this  kind.' 

Accordingly,  it  is  not  difficult  to  find  parts  that  are  Shake- 
spearean.    For  instance: 

'  Gone  so  soon  '. 
Is  Death  no  more  ?    He  used  him  carelessly. 
With  a  familiar  kindness:   ere  he  knocked. 
Ran  to  the  door  and  look  him  in  his  arms, 
As  who  sliould  say,  "You"re  welcome  at  all  hours, 
A  friend  need  give  no  warning."'' 

These  words  of  Antony  are  at  once  noble  and  natural: 

'For  I  am  now  so  sunk  from  what  I  was. 
Thou  ftnd'st  mo  at  my  lowest  water-mark. 
The  rivers  tlial  ran  in  and  raised  my  fortunes 
Are  all  dried  up,  or  take  another  course: 
What  I  have  left  is  from  my  native  spring; 
Tve  a  heart  still  that  swells  in  scorn  of  Fate, 
And  lifts  me  to  my  banks.' 

Seeing  him  cast  down,  the  veteran  Ventidius,  who  loves  his 
general,  weeps: 

*Vent.     Look,  emperor;  this  is  no  common  dew; 

I  have  not  wept  this  forty  years;  but  now 

Mi' mother  comes  afresli  into  my  eyes; 

I  cannot  help  her  softness. 
An/.    By  heaven,  he  weeps!  poor,  good  old  man,  he  weeps! 

Tlie  big  round  drops  course  one  another  down 

The  furrows  of  his  checks.     Stop  them,  Ventidius, 

Or  I  sliall  blush  to  death:  they  set  my  shame, 

Tliat  caused  them,  full   before  me. 
Veiif.     I'll  do  my  best. 
AnI.     Sure  tliere's  contagion  in  the  tears  of  friends; 

See,  I  have  caught  it  too.     Believe  me,  'tis  not 

For  my  own  griefs,  but  thine." 

Octavia,  come  to  reclaim  her  husband,  brings  Antony  a  pardon, 
and  is  accused  of  basely  begging  it.  She  answers  in  a  style 
worthy  of  a  lofty  soul: 

'  Poorly  and  basely  I  could  never  tie;.'. 
Nor  could  my  brother  grant.  .  .  . 

My  hard  fortune 
Subjects  me  still  to  your  unkind  mistakes. 
But  the  conditions  I  luivc  brought  are  such. 
You  need  not  l)lush  to  take:  I  love  your  honour, 
Because  'tis  mine:  it  never  shall  be  said, 
Octavia's  huslinnd  was  her  brother's  slave. 
Sir,  you  are  free:  free,  even  from  her  you  loath: 
For  though  my  brother  bargains  for  your  love. 
Makes  me  the  price  and  cement  of  your  peace, 


DRYDEN.  59 

1  have  a  soul  like  yours;  I  cannot  take 

Your   love  as  alms,  nor  beg  what  I  deserve. 

ril  tell  my  brother  we  are  reconciled; 

He  sliall  draw  back  his  troops,  and  you  shall  march 

To  rule  the  east:  I  may  be  dropl  at  Athens; 

No  matter  where.    I  never  will  complain. 

But  only  keep  the  barren  name  of  wife, 

And  rid  you  of  the  trouble.' 

The  drama  was  not  Dryden's  true  domain.  He  was  too  much 
of  a  dialectician  and  a  schoolmaster.  His  muse  was  happier  in 
the  exercise  of  the  critical  faculty, —  in  methodical  discussion, 
well-delivered  retort,  eloquence  and  satire.  It  is  therefore  as  a 
satirist  and  a  pleader  that  he  is  best  known.  He  gives  his  own 
receipt  for  the  first: 

'How  easy  it  is  to  call  rogue  and  villain,  and  that  wittily  1  but  how  hard  to  make  a 
man  appear  a  fool,  a  blockhead,  or  a  knave,  without  using  any  of  those  opprobrious 
terms!  .  .  .  This  is  the  mystery  of  that  noble  trade.  .  .  .  Neither  is  it  true  that  this 
fineness  of  raillery  is  offensive:  a  witty  man  is  tickled  while  he  is  hurt  in  this  manner, 
and  a  fool  feels  it  not.  .  .  .  There  is  a  vast  difference  between  the  slovenly  butchering  of 
a  man  and  the  fineness  of  a  stroke  that  separates  the  head  from  the  body,  and  leaves  it 
standing  in  its  place.' 

When  he  entered  into  the  strife  of  political  parties,  he  wrote 
Absalom  and  Achitophel  against  the  Wliigs.  Under  these 
names  he  describes  the  pliant  and  popular  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
eldest-born  of  Charles  H,  and  the  treacherous  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury, who  stirs  up  the  son  against  the  father.  The  latter,  '  the 
false  Achitophel'  is  the  hero  of  the  poem: 

'A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst: 

For  close  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit. 

Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit. 

Restless,  unfl.xed  in  princii)le  and  place. 

In  power  uiipleased,  impatient  of  disgrace: 

A  fiery  soul,  which,  workini:  out  its  way. 

Fretted  the  i)igmy  body  to  decay. 

And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay.  .  .  . 

In  friend^;llip  false,  iiM|)lM(al)le  in  hate; 

Kexilvcd  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state." 

Never  was  portrait  of  ]kmi  sharper  than  this  of  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham: 

'A  man  so  various  tliat   lie  seemed  to  he 
Not  one,  liiit  .'ill   Miaukind's  epitome : 
SlitT  in  (ipininiis,  always  in  tlie  wroiiL', 
Was  evcrytliiim'  by  starts  and  iiolliiiiLr  long; 
I'lit.  ill   the  course  of  one  revolviim  niooii, 
W:is  iheinist,   fiddler,   statesman,  and   hulToon: 
Then  nil  for  wonieii,  paiiitiiii:.  rliytniiii.',  drinkinsr, 
■  Kcsidcs  ten  tliousaiid  freaks  tliat  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  luadinan,  who  could  every  hour  employ 


60      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy! 
Railing  nnd  praising  were  his  nsnal  themes, 
And  both,  to  shew  his  judgment,  in  extremes: 
So  over-violent,  or  over-civil. 
That  every  man  with  him  was  god  or  devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art; 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  Imt  desert: 
Beggared  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late. 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate.' 

Poignancy  atones  for  its  severity,  while  discretion  renders  it 
more  cutting.  If  he  falls  into  virulent  ribaldry-,  it  is  less  the 
fault  of  the  man  than  of  the  age,  which  spared  no  invective  how- 
ever libellous,  and  no  allusion  however  coarse.  His  coarsest 
satire  is  levelled  against  attacks  which  were  themselves  brutal  ; 
as  in  the  case  of  Shadwell,  who  is  represented,  in  Mac  Flecknoe, 
as  heir  to  the  throne  of  stupidity.  Flecknoe,'  the  king  of  non- 
sense, deliberating  on  the  choice  of  a  worthy  successor,  cries: 

"Tis  resolved,  for  Nature  jjleads  that  he 
Should  only  rule  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears, 
Mature  in  dulness  from  his  lender  years; 
Shadwell  alone  of  all  my  sons  is  he 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 
The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  i)retonce. 
But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 

Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall,  • 

Strike  through  and  make  a  lucid  interval; 
But  Shadwi'll's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray; 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 
Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  tills  the  eye. 
And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty.' 

When  he  became  a  convert  to  Romanism,  he  wrote  T/w  irhxl 
and  the  Pantlifir  in  defence  of  his  new  creed.  Written  in  the 
hey-day  of  exultation,  in  the  interest  of  what  he  dreamed  to  be 
the  winning  side,  his  argumentative  talents  nowhere  appear  to 
so  great  advantage.  The  first  lines,  descriptive  of  the  Romish 
Church,  are  among  the  most  musical  in  the  compass  of  poetry: 

'A  milk-white  hind,  immortal  and  nnchanged, 
I"(m1  (in  the  lawns,  and  in  the  forest  ranged; 
Without  unspotted,  innocent  within. 
She  feared  no  danger,  for  she  knew  no  sin.' 

All  the  heretical  s<'cts,  as  beasts  of  prey,  worry  her.     The  English 
Church  is  — 

'The  Panther,  sure  the  noblest,  ne.xt  the  hind. 
And  fairest  creature  of  the  si)otte(l  kind; 
Oh,  could  her  inborn  stains  be  washed  away. 
She  were  too  good  to  be  a  beast  of  prey!" 

'A  scribbler  wIkj  died  in  11)78.    Mac,  the  Celtic  for  son. 


DKYDEN.  61 

Then  he  introduces  the  bloody  Bear,  an  Independent ;  the  quak- 
ing Hare,  for  the  Quakers;  then  the  bristled  Baptist  Boar.  The 
reader  can  imagine  the  bitterness  which  envenoms  the  controversy. 
Having  no  personal  philosophy  to  develop,  Dry  den  was  soon 
reduced  to  the  clothing  of  foreign  ideas.  He  translated  Persius, 
Ovid,  Juvenal,  Lucretius,  Virgil,  and  Homer;  but  he  could  not  — 
perhaps  no  one  can  —  reproduce  their  spirit.  The  dawn  of  credu- 
lous thought  can  scarcely  reappear  in  the  harsh  light  of  a  learned 
and  manly  age.  His  version  of  the  JEneid,  was  long  considered 
his  highest  glory.  The  nation  seemed  interested  in  the  event. 
One  gave  him  the  different  editions,  another  supplied  him  with 
notes,  Addison  furnished  him  with  the  arguments  of  the  several 
books,  great  lords  vied  with  one  another  in  offering  him  hospital- 
ity, and,  notwithstanding  the  inherent  difficulties  of  the  subject, 
he  produced,  says  Pope,  'the  most  noble  and  spirited  translation 
that  I  know  in  any  language.'  He  also  modernized  several  tales 
of  the  long-neglected  Chaucer.  But,  as  he  worked  under  con- 
tract, haste  availed  only  to  dilute,  and  the  childlike  simplicity  of 
the  original  is  smothered  in  verbiage.      Thus: 

'The  busy  larke,  iiu'sstigcr  of  day, 
Siiliiteth  ill  luT  soiii;  tlie  niorwe  ^ray; 
And  fyry  Phcliiis  risotli  u])  so  bright 
Tliat  al  the  orient  laugheth  of  the  light.' 

How  artless,  yet  how  expressive  !  Now  compare  the  moderniza- 
tion, which  loses  at  once  the  freshness  of  idea  and  the  felicity  of 
phrase: 

'The  morning  hirlv,  tin-  messenger  of  day, 
Saluted  in  her  song  Ilit.'  inorning  gray; 
And  soon  the  sun  arose  with  beams  so  bright 
That  all  the  horizon  lauglied  to  see  the  joyous  sight." ' 

He  is  too  reOectivo  and  stringent  for  the  delicacies  of  his  master; 
too  cold  and  solid  for  his  self-abandoning  tenderness  and  his 
graceful  gossip. 

Though  he  neviM"  wrote  cxttMisivc^ly  in  prose,  liis  prefaces  and 
dedications,  which,  to  increase  tli(Mr  value,  usher  in  each  of  liis 
])oems  and  plavs,  liav(>  made  him  famous  as  a  critic.  Most  of  his 
criticism  relates  to  the  drama,  with  wliicli  he  was  very  convtM-sant. 
To  aiford  a  glimpse  of  his  exact  and  siin])li>  niaiuier,  as  well  as  of 
the  spirit  which  he  carried  into  art,  we  bri(>lly  (|Uote  fiom  the 
earliest  statenuMit  of   his   critical  system.      It  will  l)e  secMi  that  he 

^Fables,  eoiisisting  of  stories  from  Cliaucer  and  I{occ:u'cio. 


62      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

was  more  excellent  in  theory  than  he  has  proved  in   practice, 

where  he  alternately  ventures  and  restrains   himself,  pushed  in 

one  direction  b}'^  his  English  bias  and  drawn  in  the  other  by  his 

French  rules: 

'The  bt-auties  of  the  French  poegy  are  the  beauties  of  a  statue,  but  not  of  a  man, 
because  not  aniniuted  with  the  soul  of  I'oesy,  which  is  imitation  of  humour  and  passions. 
...  lie  who  will  look  upon  their  plays  wliich  have  been  written  till  these  last  ten  years, 
or  thereabouts,  will  And  it  an  hard  matter  to  pick  out  two  or  three  passable  humours 
amongst  them.  Corneille  himself,  their  arch-poet,  what  has  he  produced  except  the 
Liar f  :ind  you  know  how  it  was  cried  up  in  France;  but  when  it  came  upon  the  English 
stage,  though  well  translated,  .  .  .  the  most  favourable  to  it  would  not  put  it  in  compe- 
tition with  many  of  Fletcher's  or  Ben  Jonson's.  .  .  .  Their  verses  are  to  me  the  coldest 
I  have  ever  read,  .  .  .  their  speeches  being  so  many  declamations.  When  the  French 
stage  came  to  be  reformed  by  Cardinal  Richelieu,  those  long  harangues  were  introduced, 
to  comply  with  the  gravity  of  a  churchman.  Look  upon  the  C'inna  and  the  Pompey; 
they  are  not  so  properly  to  be  called  plays  as  long  discourses  of  reasons  of  state;  and 
Polyeucle,  in  matters  of  religion  is  as  solemn  as  the  long  stops  upon  our  organs.  Since 
that  time  it  is  grown  into  a  custom,  and  their  actors  sjjcak  hy  the  hour-glass,  like  our 
parsons.  ...  I  deny  not  but  this  may  suit  well  enough  with  the  French;  for  as  we,  wh» 
are  a  more  sullen  people,  come  to  be  diverted  at  our  plays,  so  they,  who  are  of  an  airy 
and  gay  temper,  come  thither  to  make  themselves  more  serious."  * 

He  who  began  in  empty  mouthing,  and  who  had  gradually 
acquired  the  energy  of  satire,  ended  by  acquiring  the  rapture  of 
the  lyric.  Amidst  the  infirmities  of  age  and  the  greatest  sadness, 
he  wrote  the  brilliant  ode  of  Alexander'' s  Fedst,  in  honor  of  St. 
Cecilia's  day.  The  hero  is  on  his  throne,  his  valiant  captains 
before  him,  the  lovely  Thais  V)y  his  side.  Timotheus,  placed  on 
high,  sings: 

'Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes: 
Sound  tlie  trumpets,  beat  the  drums; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face: 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;   he  comes,  he  comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus"  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  jjleasure; 
Kicli  llie  treasui-e, 
Sweet   the  |)leasure, 
Swccl  is  pleasure  after  ])ain.' 

Moved  l)y  the  stirring  sounds,  tlic  inoiiarcli  fights  his  battles  over, 
iriadness  rises,  he  defies  heaven  and  earth.  A  sad  air  de])resses 
liini,  then  a  tender  one  dissolves  him  in  sighs,  and  he  sinks  upon 
tiie  breast  f)f  the  lair.      Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 

'.\  louder  yet,  ijiid  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  hands  of  r^leep  asunder, 

^An  Essay  of  iJramatic  Poe^y. 


DRYDEK.  63 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 

Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head, 

As  awaked  from  the  dead. 

And,  amazed,  he  stares  around. 

"Revenge,  revenge  :  "  Timotheus  cries; 

"See  the  Furies  arise; 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 

And  the  sparkles  that  Hash  from  their  eyes  I 

Behold  a  ghastly  band. 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain. 

And  unburied  remain  , 

Inglorious  on  the  plain: 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew. 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes. 

And  glittering  temi)les  of  their  hostile  gods." 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy: 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way. 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy.' 

So  did  the  bard  realize  the  saying  of  his  own  Sebastian, — 

'A  setting  sun 
Should  leave  a  track  of  glory  in  the  skies.' 

Style. — Ilaniionious,  rapid,  and  vehement,  pointed  and  con- 
densed, with  — 

'The  varying  verse,  the  full-resounding  line, 
The  long  majestic  march,  and  energy  divine." 

Symmetrical  and  j^reeise,  as  of  one  who  studied  rather  than  felt; 
yet  uneven,  as  of  one  who  was  negligent  of  parts  because  confi- 
dent that  the  good  would  overbalance  the  bad.  In  })rose,  airy 
and  animated,  easy  witliout  being  feeble,  and  careless  without 
being  harsh;  having  that  conversational  elasticity  which  conuvs 
of  familiarity  with  the  drawing-room  —  companionship  with  mtMi 
and  women  of  tlu^  world. 

Rank. — Though  few  eminent  writers  are  so  litth'  read,  ft^w 
names  are  more  familiar.  By  the  suffrages  of  his  own  and  siu-- 
ceeding  generations,  his  place  is  first  in  the  second  rlass  ol 
Engli.sh  poets.  P(>rha]is  his  fame  would  have  sulTcred  little,  it 
he  had  writt(Mi  not  one  of  his  twentv-eight  dramas.  He  could 
not  produce  correct  repn>S(>iitations  of  luiman  nature,  for  his  was 
an  examinin<r   rather   than  a  belicvinij   frame  of    miml;    and    he 


64      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

wrought  literature  more  as  one  apprenticed  to  the  business  than 
as  one  under  the  control  of  inspiration:  he  attained,  however,  the 
excellences  that  lie  on  the  lower  grade  of  the  satirical,  didactic, 
and  polemic.  Not  to  be  numbered  with  those  who  have  sounded 
the  depths  of  soul,  he  is  incomparable  as  a  reasoner  in  verse. 
Pope,  his  imitator  and  admirer,  has  outshone  him  in  neatness,  in 
brilliancy,  and  finish,  but  has  not  approached  him  in  flexible 
vigor,  in  fervor,  or  in  sweep  and  variety  of  versification.  '  His 
faults,'  says  Cowper,  '  are  numberless,  and  so  are  his  beauties. 
His  faults  are  those  of  a  great  man,  and  his  beauties  are  such  (at 
least  sometimes)  as  Pope  with  all  his  touching  and  retouching 
could  never  equal.'  Making  a  trade  of  his  genius,  he  wrote  too 
much;  as  a  whole,  heavy  and  tedious,  never  quite  equal  to  his 
talent.  Says  Voltaire  of  him,  'An  author  who  would  have  had  a 
glory  without  a  blemish,  if  he  had  only  written  the  tenth  part  of 
his  works.' 

If  he  could  not  depict  artless  and  delicate  sentiments  or  arouse 
subtle  sympathies,  he  had,  beyond  most,  the  gift  of  the  right 
word,  and  this  in  common  with  the  few  great  masters, —  that  tiie 
winged  seeds  of  his  thought  embed  themselves  in  the  memory, 
and  germinate  there.  Few  have  minted  so  many  phrases  that 
are  still  a  part  of  our  daily  currency.     For  example: 

'  None  but  tlie  l)rave  deserves  tlie  fair." 

'Men  are  but  children  (if  a  larger  growth." 

'When  wild  in  woods  the  noble  savage  ran.' 

'Love  eitlier  finds  equality  or  makes  it.' 

'  Passions  in  men  oppressed  are  doubly  strong.' 

'Few  know  the  use  of  life  before  'tis  past." 

'Time  gives  liimself  and  is  not  valued.' 

'That's  empire,  tliat  wliich  I  can  give  away.' 

'The  greatest  argument  for  love  is  love.' 

'Why,  love  does  all  that's  noble  heri'  below.' 

'That  bad  thing,  gold,  buys  all  good  things.' 

'Trust  in  noble  natures  otdiges  them  the  more.' 

'Death   in  itself  is  nolhiuL':   but  we  fear 
To  be  we  know  not  what,  we  know  not  where.' 

'The  cause  f>f  love  can  never  be  assitrned, 
Tis  in   no  face,  but  in  the  lover's  mind." 

'The  secret  pleasure  of  the  L'ei'.erous  act 
Is  the  great  mind's  great   bribe." 


DRYDEN.  65 

He  was  the  literary  lion  of  his  day;  and  no  rustic,  of  any  taste 
for  letters,  thought  his  round  of  sight-seeing  complete  without  a 
visit  to  Will's  coffee-house,  where  in  a  snug  arm-chair,  carefully 
placed  in  winter  by  the  fireside  and  in  summer  on  the  balcony, 
sat  'glorious  John,'  pipe  in  hand,  expounding  the  law  on  disputed 
points  in  literature  and  in  politics.  Happy  was  the  young  poet 
or  university  student  who  could  boast  to  his  admiring  friends 
that  he  had  got  in  a  word,  or  extracted  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  the 
great  man's  box. 

He  forms  the  connecting  link  between  the  prose  writers  of  the 
days  of  James  I  and  those  of  Queen  Ainic.  He  gave  a  hand  to 
the  age  before  and  to  that  which  followed, —  the  age  of  solitary 
imagination  and  invention,  and  the  age  of  reasoning  and  conver- 
sation. Pope  saw  him,  Addison  drank  with  him;  he  visited 
Milton,  and  was  intimate  with  those  who  could  tell  him  of  Jonson 
from  personal  recollection. 

Character. — His  manner  of  life  was  that  of  a  solid  and  judi- 
cious mind  which  thinks  not  of  amusing  and  exciting  itself,  but 
of  Icarnino-  reflcctinof,  and  iudofino;.  He  had  no  taste  for  field 
sports,  and  felt  more  pleasure  in  argument  than  in  landscape,  in 
the  rhythm  of  the  epigram  than  in  the  melodies  of  birds.  Though 
he  watched  the  conflict  of  parties  keenly,  he  did  not,  as  did 
Milton,  mix  personally  in  the  turmoil.  Without  being  reserved, 
he  was  diffident,  and  neither  would  nor  could  in  the  circles  of 
fashion  cut  the  brilliant  figure  which  Pope,  his  great  disciple, 
made.  He  rose  early,  spent  the  morning  in  writing  or  reading, 
dined  with  his  family,  and  in  tlie  afternoon  repaired  to  Will's 
coffee-house,  that  common  resort  of  wits,  pamphleteers,  poets, 
and  critics.      Savs  Congreve,  who  knew  him  familiarly: 

'Ho  was  of  ;i  imtiin'  cxcocdiimly  luiinane  ami  coinpassionati',  ri'ady  to  foririvo 
iiijiirios,  and  tapahle  of  a  sinccri'  reconciliation  with  those  who  had  offended  him.  His 
friendship,  where  he  professed,  went  heyond  his  professions.  He  was  of  a  very  easy, 
of  very  pleasinj^  access:  hnl  somewhat  .slow,  and,  as  il  were,  diffldent,  in  his  advances 
to  others;  he  had  that  in  nature  which  ahhorrod  intrusion  into  any  society  whatever. 
He  was  therefore  less  known,  and  consequently  his  cliaracter  became  more  liable  to 
misapprehensions  and  misrepresentations.' 

Yet  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  value,  and  '})rol)ab]y  (li<l  n'>t 
offer  his  conversation  be(>atise  he  expected  it  to  lie  solicitiMl.''  His 
confidence  in  himself  atnounted  almost  to  nn-crcnce.  Oi"  Ali.fd))- 
der\^  Ju'cu^t,  he  said  that  an  ode  of  equal  ini'rit  had  never  been 
5 


66      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

produced  and  never  would  be.  This  feeling  of  easy  superiority 
made  him  the  mark  for  much  jealous  vituperation.  Of  their  lam- 
poons and  libels,  he  says:  'I  am  vindictive  enough  to  have 
repelled  force  by  force,  if  I  could  imagine  that  any  of  them  had 
ever  reached  me.'  He  was  reproached  with  boasting  of  his 
intimacy  with  the  great. 
Of  himself : 

'My  conversation  is  slow  and  dull,  my  humour  saturnine  and  reserved:  In  short,  I 
am  none  of  those  who  endeavour  to  break  jests  in  company  or  make  repartees.' 

Notwithstanding,  he  was  a  rapid  composer.     He  says  : 

'Thoughts,  such  as  they  arc,  come  crowding  in  so  fast  upon  me,  that  my  only  diffi- 
culty is  to  chuse  or  to  reject,  to  run  them  into  vijrses,  or  to  give  them  the  oihor  harmony 
of  prose:  I  have  so  long  studied  and  practiced  both,  that  they  are  grown  into  a  habit, 
and  become  familiar  to  me." 

Less  fluent,  he  would  have  been  less  slovenly.  Fond  of  splendor, 
he  was  indifferent  to  neatness.  Faults  of  affectation,  time  in  a 
measure  corrected;  but  faults  of  negligence,  never.  To  the  last, 
rather  than  wait  for  the;  fittest  word,  he  seized  tlie  readiest. 

His  reading  was  extensive,  and  his  memory  tenacious.  Under- 
standing was  preponderant.  He  delighted  to  talk  of  liberty  and 
necessity,  destiny,  and  chance. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  was  deficient  in  lofty  or  intense  sensi- 
bility. He  was  a  stranger  to  the  transports  of  the  heart.  Hence, 
though  he  could  describe  character  in  the  abstract,  he  could  not 
embody  it  in  the  drama. 

His  genius  matured  slowly.  At  thirty-two  he  had  given  little, 
if  auglit,  to  warrant  an  augury  of  his  greatness.  But  he  grew 
steadily.  His  imagination  quickened  as  he  increased  in  years, 
and  his  intt-liect  was  {)liable  at  seventy.  Old  age  yielded,  on  the 
whole,  the  best  of  Ijini.  As  every  innovator  must  have,  he  had 
many  enemies.  'More  libels,'  he  says,  'have  been  written  against 
me  than  almost  anv  man  now  living.'      Later: 

'What  VirL'il  wrote  in  tlif  viirour  of  liis  aire,  in  jilcnty  and  at  ease,  I  have  undertaken 
to  translate  in  my  di'dininu'  ycar^:  strugirlint;  with  wants,  oppressed  with  sickness, 
curbed  in  my  genius,  liable  to  be  misconstrued  in  all  T  write:  and  my  judges,  if  they  are 
not  very  equitable,  already  prejudiced  against  me,  by  the  lying  character  which  has  been 
given  them  of  my  morals." 

He  would  have  been  loss  open  to  attack,  had  he  been  less  ser- 
vile to  the  false  taste  and  eorrujjt  morals  of  his  age.  As  a  writer 
for  the  stage,  he  delilxTately  adopted  the  mercantile  maxim  that 

'lie  who  lives  to  please,  must  please  to  live.' 


DRYDEN.  67 

His  dedications  are  nauseous  panegyrics.  In  dne,  he  says  to  the 
Duchess  of  Monmouth: 

'To  receive  the  blessings  and  prayers  of  mankind,  you  need  only  be  seen  together. 
We  are  ready  to  conclude,  that  you  are  a  pair  or  angels,  sent  below  to  make  virtue  amia- 
ble in  your  jjersons,  or  to  sit  to  poets,  when  they  would  pleasantly  instruct  the  age  by 
drawing  goodness  in  the  most  perfect  and  alluring  shape  of  nature.  ...  No  part  of 
Europe  can  afford  a  parallel  to  your  noble  Lord  in  masculine  beauty,  and  in  goodliness 
of  shape." 

The  rest  was  good,  and  the  land  was  pleasant.  Elsewhere  to  her 
'noble  lord,'  he  says,  doubtless  with  the  vision  of  a  purse  of  gold 
before  him: 

'You  have  all  the  advantages  of  mind  and  body,  and  an  illustrious  birth,  conspiring 
to  render  you  an  extraordinary  person..  The  Achilles  and  the  Kinaldo  are  present  in  you, 
even  above  their  originals;  you  only  want  a  Homer  or  a  Tasso  to  make  you  eijual  to 
them.  Youth,  beauty,  and  courage  (all  which  you  possess  in  the  height  of  their  perfec- 
tion) are  the  most  desirable  gifts  of  Heaven." 

His  works  afford  too  many  examples  not  only  of  abject  adulation 
but  of  dissolute  licentiousness.  He  studied  filth  as  he  studied 
everything,  not  as  a  pleasure  but  as  a  trade.  He  committed  his 
offences  with  his  eyes  wide  open.  He  sinned  against  hi.s  better 
knowledge.  For  the  depravity  that  deliberately  makes  merchan- 
dise of  corruption,  there  is  no  excuse.  The  single  consolation  is, 
that  the  offender  shall  nobly  confess  his  error,  and  testify  his 
repentance.  Of  one  who  had  coarsely  reproved  him,  in  the  pre- 
face to  the  Fdhh'K  he  says: 

'I  shall  say  the  less  of  Mr.  Collier,  becau.-^e  in  many  things  he  has  taxed  me  justly; 
and  I  have  pleaded  guilty  to  all  thoughts  and  expressions  of  mine  which  can  be  truly 
argued  of  obscenity,  profaneness,  or  immorality,  and  retract  them.  If  he  be  my  enemy, 
let  him  triumi)h;  if  he  be  my  friend,  as  1  have  driven  hint  no  personal  occasii)n  to  be 
otherwise,  he  will  be  glad  of  my  rci)eiitance." 

Elsewhere: 

'My  thoutjhtlcss  youth  was  winged  witii  vain  df^^ires. 
My  nuinhood,  long  misled  by  wanderiiii:  lires, 
Followe<l  false  lights;    and  when  their  gllini)si:  w.i-*  iroiie. 
My  pritlc  struck  out  new  sparkles  of  her  own. 
Sticli  was  I,  such   by  nature  still  I  am: 
Be  Thiiic  the  glory,  and  he  mine  the  shame!' 

C(in.sci()iis  that  hr  luul  Ixm-h  mitnic  to  his  finer  jiossibijitii's,  in  tin' 
end  li(>  savs: 

'1  liavi-  hern  niysrlf  ton  much  of  a  liherlliie  in  most  of  my  poi-iiis,  wliirh  I  -liould 
be  well  rontcntr'l,  if  I  had  time,  either  lo  pur'.'e  or  to  see  tlieui  fairly  buniccl.' 

He  was  scci)tical,  yet  superstitious.  Like  iiianv  others,  lie  was 
a  bi'liever  in  astrologv.      In  a  letter  to  his  sons  he  sav^: 


68      FIRST  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

'Towards  the  latter  end  of  this  month,  September,  Charles  will  begin  to  recover  his 
perfect  health,  according  to  his  nativity,  which,  casting  it  myself,  I  am  sure  is  true,  and 
all  things  hitherto  have  happened  accordingly  to  the  very  time  that  I  predicted  them." 

His  fundamental  weakness  was  ethical.  He  had  no  unattain- 
able standard  of  perfection  to  uplift  him.  He  lacked  the  central 
fire  of  fixed  principles  and  high  resolves.  Without  the  firmness 
and  coherence  of  the  moral  nature,  intellectual  powers  are  as 
weathercocks.  It  should  be  remembered,  however,  that  no  man 
can  wholly  escape  the  current  of  his  time. 

Influence. — Whoever  imprints,  apparently,  a  new  character 
on  an  age,  is  himself  a  creature  of  that  age.  Formed  first  bv 
circumstances,  he  reacts  upon  them,  paying  with  interest  what 
society  has  given.  So  was  it  with  Bacon,  who,  if  born  earlier, 
might  have  been  a  Dominican  quibbler;  and  with  Luther,  who, 
had  he  anticipated,  would  have  been  lost.  The  first,  standing  on 
an  eminence,  caught  and  reflected  the  light  before  it  was  visible 
to  the  many  far  beneath.  There  would  have  been  a  Reformation, 
though  probably  later,  without  the  assistance  of  the  second. 
'The  sun  illuminates  the  hills  while  it  is  still  below  the  horizon; 
and  truth  is  discovered  by  the  highest  minds  a  little  before  it 
becomes  manifest  to  the  multitude.' 

Under  these  limitations,  Dryden  may  be  set  down  as  the 
foutider  of  a  new  school  of  poetry  —  a  school  derived  chiefly  from 
the  ancient  Roman,  critical  rather  than  creative,  classic  rather 
than  romantic.  The  style  peculiar  to  it  had  already  been  culti- 
vated. French  taste  encouraged  it.  He,  as  the  first  autocrat  in 
English  letters,  improved  it,  gave  it  authority.  Pope  and  John- 
son, in  the  direct  line  of  descent,  were  to  carry  it  to  perfection. 

He  taught  us  to  think  naturally  and  to  express  forcil)ly.     He 

refino(l    our    metre,  and    enriched    our   language.      With    a    true 

insight   into  the  conditions  under  which   the  maker  may  extend 

the  domain  of  s])eech,  he  says: 

•  I  will  not  excuse,  but  justify  myself  for  one  pretended  crime  for  which  I  am  liable 
to  b(  charged  by  false  critics,  not  only  in  this  translation,  but  in  many  of  my  original 
poems,— that  1  Latini/e  too  much.  It  is  true  that  when  I  find  an  I^nglish  word  signiti- 
cant  and  soundinir,  I  ncitlicr  borrow  from  the  Latin  or  any  other  language;  but  when  I 
want  at  home  I  must  seek  abroad.  If  sounding  words  are  not  of  our  growth  and  manu- 
facture, who  shall  hinder  me  to  import  them  from  a  foreign  country?  I  carry  not  out 
tiie  treasure  of  the  nation  which  is  never  to  return;  but  what  I  bring  from  Italy  I  spend 
in  England:  here  it  remains,  and  here  it  circulates;  for  if  the  coin  be  good,  it  will  pass 
from  one  hand  to  another.  I  trade  botli  with  the  living  and  the  dead.  .  .  .  We  have 
enough  in  England  to  sn])ply  our  necessity :  but  if  we  will  have  things  of  magniticence 


DRYDEN.  69 

and  splendor,  we  must  got  them  by  commerce.  .  .  .  Therefore,  if  I  find  a  word  in  a 
classic  author,  I  propose  it  to  be  naturalized  by  usini^  it  myself,  and  if  the  public 
approve  of  it  the  bill  passes.  But  every  man  cannot  distinguisli  betwixt  pedantry  and 
poetry;  every  man,  therefore  is  not  lit  to  innovate.' 

More  than  any  other,  he  helped  to  free  English  prose  from  the 
cloister  of  pedantry,  and  to  give  it  the  conversational  suppleness 
of  the  modern  world. 

Finally,  he  has  left  no  single  work  which  is  universally  read 
and  approved.  That  he  has  not,  while  he  might  have  done  so, 
points  a  most  instructive  lesson  to  men  of  intellect.  Without 
devotion  to  something  nobler  and  more  abiding  than  the  present, 
no  great  or  sound  literature  is  possible.  Without  an  unap- 
proachable mirage  of  excellence,  forever  receding  and  forever 
pursued,  no  man  reaches  his  full  or  conceivable  stature.  A  self- 
reliant  independence  is  the  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  Paradise  of 
duties. 


CRITICAL  PERIOD:  FIRST  PHASE. 


CHAPTER   11. 


FEATURES. 


The  literary  importance  of  the  eighteenth  century  lie;?  miiinly  in  its  having  wrought 
out  !i  revolution  begun  in  the  seventeenth.— J/a//A«M.'  Arnold. 

Politics. — Tory  and  Whig  had  laid  aside  the  sword,  and 
though  party  spirit  ran  high,  were  conducting  the  competition  for 
power  by  a  parley  of  words  and  measures;  the  first  the  conserva- 
tive, the  second  the  progressive  element;  one  the  steadying,  the 
other  the  propelling  force, —  both  principles  essential  to  the 
advance  of  nations. 

France  had  been  humbled,  Spain  had  been  all  but  torn  from 
the  house  of  Bourbon  in  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession, 
England  and  Scotland  had  been  united  ;  and,  leaving  their  coun- 
try at  the  height  of  its  material  prosperity,  the  Whigs  retired  in 
1710,  to  resume  their  ascendancy  in  ITlo,  and  to  continue  it  with- 
out intermission  till  the  accession  of  George  III. 

Society. — Authors  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  royal  patron- 
age. Literary  merit  found  easy  admittance  into  the  most  distin- 
guished society  and  to  the  highest  honors  of  the  state.  Servility, 
however,  was  less  marked  than  formerly,  and  the  period  may  be 
regarded  as  a  transition  from  the  early  system  of  patronage, 
when  books  had  but  few  readers,  to  the  later  one  of  })rofessional 
independence,  when  the  public  became  the  patron. 

The  Revolution  of  lOHS  had  indeed  secured  to  the  nation 
liberty  of  conscience  and  the  right  of  property,  but  public  inter- 
ests were  endangend  bv  the  low  standard  of  ])olitical  honor.  In 
politics,  W('a])oiis  were  fm-lv  emj)loved  which  we  should  now 
regard  as  in  the  liigh<'st  degree  dishonorable.  The  secrecy  of  the 
mails  was  habitually  violated,  ^^'al])ole,  writing  in  172."),  con- 
fesses, without  scruj)le,  to  opening  the  letters  of  a  political   rival. 


SOCIAL    FEATURES.  71 

The  rich  purchased  their  seats  in  Parliament,  and  Parliament  sold 
its  votes  to  the  ministry. 

General  intelligence  was  scarcely  more  than  a  prophecy.  The 
first  daily  paper  appeared  in  the  reig-n  of  Anne.  In  1710,  the 
papers,  instead  of  merely  communicating  news  as  heretofore, 
began  cautiously  to  take  part  in  the  discussion  of  political  topics. 

In  the  Restoration,  the  more  excellent  parts  of  human  nature 
had  disappeared,  leaving  but  the  animal  ;  and  there  still  existed 
a  wretched  state  of  public  tastes  and  morals.  Steele,  who  aimed 
at  reform,  said  that  his  play  of  The  Lyimj  Lover  was  'damned 
for  its  piety.'  The  style  of  speaking  and  writing  on  common 
topics  was  vitiated  by  slang  and  profanity.  Literary  and  scien- 
tific attainments  were  despised  as  pedantic  and  vulgar  bv  the 
fashionable  of  both  sexes.  Scandal  was  almost  the  sole  topic  of 
conversation  among  the  ladies.  Three  learned  words  would  drive 
them  out  of  doors  for  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air.  Judge  of  their 
occupations  :  'Young  man,'  said  the  wife  of  Marlborough  to  Lord 
Melcombe,  'you  come  from  Italy.  They  tell  me  of  a  new  inven- 
tion there  called  caricature  drawing.  Can  you  find  me  somebody 
that  will  make  me  a  caricature  of  Lady  Masham,  describing  her 
covered  with  running  sores  and  ulcers,  that  I  may  send  it  to  the 
Queen  to  give  her  a  right  idea  of  her  new  favorite  ? 

Bull-baiting  was  a  popular  amusement.  In  Queen  Anne's 
time,  it  was  performed  in  London  regularly  twice  a  week.  Cock- 
fierhtins):  was  the  favorite  o-auK^  of  the  schoolhovs,  the  teachers 
taking  the  runaway  cocks  as  their  percjuisites.  Gambling  was 
the  bane  of  the  nobility,  and  among  the  ladies  the  ])assioii  was 
quite  as  strong  as  among  men. 

Fashionable  hours  w(>re  becoming  steadily  later.  'The  lanil- 
marks  of  our  fathers,'  wrote  StccU^  in  ITlO,  'arc  removed,  and 
])lanted  farther  ii])  in  the  day.  ...  In  my  own  memory,  the 
dinner  hour  has  crept  by  degrees  from  twelve  o'clcH'k  to  three. 
^Vherc:  it  will  fix  nolufdv  knows.'  GofTee-houses  were  conspic- 
uous centres  of  news,  politics,  and  fashion.  Their  nuniKci-  in 
1708,  fll'tv  vears  after  the  first  had  been  established  in  tlie  metrop- 
olis, was  estimated  at  tiiree  thousand.  Drunkenness  and  extrav- 
agance went  hand  in  hand  among  the  gentry.  Oflicersof  state 
sat  up  whole  nights  drinking,  then  hastened  in  the  morning, 
without   slee}),  to   their  official    business.      Acklison,  tlie    t'ori'niost 


72  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

moralist  of  his  day,  was  not  entirely  free  from  this  vice,  'Come, 
Robert,'  said  Walpole,  the  minister,  to  his  son,  'you  shall  drink 
twice  while  I  drink  once;  for  1  will  not  permit  the  son  in  his 
sober  senses  to  be  witness  of  the  intoxication  of  his  father.'  In 
1724,  the  passion  had  spread  among  all  classes  with  the  violence 
of  an  epidemic.  Retailers  of  gin  hung  out  painted  boards, 
announcing  that  their  customers  could  be  made  drunk  for  a 
penny,  dead  drunk  for  twopence,  and  that  cellars  strewn  with 
straw  would  be  furnished,  without  cost,  into  which  they  might  be 
dragged  when  they  had  become  insensible. 

Punishments  were  brutal.  In  1726,  a  murderess  was  burned 
alive.  Prisoners  were  still  slowly  pressed  to  death  by  weights  of 
stone  or  iron,  or  cut  down,  when  half  hung,  and  disembowelled. 

Riots  were  frequent,  and  robberies  were  numerous  and  bold. 
Addison's  'Sir  Roger,'  when  he  goes  to  the  theatre,  arms  his 
servants  with  cudg-els.  In  1712,  a  club  of  young  men  of  the 
higher  classes  were  accustomed  nightly  to  sally  out  drunk  into 
the  streets,  to  hunt  the  passers-by.  One  of  their  favorite  amuse- 
ments, called  '  tipping  the  lion,'  was  to  squeeze  the  nose  of  their 
victim  flat  upon  his  face,  and  to  bore  out  his  eyes  with  their 
finders.  Amoii2f  them  were  'the  sweaters ,'  who  encircled  their 
prisoner,  and  pricked  him  with  swords  till  he  sank  exhausted; 
and  'dancing  masters,'  who  made  men  caper  by  thrusting  swords 
into  their  legs. 

Religion. — The  belief  in  witchcraft  was  still  smouldering, 
but  no  longer  received  tlie  sanction  of  the  law.  In  1712,  the 
death  of  a  suspected  witch,  who  had  been  thrown  into  the  water 
to  see  whether  she  wovild  sink  or  swim,  and  who  perished  during 
the  trial,  was  ])ronouneed  murder. 

While  the  town  rectf)j-s  and  the  great  church  dignitaries  were 
second  to  none  in  Eurojie  in  genius  and  learning,  and  occupied 
conspicuous  social  ])().sitioiis,  the  rural  clergy  were  cringing,  ol)se- 
Cjuious,  and  imjjovcrislied.  While  a  high  conception  of  duty  was 
not  unknown  among  them,  as  a  whole  they  were  uiih^ttered  and 
coarse,  languid  in  zeal,  but  using  their  limited  influence  chiefly 
for  good. 

It  was  a  season  of  conflict  betw(>en  the  Iligli  Church  party  and 
the  Dissenters,  who  sought  to  reconstruct  and  rationalize  the  the- 
ology of  the  Church.      There  was  also  a  larrj-e  amount  of  formal 


RELIGION  —  POETRY.  73 

scepticism  abroad,  directed  against  Christianity  itself.  But  this 
was  not  the  direction  which  the  highest  intellects  usually  took. 
The  task  which  occupied  them  was  to  lighten  the  weight  of  dogma 
within  the  Church,  to  infuse  a  higher  tone  into  the  social  and 
domestic  spheres,  to  make  men  moderate  in  pleasure,  charitable 
to  the  poor,  dutiful  in  the  relations  of  life,  and  to  establish  the 
truth  of  Christianity  upon  the  basis  of  evidence  —  evidence  differ- 
ing in  no  essential  respect  from  that  required  in  ordinary  history 
or  science. 

But  religious  enthusiasm  was  dying  out  —  I  mean  that  earnest 
realization  which  searches  the  heart  and  moulds  the  character  of 
man.  The  discussion  of  Christian  evidences  is  generally  tiie  sign 
of  defective  Christian  life.  Traces  of  devotional  activity,  liow- 
ever,  still  existed.  In  1G'.)6  was  formed  the  Society  for  the  Pro- 
motion of  Christian  Knowledge;  and  in  1701,  the  Society  for  the 
Propagation  of  the  Gospel  in  Foreign  Parts.  Charitv  schools 
were  established  and  multiplied  rapidly  under  Anne.  'I  have 
always  looked  on  the  institution  of  charity  schools,'  writes  Addi- 
son, 'which  of  late  years  has  so  universally  prevailed  through  the 
whole  nation,  as  the  glory  of  the  age  we  live  in.'  Societies  were 
organized  to  combat  the  corruption  that  had  been  general  since 
the  Restoration,  dividing  themselves  into  several  distinct  groups, 
and  becoming  a  kind  of  voluntary  police  to  enforce  the  laws 
against  blasphemers,  drunkards,  and  Sabbath-breakers. 

The  separation  of  theology  from  politics  was  proceeding  rap- 
idly, and  the  lavuxMi  were  becoming  increasingly  ])roniiiient  in 
tlie  state.  A  liigh-cliurch  writer,  in  lTl'-2,  complains  of  the  efforts 
that  were  being  made  to  'thrust  the  churchmen  out  of  their  places 
of  powei'  in  the  govennncnt.' 

Poetry. — When  a  heartless  cynicism  is  fashionable,  when 
brilliancv  is  preferred  to  solniety,  when  morality  tends  to  a  sys- 
tem of  al)stract  rules,  when  sermons  become  diagrams,  theorems, 
and  corollaries, — -what  will  be  the  character  of  poetry?  I'^vi- 
dentlv,  it  must  expr(\ss  the  temper  of  the  age,  or  it  will  j)erish 
still-born.  It  will  satisfy  the  intellect,  but  starvt^  the  emotional 
nature.  The  poet  will  become  an  artist  of  form.  Instead  of 
strong  passions,  elevated  motives,  and  sul)linie  aspirations,  lie 
will  give  us  critical  accuracy  of  tliought.  elegance  (if  phrase, 
symmetrv  of  parts,  and  measured  harmonies  of  sound. 


74  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Pope  was  its  representative  product,  and  he  expresses  the 
peculiarities  of  his  time  with  singuhir  sharpness  and  fidelity. 

Drama. — The  drama  of  the  Restoration  had  been  so  outrage- 
ously immoral  that  the  intellect  of  the  country  became  ashamed 
of  the  stage,  and  turned  its  strength  to  cultivate  other  branches  of 
literature.  Jeremy  Collier,  Steele,  and  Addison  had  shamed 
it  into  something  like  decency,  though  ladies  of  respectability 
and  position  still  hesitated  to  appear  at  the  first  representation  of 
a  new  comedy.  In  style,  the  dramatic  literature,  like  the  general 
poetry  of  the  period,  was  polished  and  artificial.  Addison's 
tragedy  of  Cato  was  too  cold  and  classical  to  touch  the  passions. 
The  prevailing  taste  called  for  faithful  and  witty  delineations  of 
manners,  slight  and  coarse  comedies,  gaudy  spectacles  of  rope 
dancers  and  ballets.  'I  never  heard  of  any  plays,'  said  Parson 
Adams  in  a  novel  of  that  day,  'fit  for  a  Christian  to  read,  but 
Cato  and  the  ConscioKS  Lovers,  and  I  must  own  in  the  latter 
there  are  some  things  almost  solemn  enoug-h  for  a  sermon.' 

Periodical  Miscellany.  —  Internal  repose  and  national 
wealth  occasioned  the  rise  of  that  middle  class  of  respectable 
persons,  literary  idlers,  who  have  leisure  to  read  and  money  to 
buy  books,  but  who  wish  to  be  entertained,  not  roused  to  think, 
to  be  gently  moved,  not  deeply  excited.  This  condition  devel- 
oped a  new  and  peculiar  kind  of  literature  consisting  of  essays  on 
tlie  social  phenomena  of  the  time,  and  scraps  of  public  and  politi- 
cal intelligence  to  conciliate  the  ordinary  readers  of  news.  The 
pioneer  in  this  department  was  De  Foe,  who  in  1704  began  a 
tri-weekly  journal  called  7^/ie  lie)'ie%c,  published  on  post  niglits, — 
Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday. 

It  was  reserved  for  Steele  and  Addison,  however,  to  make 
the  Miscellany  a  true  agent  of  social  improvement.  Their  object 
was  to  j)c)pularize  and  difTuse  knowledge,  to  adajit  every  question 
to  the  ca])acity  of  the  idlest  reader,  to  characterize  men  and  women 
limnorously,  taking  minutes  of  their  dress,  air,  looks,  words, 
thoughts,  desires,  actions,  and  thus  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to 
nature,  showing  the  vcrv  ago  and  Ixxlv  of  the  time.  Sermons 
veiled  in  ])leasantry  wen'  preached  on  everv  ('onceival)le  text, 
from  the  brevity  of  life  to  the  extravagance  of  female  toilets. 
The  end  was  moral    health  —  tin*  means  was  sugar-coated  pills. 


FICTION  — SCEPTICISM.  75 

There   is   evidence   that    the   virtue,   decorum,   and    tone   of   the 
patient  was  much  improved. 

Light,  graceful,  and  fastidious,  as  they  were  required  to  be, 
these  papers  never  really  probe  anything  to  the  bottom,  never 
seek  first  principles,  never  contemplate  the  great  darkness  of 
what  we  are,  whence  we  are,  and  whither  we  tend,  but  aim  only 
to  discover  moral  maxims  and  motives  suitable  and  sulficient  to 
guide  the  practical  conduct  of  life,  and  to  enforce  those  plain 
duties  to  God  and  man  which  are  a  pressing  anxiety  with  all 
strong  natures.  Perhaps  that  is  better.  Metaphysical  specula- 
tion is  empyrean  rarity  or  summer's  dust.  Devils  may  dispute  of 
Providence,  Foreknowledge,  Will,  and  Fate. 

The  Novel. — Legends  of  saints  had  amused  the  middle  ages, 
and  the  romances  of  chivalry  had  been  popular  in  the  seventeenth 
century;  but  a  new  social  form  was  now  developing,  in  which 
people  desired  to  see  themselves  and  to  talk  of  themselves.  The 
world  of  legend  and  of  romantic  grandeur  ha<l  grown  dim  and 
unreal,  and  a  fiction  was  wanted  that,  continuing  the  task  of  the 
Miscellany^  should  be  domestic  and  practical,  telling  the  story 
of  common  life  only.  This  defines  the  English  Korel,  as  the 
word  is  now  understood.  Its  precursor  was  De  Foe,  who  in  IT  19 
led  the  way  with  his  famous  Robinson  (Jrusoe,  a  novel  of  inci- 
dent, the  never-ceasing  delight  of  children. 

Theology. — Scepticism  had  shown  itself  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  divines  had  felt  the  necessity  of  justifying  tlit-ir 
faith.  Polemic  thought,  when  it  did  not  assunu'  tlie  form  of  con- 
troversy between  rival  sects  of  Christians,  was  a  conflict  ix'twccn 
Christianity  and  Deism,  a  doctrine  whicli  admits  the  existence  of 
a  Deity  and  the  religious  convictions  of  the  moral  consciousness, 
but  denies  the  s))ecifi(!  revelation  which  Christianity  allirms.  It 
was  sought  to  prove,  on  the  one  hand,  that  natural  religion  was 
sufficient;  on  the  other,  that  revealed  religion  was  little  more 
than  this,  accredited  by  historic  proofs  and  sanctioned  I'V  a 
rational  system  of  rewards  and  punishments.  Christidulfi/  n>>t 
3lijstcrioHS,  Th<  Gos])el  a  R( pnhUcatiim  of  the  Jl<liiji<>n  -;/' 
N^ature,  indicate  the  tenor  of  attack.  Riasonobleni ss  of  Christi- 
anity, Eoidences  of  Christianity,  indicate  the  tenor  of  il«'ten<'e. 
The  results  were  an  innrieasurable  overbalance  of  <:do(l. 


76  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Science. — The  national  intellect  had  been  turned  to  the  study 
of  physical  science  with  an  intensity  hitherto  unknown.  It  is 
to  be  observed,  however,  that  infidels  were  not  then  permitted 
to  consider  scientists  their  natural  allies.  Newton  had  devoted 
himself  to  the  interpretation  of  unfulfilled  prophecy.  Boyle,  the 
father  of  chemistry,  had  established  a  course  of  lectures  for  the 
defence  of  Christianity.  Nearly  all  the  early  members  of  the 
Royal  Society  were  ardent  believers  in  revelation.  When  Collins, 
a  Deist,  ascribed  the  decay  of  witchcraft  to  freethinking,  Bentley, 
a  devout  scientist,  retorted  that  it  was  due,  not  to  freethinkers, 
but  to  the  Royal  Society  and  to  the  scientific  conception  of  the 
universe  which  that  society  had  spread. 

H.eSUIIie. — In  politics,  an  age  of  material  eminence;  in  litera- 
ture, an  age  of  formal  correctness.  Philosophy  leaned  to  materi- 
alism. The  public  temper  was  adventurous,  uncertain,  unbeliev- 
ing. Pope  was  the  characteristic  product  of  its  poetry;  Addison, 
of  its  general  prose, — the  artist  of  manners;  Swift,  of  its  satire, — 
scorning,  hating,  and  hated.  Without  pathos  or  '  fine  frenzy,' 
style  was  neat,  clear,  epigrammatic.  The  relative  position  of 
prose  was  never  higher  than  at  this  date. 

The  reign  of  Queen  Anne  (1702-1714)  was  long  regarded  as  the 
Auf/xstan  A(/e  of  E)ujlii<h  Literature,  on  account  of  its  supposed 
resemblance  in  intellectual  wealth  to  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Augustus.  It  is  now  accorded  a  secondary  praise,  though  con- 
ceded to  be  unrivalled  ])erhaps  within  its  own  region, —  that  of 
clear  thinking  and  accurate  expression, —  art  that  is  neither  in- 
spired by  enthusiastic  genius  nor  employed  on  majestic  themes. 


S  'X  E  E  L  E . 


In  speculntion,  lie  was  ii  iniui  of  i)icty  iind  honor;  in  i)racticc,  he  was  nnicli  of  the 
rake,  and  a  little  of  the  ^\\\\\AV-r .— Mm-nnlay . 

Biography. — Horn  in  Dublin,  in  1G75,  but  of  Englisli  parent- 
age. Sent  to  Charter-House  School,  London,  where  he  found 
Addison.  Between  these  two  was  formed  an  intimacy  the  most 
memoraV)le  in  literature.  After  studying  at  Oxford,  enlisted  in 
the  Guards  as  a   ])rivate,   and   was  in  consequence    disinherited. 


STEELE.  77 

Promoted  to  the  rank  of  captain,  he  plunged  into  the  vices  and 
follies  of  the  day,  dicing  himself  into  a  sponging-house  or  drink- 
ing himself  into  a  fever.  Wrote,  became  a  popular  man  of  the 
town,  and  was  employed  by  the  Whig  government  to  write  The 
Gazette.  Started  a  periodical  miscellany,  lost  his  apppointment 
by  the  retirement  of  his  party  from  office,  but  continued  his  char- 
acter of  essayist.  Obtained  a  seat  in  Parliament,  lost  it,  was 
knighted  b\'  George  I,  and  received  a  place  in  the  royal  house- 
hold. Always  in  trouble  by  his  reckless  behavior,  his  pecuniary 
difficulties  increasing,  he  retired,  by  the  indulgence  of  the  mort- 
gagee, to  a  seat  in  Wales  left  him  by  his  second  wife,  and  there 
died  in  \ri\). 

"Writing^.  —  His  principles  were  better  than  his  conduct. 
Punished  by  conscience,  he  made  an  effort  to  reform  himself,  and 
wrote  The  Christian  Hero,  which  contains  some  noble  sentiments, 
but  exercised  little  influence  on  the  author. 

TJie  Funeral,  7'he  Tetider  Husband,  and  The  Co7\ scions  Lovers 
are  dramas,  all  of  which  were  successful.  The  last  is  the  best, 
which  is  far  from  good,  though  it  brought  the  author  a  large 
sum.  These  were  the  first  comedies  written  expressly  with  a 
view,  not  to  imitate  manners,  but  to  reform  them.  The  charac- 
ters act  less  from  individual  motives  than  from  general  rules,  and 
lack  the  grace  of  sincerity. 

The  Tatler  (1709),  suggested  by  his  employment  as  gazetteer; 
a  tri-weekly  sheet  devoted  in  part  to  foreign  intelligence  and  in 
])art  to  the  manners  of  the  age.  The  Spectator  (1711),  a  daily, 
and,  like  the  Tatler,  a  news  organ,  a  censor  of  manners,  a  teacher 
of  pul)lic  taste,  and  an  exponent  of  English  feeling;  suspended  in 
1T12,  and  n^sumetl  in  K14.  The  Guardian,  alscj  a  daily,  Ix'gun 
in  1712.  Of  the  first,  there  were  two  hundred  and  seventy-one 
papers;  of  the  second,  six  hundred  and  thirty-five;  of  the  third, 
one  liundnMl  and  seventv-iive.  In  these  enterprises,  Steele  was 
very  largelv  assisted  l)y  Addison,  who  furin'shed  for  the  TutUr 
one-sixth,  for  the  Spectator  about  three-sevenths,  and  for  the 
Guardian  one-thinl,  of  the  whole  quantity  of  matter. 

A  passage  or  two  will  suggest  the  spirit  and  manner  of  these 
famous  papers.      From  the  Tathr : 

'The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew  wns  tipoii  tlie  (icatli  of  my  falhcr,  at  which 
time  1  was  not  quite  live  yeiirs  of  age;   but  was  ratlier  aniazeil  at  wliat  all  the  tioiise 


78  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

meant,  than  posse!<.<ed  with  a  real  iinderirlaiiding  why  nobody  was  willing  to  play  with 
me.  I  remember  I  went  into  the  room  where  his  body  lay,  and  my  mijtlier  sat  weeping 
alone  by  it.  I  had  my  battledbor  in  my  hand,  and  fell  a-bcating  the  eofHn,  and  calling 
"Papa,"  fori  know  not  how  I  had  some  slight  idea  that  he  was  locked  up  there.  My 
mother  catched  me  in  her  arms,  and  transi><)rted  beyond  all  patience  of  the  silent  grief 
she  was  before  in,  she  almost  smothered  me  in  her  imbraee,  and  told  me,  in  a  Hood  of 
tears,  papa  could  not  hear  me,  and  would  play  with  me  no  more,  for  they  were  going 
to  put  him  under  ground,  whence  he  could  never  come  to  me  again.  She  was  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  there  was  a  dignity  in  her  grief  amidst 
all  the  wildness  of  her  transport,  which  methought  struck  me  with  an  instinct  of  sorrow, 
which,  before  I  was  sensible  what  it  was  to  grieve,  seized  my  very  soul,  and  has  niadt- 
pity  the  weakness  of  my  heart  ever  since.  The  mind  in  infancy  is,  methinks,  like  the 
body  in  embryo,  and  receives  impressions  so  forcible  that  they  are  as  hard  to  be 
removed  by  reason  as  any  mark  with  which  a  child  is  born  to  be  taken  away  by  any 
future  application.' 

From  the  /SjK'ctato}' : 

'M.  St.  Evremond  has  concluded  one  of  his  essays  with  afHrming  that  the  last  sighs 
of  a  handsome  woman  are  not  so  much  for  the  loss  of  her  life  as  of  her  beauty.  Perhaps 
this  raillery  is  pursued  too  far,  yet  it  is  turned  upon  a  very  obvious  remark,  that  woman's 
strongest  passion  is  for  her  own  beauty,  and  that  she  values  it  as  her  favoritt^  distinc- 
tion. From  hence  it  is  that  all  arts  which  pretend  to  improve  or  preserve  it  meet  with 
so  general  a  reception  among  the  se.x.  To  say  nothing  of  many  false  helps  and  contra- 
band wares  of  beauty  which  are  daily  vended  in  this  great  mart,  there  is  not  a  maiden 
gentlewoman  of  a  good  family  in  any  country  of  South  Britain  who  has  not  heard  of  the 
virtues  of  >Iay-dew,  oris  unfurnished  with  some  receipt  or  other  in  favor  of  her  com- 
plexion; and  I  have  known  a  physician  of  learning  and  sense,  after  eight  years'  study  in 
the  University,  and  a  course  of  travels  in  most  countries  in  Europe,  owe  the  lirst  raising 
of  his  fortunes  to  a  cosmetic  wash. 

This  has  given  me  occasion  to  consider  how  so  universal  a  disposition  in  woman- 
kind, which  springs  from  a  laudable  motive,  the  desire  of  pleasing,  and  proceeds  upon 
an  ojjinion  not  altogether  groundless,  that  nature  may  be  helped  by  art,  may  be  turned 
to  their  advantage.  And,  methinks,  it  would  be  an  acceptable  service  to  take  them  out 
of  the  hands  of  quacks  and  pretenders,  anil  to  prevent  their  imposing  on  themselves,  by 
discovering  to  them  the  f?-iie  art  and  secret  of  preserring  beanly. 

In  order  to  do  this,  before  1  touch  upon  it  directly,  it  will  be  necessary  to  lay  down  a 
few  preliminary  ma.\ims,  viz: 

That  no  woman  can  be  handsome  by  the  force  of  features  alone,  any  more  than  slie 
can  be  witty  only  by  the  help  of  siieech. 

That  pride  destroys  all  symmetry  and  grace,  and  affectation  is  a  more  terrible  enemy 
to  fine  faces  than  the  small-pox. 

That  no  wonum  is  capable  of  being  beautiful,  who  is  not  incai)al)le  of  being  fal>e. 

And,  that  what  would  he  odious  in  a  friend,  is  deformity  in  a  niistress. 

From  these  few  principles  thus  laid  down,  it  will  be  easy  to  prove  that  the  true  art 
of  assisting  beauty  consists  in  embellishing  the  whole  person  by  the  proper  ornaments 
of  virtue  and  commendable  qualities.  Ry  this  help  alone  it  is  that  those  who  are  the 
favorite  works  of  nature,  or,  as  Mr.  Uryden  expresses  it,  the  i)orcelain  clay  of  human- 
kind, become  animated,  and  are  in  a  rapacity  of  exerting  their  charms,  and  those  who 
seem  to  have  been  neglected  by  her,  like  models  wrought  in  haste,  are  capal)le  in  a  great 
measure  of  finishing'  wliat  slie  has  left  imperfect. 

It  is,  inethinks,  a  low  and  deu'radini:  idea  of  that  sex  which  was  created  to  refine  the 
joys,  and  soften  the  cares  of  huuianity,  to  consider  them  merely  as  objects  of  sight. 
This  is  abridging  them  of  the  natural  extent  of  their  power,  to  put  them  on  a  level  with 
the  pictures  at  Kneller's.  How  much  nobler  is  the  contemplation  of  beauty,  heightened 
by  virtue,  and  commanding  our  esteem  and  love,  while  it  draws  our  observation  !  IIow 
faint  and  si)iritless  are  the  charms  of  a  coquette,  when  compared  with  the  loveliness  of 
Sophronia's  innocence,  piety,  good  humor,  and  truih:  virtues  which  add  anew  softness 


STEELE.  79 

to  her  sex,  and  even  beautify  her  beauty!  That  agreeableiici»8  whieh  must  otherwise 
have  appeared  no  longer  in  the  modest  virgin  it;  now  preserved  in  tlie  tender  mother,  the 
prudent  friend,  and  the  faithful  wife.  Colours  artfully  spread  upon  canvas  may  enter- 
tain the  eye,  but  not  affect  the  heart;  and  she  who  takes  no  care  to  add  to  the  natural 
graces  of  her  i)erson  any  excelling  qualities,  may  be  allowed  to  amuse  as  a  picture,  but 
not  to  triumi)h  as  a  beauty." 

Estimate  the  civilization  of  an  individual  or  a  people  by  the  pre- 
vailing tone  of  feeling  and  opinion  with  regard  to  womanhood. 

Style. — Like  the  man  himself, —  easy,  familiar,  vivacious,  and 
humane,  mingling  good  sense  and  earnestness  with  merriment 
and  burlesque. 

Rank. — He  excelled  as  a  satirist,  a  humorist,  and  a  story- 
teller, who  must,  like  the  poet,  be  born.  He  had  a  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  a  dramatic  skill  by  which  the  serials  profited 
largely.  Some  of  his  papers  equal  anything  Addison  ever  wrote. 
Occupying  a  more  elevated  plane  than  many  of  his  contempora- 
ries, he  is  paled  in  his  powers  by  the  overshadowing  presence  of 
his  illustrious  friend.  His  writings  have  been  compared  to  those 
light  wines  whieh,  though  deficient  in  body  and  flavor,  are  yet  a 
pleasant  small  drink,  if  not  kept  too  long  or  carried  too  far. 

Character. — So  good-natured  that  it  was  impossible  to  hate 
him,  and  difficult  to  be  seriously  angry  with  him;  so  rollicking 
and  improvident  that  it  was  impo.ssible  to  respect  him;  of  sweet 
temper,  of  noble  aspiration,  but  of  strong  jiassions  antl  of  weak 
principles;  inculcating  what  was  right  and  doing  what  was 
wrong;  spending  his  life  in  resolving  and  re-resolving,  then 
dying  without  carrying  into  cfTect  his  resolution.  An  irregular 
thinker,  as  well  an  irregular  liver. 

Influence. — His  aim  in  projecting  the  T<(tler  does  not  ap- 
])ear  to  ha\i'  been  liigh(,'r  than  to  publish  a  pajier  containing  the 
foreign  news,  notices  of  theatrical  representations,  the  literary 
gossip  of  the  clubs,  remarks  on  current  tojiics  of  fashion,  compli- 
ments to  beauties,  satires  on  noted  sharpers,  and  criticisttis  on 
))opular  i)reachei-s.  He  did  nuicii  to  ennoble  tlie  prevalent  <•<  n- 
ceptions  of  female  character.  While  his  j)urpose  (more  or  less 
\aguely  realized)  was  reformatorv  and  corrective,  his  service  was 
chiefly  indirect,  in  calling  to  the  support  and  development  of  his 
enterprises  Addison,  to  whom  it  was  reserved  to  make  the  ])eri- 
odical  a  true  revolutionary  power  in  literature  and  society. 


80  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

What  shall  we  expect  of  a  man  who  forever  gathers  the  pleas- 
ures that  lie  on  the  border-land  of  evil,  tearfully  casts  them  away, 
then  recklessly  gathers  them  again  ? 


ADDISON, 


He  lived  in  abundance,  activity,  and  lienor?,  wisely  and  nsefnlly. — Taine. 

Biography. — The  son  of  an  English  dean,  born  at  Milston, 
in  1072.  Learned  his  rudiments  in  the  schools  of  his  father's 
neighborhood,  and  was  then  sent  to  Charter-House,  London. 
Entered  Oxford  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  where  he  was  distinguished 
by  the  delicacy  of  his  feelings,  by  the  shyness  of  his  manners,  by 
the  assiduity  with  which  he  often  prolonged  his  studies  far  into 
the  night,  by  his  knowledge  of  the  Latin  poets,  and  by  his  skill 
in  Latin  versification.  Leaving  the  University  in  the  summer  of 
1G99,  he  travelled  long  in  the  two  most  polished  countries  in  the 
world, — France  and  Italy,  to  prepare  himself  for  the  diplomatic 
service  of  the  Crown,  and  to  perfect  his  tastes  by  contact  with 
the  elegance  and  refinements  of  life  and  art.  His  pension  stopped 
by  the  death  of  William  III,  he  was  obliged  to  return  to  England, 
hard  pressed  by  pecuniary  difficulties.  But  his  poem  on  Blen- 
heim quickly  placed  him  in  the  first  rank  of  the  Whigs,  and 
again  started  him  on  a  brilliant  and  prosperous  career.  Became 
a  member  of  Parliament,  but  lacked  the  ready  resource,  'the 
small  change,'  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  of  an  effective  parlia- 
mentary orator.  Married  Lady  Warwick  in  171G,  a  beautiful, 
imperious  woman,  with  more  pride  of  rank  than  sincerity  of  char- 
acter, whom  he  is  said  to  have  first  known  by  becoming  tutor  to 
her  son.  She  probably  took  him  on  terms  like  those  on  which  a 
Turkish  princess  is  espoused,  to  whom  the  Sultan  is  reported  to 
say:  'Daughter,  I  give  thee  this  man  for  thy  slave.'  The  mar- 
riage neither  found  nor  made  them  equal,  and  he  was  glad  to 
escape  from  the  chilling  splendor  of  Holland  House  to  the  more 
congenial  society  of  the  club-room,  where  he  could  enjoy  a  laugh, 
a  smoke,  and  a  bottle  of  claret.  Rose  to  his  highest  elevation  in 
1717,  being  made  Secretary  of  State, —  an  elevation  due  to  his 
popularity,  his  stainless  probity,  and  his  literary  fame.      Unequal 


ADDISON.  81 

to  the  duties  of  his  place  by  reason  of  his  diffidence  and  fastidi- 
ousness, he  was  forced  to  resign,  and  retired  to  literary  occupa- 
tions, with  a  pension  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  In  the  office, 
says  Pope,  he  could  not  issue  an  order  without  losing  his  time  in 
quest  of  fine  expressions.  Many  years  seemed  to  be  before  him, 
and  he  meditated  many  works  —  a  tragedy  on  the  death  of  Socra- 
tes, a  translation  of  the  Psalms,  and  a  treatise  on  the  evidences 
of  Christianity  —  but  the  fatal  complaint  of  asthma,  aggravated 
by  dropsy,  terminated  his  life  on  the  ITth  of  June,  1719.  He 
was  buried  in  the  Abbey  at  dead  of  night,  an  eminent  Tory  lead- 
ing the  procession  by  torchlight  round  the  shrine  of  Saint  Edward 
and  the  graves  of  the  Plantagenets,  to  the  chapel  of  Henry  VH. 

Writings. — Address  to  Dryden  (1G94),  his  first  attempt  in 
English  verse.  The  Campaign,  or  Victory  of  JUenheim,  whose 
chief  merit  consists  in  the  praise  of  those  qualities  which  make  a 
general  truly  great, —  energy,  sagacity,  serene  firmness,  and  mili- 
tary science,  a  manly  rejection  of  the  traditional  custom  of  cele- 
brating, in  heroes,  strength  of  muscle  and  skill  in  fence.  Cato 
(1713),  a  tragedy,  and  the  noblest  production  of  his  genius;  a 
classic  play,  observing  the  unities  strictly  and  avoiding  all  admix- 
ture of  comedy;  applauded  by  both  political  parties, —  the  Whigs 
cheering  the  frequent  allusions  to  liberty,  as  a  satire  on  the  Tories; 
and  the  Tories  echoing  the  cheer,  to  show  that  the  satire  was 
unfelt.  During  a  whole  month,  it  was  ])erfornied  to  overflowing 
houses;  but  its  representation  was  too  far  removed  from  any  stat»' 
probable  or  possilile  in  human  life  to  sustain  itself  when  unsup- 
ported by  the  emulation  of  factious  praise.  Exciting  neither  joy 
nor  sorrow,  it  is  replete  with  noble  sentiments  in  noble  language, 
such  as  the  reader  must  wish  to  impress  uj)on  his  memory,  as  in 
the  following  lines  from  Cato's  soliloquy: 

'The  i^tars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  hiinsolf 
Grow  dim  with  at;e,  and  Nature  sink  in  years; 
But  thou  shah  llourish  in  immortal  yonili, 
I'lihurt  amid  the  war  of  elenu-nts, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crash  of  worlds.' 

Ilis  ILpans  are  songs  of  adoration  and  jirayer,  fervcMit,  tt'iidi-r, 
and  calm.  The  serene  rapture  of  his  soid's  Sabbatli  shines  in 
these  star-like  verses: 

'Soon  as  the  eveninir  shades  prevail. 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 


82  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

And,  nightly  to  tlie  lisfning  earth, 
Kepeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 
While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn. 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 
What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  no  real  voice,  nor  sound. 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In  Reason's  car  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine.'" 

J£ssays,  being  contributions  to  the  Spectator  chiefly,  and  in  part 
to  the  Tatler,  the  Guardian,  and  the  Freeholder  (1715),  a  polit- 
ical journal.  Tlieir  aim  was  primarily  to  instruct;  secondarily,  to 
please.  For  the  literary  lounger,  there  were  comic  sketches  of 
society,  exposures  of  social  follies,  in  letters  or  allegories;  for  the 
novel-reader,  stories,  portraits  of  character  woven  into  interesting 
narratives;  for  the  sage  and  serious,  essays  on  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul,  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  critical  papers  on 
Paradise  lost,  etc.  All  subjects  were  discussed  on  which  party 
spirit  had  produced  no  diversities  of  sentiment,  the  object  being 
to  render  instruction  pleasing,  to  widen  the  circle  of  readers,  and 
to  accomplish  a  social  regeneration  without  inflicting  a  wound. 
Addison  is  the  Spectator. 

For  the  first  time,  duty  was  taught  without  pretension  or 
effort,  and  pleasure  was  nuide  subservient  to  reason.  Take  liis 
dis.soction  of  a  l)eau's  brain  as  an  instance  of  his  mode: 

'The  pineal  gland,  which  many  of  our  modern  philosoi)liers  suppose  to  be  the  seat  of 
the  soul,  smelt  very  strong  of  essence  and  orange-llower  water,  and  was  encomi)assed 
with  a  kind  of  horny  substance,  cut  into  a  thousand  little  faces  or  mirrors,  which  were 
imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye,  insomuch  that  the  soul,  if  there  had  been  any  here,  must 
have  been  always  taken  up  in  contemi)lating  her  own  beauties. 

We  observed  a  large  antrum  or  cavity  in  X\w  mnriput,  that  was  filled  with  ribbons, 
lare,  and  embroidery.  .  .  .  There  was  a  large  cavity  on  each  side  of  the  bead,  which  I 
must  not  omit.  Tliat  on  the  rigiit  <ide  was  filled  witli  fictions,  flatteries,  and  falsehoods, 
vows,  jjromises,  and  protestations;  that  on  the  left,  with  oaths  aiul  imi)recations.  There 
i<~iied  out  a  duct  from  each  of  these  cells,  whiili  ran  into  the  root  of  the  tongue,  where 
lioth  joined  together,  and  passed  forward  in  one  (•omtnon  diut  to  tin;  tip  of  it.  We  dis- 
covered several  little  roads  or  caiuils  runniug  from  tlie  ear  into  the  brain,  and  took  par- 
ticular care  to  trace  them  out  through  their  several  i)assages.  One  of  tliem  extended 
it-^elf  to  a  bundle  of  sonnets  and  little  musical  instruments.  Others  ended  in  several 
bladders  which  were  filled  either  with  wind  or  froth.  ISut  the  large  canal  entered  into  a 
;;reat  cavity  of  the  skull,  from  whcucc  tlicre  went  another  canal  into  the  tongu(\  This 
great  cavity  was  filled  with  a  kind  of  sjniii^'y  substance,  which  the  French  anatomists  call 
gallimatias,  and  the  English  nonsense.  .  ,  . 

We  did  not  find  anything  vi'ry  remarkable  in  the  eye,  saving  only,  that  the  musculi 


ADDISON.  83 

amatorii,  or,  as  wt-  may  translate  it  into  English,  the  ogling  nmgctes,  wtTt-  very  much 
worn  and  decayed  with  use;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  the  elevator,  or  the  muscle  which 
turns  the  eye  towards  heaven,  did  not  appear  to  have  been  used  at  all.' 

Or  his  instructions  on  the  manipulation  of  a  fan: 

'The  ladies  who  carry  fans  under  me  are  drawn  up  twice  a  day  in  my  sreat  hall, 
where  they  are  instructed  in  the  use  of  their  arms,  and  exercised  by  the  following  words 
of  command:  Handle  your  fans,  Unfurl  your  fans,  Discharge  your  fans,  (iround  your 
fans,  Recover  your  fans.  Flutter  your  fans.  When  my  female  regiment  is  drawn  up  in 
array,  with  every  one  her  weapon  in  her  hand,  upon  my  giving  tlie  word  to  Handle 
their  fans,  eacti  of  them  shakes  her  fan  at  me  with  a  smile,  then  gives  her  right-hand 
woman  a  tap  upon  the  shoulder,  then  presses  her  lips  with  the  extremity  of  her  fan,  then 
lets  her  arms  fall  in  easy  motion,  and  stands  in  readiness  to  receive  the  next  word  of 
command.    All  this  is  done  with  a  close  fan,  and  is  generally  learned  in  the  first  week. 

The  next  motion  is  that  of  unfurling  the  fan,  in  which  are  comprehended  several 
little  flirts  and  vibrations,  as  also  gradual  and  deliberate  openings,  with  many  voluntary 
fallings  asunder  in  the  fan  itself,  that  are  seldom  learned  under  a  month's  practice.  This 
part  of  ihe  exercise  pleases  the  spectators  more  than  any  other,  as  it  discovers,  on  a 
sudden,  an  infinite  number  of  cupids,  garlands,  altars,  birds,  beasts,  rainbows,  and  the 
like  agreeable  figures,  that  display  themselves  to  view,  whilst  every  one  in  the  regiment 
holds  a  picture  in  her  hand. 

Upon  my  giving  the  word  to  Discharge  their  fans,  they  give  one  general  crack  that 
may  be  heard  at  a  considerable  distance  wlien  the  wind  sits  fair.  This  is  one  of  tlie  most 
difficult  parts  of  the  exercise,  but  I  have  several  ladies  with  me,  who  at  their  first 
entrance  could  not  give  a  pop  loud  enough  to  be  heard  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
who  can  now  dischargi;  a  fan  in  such  a  manner,  that  it  shall  make  a  report  like  a  pocket- 
pistol.  I  have  likewise  taken  care  (in  order  to  hinder  young  women  from  letting  off 
tlieir  fans  in  wrong  places,  t)r  on  unsuitable  occasions)  to  show  upon  what  subject  the 
crack  of  a  fan  may  come  in  i)roperly :  I  have  likewise  invented  a  fan,  with  whidi  a  girl 
of  sixteen,  by  the  help  of  a  little  wind,  which  is  enclosed  about  one  of  the  largest  sticks, 
can  make  as  loud  a  crack  as  a  woman  of  fifty  with  an  ordinary  fan. 

When  the  fans  are  Ilius  discharged,  the  word  of  command,  in  course,  is  to  (Iround 
their  fans.  Tliis  teaches  a  lady  to  quit  her  fan  gracefully  when  she  throws  it  aside  in 
order  to  take  tip  a  i)ack  of  cards,  adjust  a  curl  of  hair,  replace  a  fallinir  pin,  or  apply 
herself  to  any  other  matter  of  imi)ortance.  This  j)art  of  the  exercise,  as  it  only  consists 
in  tossing  a  fan  with  an  air  upon  a  long  table  (which  stands  by  for  that  purpose),  may 
be  learned  in  two  days"  time  as  well  as  in  a  twelvemonth. 

When  my  female  regiment  is  thus  disarmed,  I  generally  let  them  walk  about  the 
room  for  some  time:  when,  on  a  sudden  (like  ladies  that  look  upon  their  watches  after 
a  loni;  visit  i,  tliey  all  of  Iliein  hasten  to  their  arms,  catch  them  up  in  a  hurry,  and  place 
themselves  in  their  proper  stations  upon  my  calling  out,  Recover  your  fans.  This  part 
of  the  exercise  is  not  ilitticiill,  prov  iiled  a  woman  applies  her  thoughts  to  it. 

The  flutterhiL;  nf  Ilie  fan  i-  the  last,  and  indeerl  the  inaster-i)iece  of  the  whole  exerci-e  : 
but  if  a  lady  does  not  mis-s))end  her  time,  she  may  make  herself  mistress  of  it  in  three 
months.  I  [jenerally  lay  a>ide  the  doir-days  and  the  hot  time  of  Ihe  summer  for  the 
teaching  this  part  of  the  exercise:  for  as  soon  a-;  ever  I  pronoinice,  Flutter  your  fans, 
the  place  is  filled  with  so  many  /.ei)liyrs  and  gentle  bree/es  as  are  very  refreshini,'  in  tiiat 
season  of  the  year,  thoiiuh  they  miiiht  be  dangerous  to  ladies  of  a  tender  con-^tituliim  in 
any  other. 

There  is  an  intiuite  \iiriely  of  motions  to  be  made  use  of  in  the  Mutter  of  a  fan.  Tlnre 
is  the  an;,'ry  lliitler,  the  modest  Mutter,  the  timorous  Mutter,  the  coiifiixMl  llntler.  th.- 
merry  Mutter,  and  the  amorous  Muller,  Not  to  he  tedious,  tlu're  is  scan  c  .•my  inoliou  in 
the  mind  which  does  not  jjrodiice  a  suitable  agitation  in  the  fan:  jnsoiiiuili.  Ihiil  if  1 
only  see  tlie  fan  of  a  iliscii)liiied  lady,  I  know  wry  well  whclhfr  she  I.-uil'Ii-.  frown-,  or 
blushes.- 

Tills  i>-;iit'tv  is  oj'avi'.      Addison,  who  cotild   fail  .so  chaiiiiinoly, 


84  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

was  penetrated  by  the  presence  of  the  Invisible.  He  often 
chose  for  his  promenade  gloomy  Westminster  Abbey,  with  its 
many  reminders  of  final  dissolution  and  the  dark  future: 

'I  entertained  myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave;  and  saw  in  every  shovelful  of  it 
that  was  thrown  up,  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull,  intermixt  with  a  kind  of  fresh 
mouldering  earth,  that  some  time  or  other  had  a  place  in  the  composition  of  an  human 
body. 

When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me;  when 
I  read  the  ei)itaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet  with 
the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with  couipassion;  when  I  sec  tlie 
tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,  I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom  we 
must  quickly  follow.  When  I  see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when  I  con- 
sider rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with  their 
contests  and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  tlie  little  competitions, 
factions,  and  debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some 
that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that  great  day  when  we 
shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our  appearance  together.' 

He  had  the  grand  imagination  of  the  Northern  races,  which  can 
be  satisfied  only  with  the  sight  of  what  is  beyond.  The  noljle 
Vision  of  3Iirza  is  an  epitome  of  his  poetry  and  his  prose: 

'On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom  of  my  forefatliers,  I 
always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I 
ascended  the  liigli  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and 
prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the  tops  of  tlie  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life;  and  i)assing  from  one  tliought  to  another, 
"Surely,"'  said  I,  "man  is  but  a  sliadow,  and  life  is  a  dri'am."  Whilst  I  was  tlius 
musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  wlii're  I 
discovered  one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  witli  a  little  musical  instrument  in  his  hand. 
As  I  looked  uptm  him,  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of 
it  was  exceedingly  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  variety  of  times  that  were  inexpressibly 
melodious,  and  altogetlier  ditferent  from  anything  I  had  ever  heard.  They  put  me  in 
mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are  played  to  the  dei)arted  souls  of  good  men  ui)on  their 
first  arrival  in  paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  the  last  agonies,  and  (jualify  Iliem 
for  the  i)leasures  of  that  liappy  place.     My  heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptures. 

I  liad  been  often  told  that  tlie  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt  of  a  genius,  and  that 
several  had  been  I'utirtained  witli  niusio  who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  lieard  tlial  the 
musician  had  before  made  hiinself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my  thoughts  by  those 
trans])oriinL'  airs  which  lie  iilayed,  to  taste  the  jileasures  of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked 
upon  him  like  one  astonislied,  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand,  directed 
me  to  approach  tlie  ))la(i'  where  he  sat.  .  .  . 

He  then  led  me  to  ihe  liiLrbist  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and  idaring  me  on  the  tup  of  it, 
"fast  thine  eyes  eastward,"  said  he,  "and  tell  nie  what  thou  seest."  "I  see,"  said  I,  "a 
huge  valley,  and  a  pro(li},'ious  tide  of  water  rolling  throui;li  it."  "Tlie  valhy  that  thou 
seest,"  said  he,  "is  the  vale  of  misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  tliat  thou  seest,  is  part  of 
the  u'reat  tide  of  ctcrMity."  "What  is  llic  reason,"  said  I,  "that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out 
of  a  thick  mi-t  at  one  end,  and  ai,'ain  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other  V  "What 
thou  seest,'"  said  lie,  "i>tli:it  portion  of  eternity  which  is  called  Time,  measured  out  by  the 
sun,  and  reachin;.'  from  tb<-  bcL'inninu'  of  the  world  to  its  consummation.  Examine  now,"' 
said  he.  "this  sea  that  i>  bounded  with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  dis- 
covercst  in  it.  "  "I  sic  a  liridire, '"  said  I,  "standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.""  "The 
bridL'c  tliou  sce-^t,""  -^aid  be,  "i-  llunian  Life:  consider  it  attentively"'  Upon  a  more 
leisurely  survey  of  it,  1  foinid  it  ron-isti'<l  of  thrc'escore  and-ten  entire  arches,  with 
several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that  were  entire,  made  uj)  the  number  to 


ADDISON.  85 

about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the  arches,  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  con- 
sisted at  first  of  a  thousand  arches,  but  that  a  great  liood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left 
the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  1  now  beheld  it.  "  But  tell  uie  further,"  said  he,  "  what 
thou  discoverest  on  it."  "1  see  multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it,"  said  I,  "and  a 
black  cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it."  As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of 
the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  beneatli  it; 
and  upon  further  examination,  perceived  there  were  innumerable  trap-<loors  that  lay 
concealed  in  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  ui)on  but  they  fell  through 
them  into  the  tide  and  immediately  disappeared.  These  hidden  pitfalls  were  set  very 
thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke  through 
the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them.  They  grew  thinner  toward  the  middle,  but 
multiplied  and  lay  closer  together  towards  the  ends  of  the  arches  that  were  entire. 

There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number  was  very  small,  that  continued 
a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another,  being 
quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk.  .  .  .  My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melan- 
choly to  sec  several  dropi)ing  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity,  and  catching 
at  everything  that  stood  by  them  to  save  tliemselves.  Some  were  looking  up  towards  the 
heavens  in  a  thoughtful  jxisture,  and,  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation,  stumbled  and  fell 
out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered  in  tlieir 
eyes  and  danced  before  them;  but  often  when  they  tho\ight  themselves  within  the  reach 
of  them,  their  footing  failed,  and  down  they  sank.  .  .  . 

I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "Alas,"  said  I,  "man  was  made  in  vain  I  — how  is  he 
given  away  to  misery  and  mortality  I  —  tortured  in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death!" 
The  genius  being  moved  with  compassion  towards  me,  bade  me  quit  so  uncomfortable 
a  prospect.  "  Look  no  more,"  said  he,  "on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his 
setting  out  for  eternity,  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which  the  tide  bears 
the  several  generations  of  mortals  that  fall  into  it.''  I  directed  my  sight  as  i  was 
ordered,  and, —  whetlier  or  no  the  good  genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural 
force, or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  penetrate,— 
1  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  former  end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean, 
that  had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through  the  midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into 
two  equal  parts.  Tiie  cloud  still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover 
nothing  in  it,  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean  planted  with  innumerable 
islands  that  were  covered  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little 
shining  seas  that  run  among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious  liahits,  with 
garlands  upon  their  heads,  pas>ing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  sides  of  foun- 
tains, or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers,  and  could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of  sin;:ing-bir<ls, 
falling  waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instruments.  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon  the 
discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle  that  I  might  fly 
away  to  those  happy  seats,  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was  no  passau'e  to  them  exeept 
through  the  Gates  of  Death  that  I  saw  opeiiini,'  every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  "The 
islands,"  said  he,  "that  lie  so  fresh  and  L'reen  before  thee,  and  with  which  tlie  whole 
face  of  the  ocean  api)ears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the 
sands  on  the  sea-shore;  there  are  myriads  of  islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  dis- 
coverest, reaching  further  than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imatrination.  can  extend  itself. 
These  arc  the  mansions  of  i^ood  men  after  death,  who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds 
of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are  distributed  among  the-'e  M'veral  islaiuN,  wliich 
abound  with  i)leasures  of  dilTirent  kinds  and  deirrees,  suitable  to  the  relishes  an<l  per- 
fections of  those  \y\u)  are  settled  in  Iheni.  K\<Ty  i-land  is  a  jmradise  accoMunodniid  to 
its  resiiective  inhal)itant>.  .\  re  not  lliese,  ()  Mirza  I  habitation*  worth  contendiiiL.'  fur'.' 
Does  life  appear  miserable,  that  gives  thee  oppDrtunities  of  earning  such  a  reward  ;  N 
death  to  be  feared,  that  will  convey  lliee  to  so  happy  an  exi-tence  ?  Think  not  man  wa* 
made  in  vain,  who  has  sucli  an  eternity  preserved  fcir  liiin."  I  ga/ed  with  ine\|ni--ilde 
jdeasure  on  these  liappy  islands.  .\t  leiiL'th,  said  1:  "Shew  me  now,  I  be-ee.li  thi-e.  the 
secrets  that  be  liid  under  tho<e  dark  clouds  which  cover  the  ocean  in\  the  ullici- side  of 
the  rock  of  adamant."  The  LTeiiius  inakiim  nii'  mi  answer,  I  turned  alMiijt  to  adilrr^s 
myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left  ine.    I  then  turned  again  In  the 


86  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

vision  which  I  had  been  so  long  contemplating,  but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched 
bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with 
oxen,  sheep,  and  camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it.' 

Style. — Luminous,  graceful,  vivid,  elegant,  familiar,  and  even, 
never  blazing  into  unexpected  splendor;  the  exact  words,  the 
clear  contrasts,  the  harmonious  periods,  of  classical  refinement 
and  finish,  happy  inventions  threaded  by  the  most  amiable  irony. 
His  poems  — Cato  and  the  Hymns  excepted  —  regular  and  frigid, 
like  the  rule-and-compass  poetry  of  Pope. 

Rank. — A  public  favorite,  an  unrivalled  satirist.  The  most 
charming  of  talkers,  an  unsullied  statesman,  a  model  of  pure  and 
elegant  English,  a  consummate  painter  of  human  nature,  and  the 
greatest  of  English  essayists,  occupying  a  place  in  English  litera- 
ture only  second  to  that  of  its  great  masters.  A  polished  shaft 
in  the  temple  of  thouglit,  whose  workmanship  is  more  striking 
than  the  weight  supported. 

Character. — Without  taint  of  perfidy,  of  cowardice,  of  cru- 
elty, of  ingratitude,  or  of  envy;  satirical  without  abuse,  temper- 
ing ridicule  with  a  tender  compassion  for  all  that  is  frail,  and  a 
profound  reverence  for  all  that  is  sublime.  The  greatest  and 
most  salutary  reform  of  i)ublic  morals  and  tastes  ever  effected  by 
any  satirist,  he  accomplished  without  a  personal  lampoon. 

Himself  a  Whig,  he  was  described  by  the  bitterest  Tories  as  a 
gentleman  of  wit  and  virtue,  in  whose  friendship  many  persons  of 
both  ])arties  were  happy,  and  whose  name  ought  not  to  be  mixed 
up  witli  factious  squabbles. 

In  the  heat  of  controversy,  no  outrage  could  provoke  him  to  a 
retaliation  unworthy  of  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman.  With  a 
boundless  jtowor  of  abusing  men,  he  never  used  it.  His  modesty 
amounted  to  ba.slifulness.  He  once  rose  in  debate,  in  the  House 
of  (,'ommons,  but  could  not  conquer  his  diffidence,  and  ever  after 
remained  silent.  As  an  Oxford  studcMit,  lie  was  gentle  and  medi- 
tative, loving  solitary  walks  under  the  elms  tliat  fringe  the  banks 

of  the  Cherwell.      Is  it  not  prophetic a  commentary  in  itself  — 

that  he  loved  the  quietness  of  nature?  Mav  we  not  lienee  expect 
the  music  of  long  eadeneed  and  tran(|uil  phrases,  the  measured 
harmonies  of  noble  images,  and  tlie  grave  sweetness  of  moral 
sentiments? 

He   stocxl  fast    t)y   the  altar  of   worship.      God  was  his   loving 


ADDISON.  87 

friend,  who  had  tenderly  watched  over  his  cradle,  who  had  pre- 
served his  youth,  and  richly  blessed  his  manhood.  His  favorite 
psalm  was  that  which  represents  the  Deity  under  tlic  endearing 
image  of  a  Shepherd.  On  his  death-bed,  he  called  himself  to  a 
strict  account,  sent  for  Gay,  and  asked  pardon  for  an  injury 
which  it  was  not  even  suspected  that  he  had  connnitted;  sent  for 
young  Warwick,  to  whom  he  had  been  tutor,  and  whom  he  had 
vainly  endeavored  to  reclaim  from  an  irregular  life  ;  told  him, 
when  he  desired  to  hear  his  last  injunction,  'I  have  sent  for  you 
that  you  may  see  how  a  Christian  can  die.' 

Influence.  —  Seen  best  in  the  purpose  which  inspiretl  his 
papers.  '  The  great  and  only  end  of  these  speculations,'  says 
Addison,  in  a  number  of  the  SjMCtator,  'is  to  banish  vice  and 
ignorance  out  of  the  territories  of  Great  Britain,'  He  was  a  suc- 
cessful reformer.  He  made  morality  fashionable,  and  it  remained 
in  fashion.  Tlie  Puritans  had  divorced  elegance  from  virtue  —  he 
reconciled  them;  genius  was  still  thought  to  have  some  natural 
connection  with  profligacy  —  he  divorced  them  ;  pleasure  was 
subservient  to  passion  —  he  made  it  subservient  to  reason: 

'It  was  said  of  Socrates  tliat  he  brought  Philosophy  down  from  heaven  to  inhabit 
amon^'  men;  and  I  shall  be  ambitious  to  have  it  said  of  me,  that  I  iiave  brouglit  Philoso- 
phy out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at 
tea-tables,  and  in  coffee-houses." 

His  essays  are,  directly  or  indirectly,  moral  —  rules  of  propriety, 
precepts  on  when  to  speak,  when  to  be  silent,  how  to  refuse,  how 
to  comply  ;  reprimands  to  thoughtless  women,  raillery  against 
fashionable  young  men,  a  portrait  of  an  honest  Tuan,  attacks 
against  the  conceit  of  rank,  epigrams  on  the  frivolity  of  etiquette, 
advice  to  families,  consolations  to  the  sorrowing,  reflections  on 
God,  the  fviturc  life. 

A  good  and  happy  man,  he  scattered  freely  the  blessings  of  a 
kind  and  generous  nature.  His  satire,  always  directed  against 
every  form  of  social  offence,  was  of  that  genial  kind  which, 
wooing  the  reader  along  a  sunny  path,  awakens  attention  to  his 
faults  without  friction  or  irritation.  He  was  the  first  to  make  of 
])rose  a  fine  art,  and  elegant  cultun^  has  ever  since  fomid  constant 
expression  in  prose. 

Human  iminortalitv  is  of  three  kinds:  ()bj<>ctive  in  (Jod — tlie 
immortality  of  conscious  existence;    subjective   in   the   minds   ot 


88  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

men  —  the  immortality  of  fame;  subjective  in  the  life  of  the 
world  —  the  immortality  of  energy,  energy  that  expends  itself  in 
good  works,  and,  by  the  natural  transmission  of  force,  lives  to 
perish  never.  These  three  were  the  inheritance  of  Addison,  and 
are  possible  to  few;  the  last  is  tlie  privilege  of  all.  No  particles 
of  Iiim  will  ever  be  lost.  Ever  since  he  died  there  has  been  a 
growth  of  the  Christ-like.  The  seeds  he  dropped  took  root  in 
the  soul  of  man,  have  grown  apace,  flowering  every  spring,  fruit- 
ing every  autunni,  spreading  in  the  very  air  the  odor  of  the  bloom 
and  the  flavor  of  the  fruit.  No  good  thing  is  lost.  Forty-four 
years  after  his  death,  the  Council  of  Constance  ordered  the  bones 
of  Wyclifife  to  be  dug  up  and  burned.  The  vultures  of  the  law 
took  what  little  they  could  find,  burned  it,  and  cast  the  ashes  into 
the  Swift,  a  little  brook  running  hard  by,  and  thought  they  had 
made  away  Avith  both  his  bones  and  his  doctrines.  How  does  it 
turn  out?  The  historian  says:  'The  brook  took  them  into  the 
Avon,  the  Avon  into  the  Severn,  the  Severn  into  the  narrow  seas, 
they  into  the  main  ocean;  and  thus  the  ashes  of  Wycliffe  are 
the  emblems  of  his  doctrine,  whicli  is  now  dispersed  all  the  world 
over.'  ' 

You  and  T  may  not  have  much  intellectual  power,  our  thought 
may  never  fill  the  world's  soul;  but,  if  we  have  stimulated  a  gen- 
erous wish  or  a  noble  aspiration,  if  we  have  ever  furnished  a 
medium  in  which  handsome  things  may  be  projected  and  per- 
formed,—  if  we  have  added  one  leaf  to  tlie  tree  of  humanity,  one 
blossom  to  its  wealth  of  bloom,  or  aught  to  its  harvest  of  fruit, 
we  may  rely  upon  the  eternal  law  that  neither  things  present  nor 
things  to  come  can  deprive  these  outgoing  particles  of  their  im- 
mortality. Mon;  fitting  and  enduring  ej)itaph  than  this  Addison 
coukl  not  have:    'He  lived  wisely  and  usefully.' 

'  Sue  Vol.  I,  p.  20;i. 


THE    REALIST.  89 


DE    FOE. 

His  imagination  was  that  of  a  man  of  business,  not  of  an  artist,  crammed,  and  as  it 
were  jammed  down  witli  facts.  He  tells  them  as  they  come  to  him,  witliout  arrange- 
ment or  style,  like  a  conversation.  .  .  .  Never  was  such  a  sense  of  the  real  before  or 
Blnce.—  Taine. 

Biography.  —  Born  in  1661,  the  son  of  a  London  butcher 
named  Foe.  Disliking  the  family  name,  he  added  a  prefix  to  suit 
his  own  taste.  Studied  five  years,  at  a  Dissenters'  academy,  for 
the  Presbyterian  ministry.  Joined  the  Monmouth  insurrection, 
and  escaped  hanging  or  transportation.  Became  a  hosier,  and 
failed.  Became  a  merchant-adventurer,  visiting  Spain  and  Port- 
ugal, and  absconded  from  his  creditors  in  1692.  Subsequently 
paid  their  entire  claims,  when  legally  relieved  of  the  obligation  to 
do  so.  Became  an  accountant  under  William  III,  but  lost  his 
appointment  in  1699  by  suppression  of  the  Glass  Duty.  Became 
a  tile-maker,  and  lost  three  thousand  pounds  in  the  undertaking. 
Explains  in  1705,  'How,  with  a  numerous  family  and  no  help  but 
Iiis  own  industry,  he  had  forced  his  way  with  undiscouraged  dili- 
gence through  a  sea  of  misfortunes.'  Writes  a  pamphlet  against 
the  High  Church  party,  is  misunderstood,  fined,  pilloried,  his  ears 
cut  off,  imprisoned  two  years, —  charity  preventing  his  wife  and 
six  children  from  dying  of  hunger  during  his  imprisonment. 
Caricatured,  robbed,  and  slandered,  he  withdrew  from  politics, 
and  at  fifty-five,  poor  and  burdened,  turned  to  fiction.  Wrote  in 
prose,  in  verse,  on  all  subject.s,  in  all  two  hundred  and  fifty-four 
works!  and,  struck  down  with  apoplexy,  died  in  1731,  penniless, 
insolvent,  iinmortal. 

Appearance. — Under  order  of  arrest  on  the  charge  of  sedi- 
tion, he  was  described  by  tlie  Gdzctte  of  January,  170'-2,  as  'a 
middle-sized  spare  man,  ai)out  forty  years  old,  of  a  brown  com- 
plexion, and  dark  brown  liair,  though  he  wears  a  wig,  having  a 
hook  ncjse,  a  sharp  chin,  grey  eyes,  and  a  large  mole  near  his 
mouth.' 

Writing's. —  Tr>ie-hor)i  E)it/li!<}nii<i)i  (17<>1),  a  jioetical  satin> 
on  the  forcigni'rs,  and  a  defence  of  King  A\'illiani  and  tlir  Dutch. 
Its  sale  was  almost  unexamjiletl;  eighty  thousand  ])irat('il  copies 
were    sold  on   the  streets.      Tuneless   and    homely,    it    sliows   the 


90  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

ability  of  its  author  to  reason  forcibly  in  rhyme.     The  opening 
lines  are  characteristic: 

'Wherever  God  erects  a  house  of  prayer, 
The  devil  always  builds  a  chapel  there; 
And  'twill  be  found  upon  examination. 
The  latter  has  the  largest  congregation.' 

The  Shortest  Way  iclth  the  Dissenters  (1702),  a  work  wherein 
he,  '  himself  a  Dissenter,'  ironically  recommends  the  stake  and 
the  gallows.  Neither  Whig  nor  Tory  could  understand  De  Foe's 
irony;  it  was  too  subtle  or  obscure,  and  the  work  was  voted  a 
libel  on  the  nation.  The  author  was  condemned  to  pay  a  fine, 
was  set  in  the  pillory,  and  imprisoned.  Confined  in  Newgate,  he 
commenced  the  Revieio,  designed  to  treat  of  news,  foreign  and 
domestic;  of  politics,  English  and  European;  of  trade,  particular 
and  universal.  Realizing  that  the  age,  naturally  averse  to  any- 
thing serious,  would  not  read  unless  it  could  be  diverted,  he  skil- 
fully instituted  a  Scandal  Club,  Avhicli  discussed  questions  in 
divinity,  morals,  war,  trade,  poetry,  love,  marriage,  drunkenness, 
and  gaming.  Thus  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  Review  pointed  the 
way  to  the  Toiler. 

Rohinson  Crusoe,  a  novel  of  adventure.  Perhaps  the  most 
widely  diffused  and  the  most  eagerly  read  of  English  produc- 
tions. As  long  as  there  are  boys  and  girls,  it  will  continue  to  find 
devoted  readers.  '  Nobody,'  observed  Johnson,  'ever  laid  it  down 
without  wishing  it  were  longer.' 

Journal  of  the  Great  Plar/iie  in  London,  a  description  of 
sights,  incidents,  and  persons,  as  observed  by  an  assumed  shop- 
keeper. Dr.  Moad,  a  famous  physician,  appealed  to  it  for  medical 
pur|)c)ses,  and  it  has  more  than  once  passed  for  a  genuine  history. 

The  Jfe/j/(j/'rs  of  a  Caralier,  so  plausible,  so  natural,  so  real, 
that  Lord  Cliatliani  was  deceived  into  recommending  it  as  the 
most  authentic  account  of  the  Civil  War. 

7)-uc  lithitlon  of  til f  Apparition  of  Jfrs.  J^ral,  a  narrative  of 
facts  seemingly  as  true  and  indubitable  as  any  that  ever  passed 
before  our  eyes.  Tt  was  ])refi.\ed  to  a  religious  book  On  JJeath, 
and  not  onlv  sold  the  whole  edition  of  an  otherwise  unsalable 
work,  but  exciti-d  extensive  irupiiries  into  the  alleged  facts.  One 
of  his  works  has  the  curious  title  of:  Jfars  sfript  of  his  armor; 
a  la.-i/iinf/  caricdture  of  the  hahits  ami  nianne-rs  of  all  kinds  o/ 


DE   FOE.  91 

military  men,  tcritten  on  purpose  to  delight  quiet  tradespeople, 
and  cure  their  daughters  of  their  passion  for  red-coats. 

Judge,  from  two  or  three  examples,  of  his  wonderful  gift  of 
'forging  the  handwriting  of  nature,'  and  liow  near  are  we  to  the 
present  anti-romantic  reading  of  observers  and  moralists.  We 
quote  from  the  Journal: 

'As  I  went  along  Iloundsditch  one  inorninj;  about  eight  o'clock,  there  was  a  great 
iioise.  ...  A  watchman,  it  seems,  had  been  employed  to  keep  his  post  at  the  door  of  a 
house  which  was  infected,  or  said  to  be  infected,  and  was  shut  up.  He  had  been  there  all 
night,  for  two  nights  together,  us  he  told  his  story,  and  the  day  watchman  had  been  there 
one  day,  and  was  now  come  to  relieve  him.  All  this  while  no  noise  had  been  heard  in  the 
house,  no  light  had  been  seen,  they  called  for  nothing,  had  sent  him  no  errands,  which 
used  to  be  the  chief  business  of  the  watchman;  neither  had  they  given  him  any  disturb- 
ance, as  he  said,  from  Monday  afternoon,  when  he  heard  a  great  crying  and  screaming  in 
the  house,  which,  as  he  supposed,  was  occasioned  by  some  of  the  family  dying  just  at 
that  time. 

It  seems,  the  night  before,  the  dead-cart,  as  it  was  called,  had  been  stopped  there, 
and  a  servant-maid  had  been  brought  down  to  the  door  dead,  and  the  buriers,  or  bearers, 
as  they  were  called,  put  her  into  the  cart,  wrapped  only  in  a  green  rug,  and  carried 
her  away. 

The  watchman  had  knocked  at  the  door,  it  seems,  when  he  heard  that  noise  and 
crying,  as  above,  and  nobody  answered  a  great  while;  but  at  last  one  looked  out  and 
eaid,  with  an  angry,  quick  tone,  and  yet  a  kind  of  crying  voice,  or  a  voice  of  one  that  was 
crying,  "  Wliat  d'ye  want,  that  you  make  such  a  knocking?" 

He  answered,  "I  am  tlie  watchman.  How  do  you  do?  What  is  the  matter?"  The 
person  answered,  "What  is  that  to  you?    Stop  the  dead-cart.'' ' 

Again : 

'Much  about  the  same  time  I  walked  out  into  the  fields  towards  Bow,  for  I  had  a 
great  mind  to  set'  liow  things  were  managed  in  tl>e  river  and  among  tlie  ships.  .  .  . 

Here  I  saw  a  poor  man  walking  on  tlie  bank,  or  sea-wall,  as  tliey  call  it,  by  himself. 
I  walked  awliile  also  about,  seeing  the  houses  all  sliut  up;  at  last  I  fell  into  some  talk,  at 
a  distance,  with  this  poor  man.  First  I  asked  him  how  i)eople  did  thereabouts.  "Alas! 
sir,"  says  he,  "almost  desolate;  all  dead  or  sick.  Here  are  very  few  families  in  this  part, 
or  in  that  village,"'— pointing  at  l'opl:ir,  —  "  where  half  of  them  are  dead  already,  and  the 
rest  sick.''  Then  he,  pointing  to  one  house :  "There  they  are  all  dead,"  said  he,  "  and 
the  house  stands  open;  nobody  dares  go  into  it.  A  poor  thief,''  says  he,  "ventured  in  to 
steal  something,  but  he  paid  dear  for  his  theft,  for  he  was  carried  to  the  churchyard  too, 
last  night.''  Then  he  pointed  to  several  other  houses.  "There,"  says  he,  "  they  are  all 
dead — the  man  and  his  wife  and  live  children.  There,''  says  he,  "They  ari'  shut  up;  you 
see  a  watchman  at  tlie  door;  and  so  of  other  houses.''  "  Why,"  says  I,  "  what  do  you  here 
all  alone?"  "Why,'  says  lie,  "I  am  a  poor  desolate  nian:  it  hath  pleased  (iod  1  am  not 
yet  visited,  though  my  family  is,  and  one  of  my  children  dead."  "How  do  you  me;in 
then,"  said  I,  "that  you  are  not  visiied?"  "Why,"  says  he,  "that  is  my  house," — point- 
ing to  a  very  little  low-lioanli'd  Ikiusi-, — "and  there  m.\'  poor  wife  and  two  ehildi-eii  li\e,'' 
said  he,  '•  if  they  may  he  ^aill  to  live :  for  my  wife  and  one  of  the  children  are  visited,  but 
I  do  not  conic  at  thciii."  .\n(i  with  Ilia!  word  I  saw  the  tears  run  very  plentifully  down 
his  fac<':  and  m)  t!icy  did  down  mine  too,  I  assure  you. 

"  I!ut."  said  1,  "why  do  you  not  come  at  tlU'Ui''  How  can  you  al):iii(lon  your  own  llc~h 
and  blood-"  "O,  ~ir,  "  says  he,  "the  Lord  forbid.  I  do  not  abandon  th.'iu:  1  work  for 
them  a~  luucli  a-^  I  am  able:  and  liles<cd  he  the  Lord,  I  keep  them  from  want,"  .\nd 
with  that  I  oli~cr\<'(l  he  lifted  up  his  eyc<  lo  heaven  with  a  countenance  that  presently  tohi 
me  I  had  hapiicned  (ui  a  man  that  was  no  hypocrite,  hut  a  serioii-,  reliu'ii'Us,  e-ood  man: 
and  his  ejaculation  was  an  ex|)ression  of  thankfuliios,  that,  in  such  a  condition  as  he 


92  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

was  in,  he  should  be  able  to  say  his  family  did  not  want.  "Well,"  says  I,  "honest  man, 
that  is  a  great  mercy,  as  things  go  now  with  the  poor.  But  how  do  you  live  then,  and 
how  are  you  liept  from  the  dreadful  calamity  that  is  now  upon  us  all?"  "Why,  sir,"  says 
he,  "I  am  a  waterman  and  there  is  my  boat,"  says  he;  "and  the  boat  serves  me  for  a 
house;  I  work  in  it  in  the  day,  and  I  sleep  in  it  in  the  night;  and  what  I  get  I  lay  it  down 
upon  that  stone,"  says  he,  shewing  me  a  broad  stone  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  a 
good  way  from  his  house;  "and  then,"  says  he,  "I  halloo  and  call  to  them  till  I  make 
them  hear,  and  they  come  and  fetch  it."  .  .  . 

"Do  you  see  there,"  says  he,  "five  ships  lie  at  anchor?" — pointing  down  the  river 
a  good  way  below  the  town, — "  and  do  you  see,"  says  he,  "  eight  or  ten  ships  lie  at  the 
chain  there,  and  at  anchor  yonder?"— pointing  above  the  town.  "All  those  ships  have 
families  on  board,  of  their  merchants  and  owners,  and  such  like,  who  have  locked  them- 
selves up,  and  live  on  board,  close  shut  in,  for  fear  of  the  infection;  and  I  tend  on  them 
to  fetch  things  for  them,  carry  letters,  and  do  what  is  absolutely  necessary,  that  they  may 
not  be  obliged  to  come  on  shore ;  and  every  night  I  fasten  my  boat  on  board  one  of  the 
ship's  boats,  and  there  I  sleep  by  myself;  and  blessed  be  God,  I  am  preserved  hither- 
to." .  .  . 

"Hark  thee,  friend,"  said  I,  "come  hither,  for  1  believe  thou  art  in  health,  that  I 
may  venture  thee;  "  so  I  pulled  out  my  hand,  which  was  in  my  pocket  before.  "Here," 
says  I,  "go  and  call  thy  Rachel  once  more,  and  give  her  a  little  comfort  from  me;  God 
will  never  forsake  a  family  that  trust  in  Him  as  thou  dost":  so  I  gave  him  four  other 
shillings,  and  bid  him  go  lay  them  on  the  stone,  and  call  his  wife.  I  have  not  words  to 
express  the  poor  man's  tliankfulness,  neither  could  he  express  it  himself,  but  by  tears 
running  down  his  face.  He  called  his  wife,  and  told  her  God  had  moved  the  heart  of  a 
stranger,  upon  hearing  their  condition,  to  give  them  all  tliat  money;  and  a  great  deal 
more  such  as  that  he  said  to  her.  The  woman,  too,  made  signs  of  the  like  thankfulness, 
as  well  to  Heaven  as  to  me,  and  joyfully  picked  it  up;  and  I  parted  with  no  money  all 
that  year  that  I  thought  better  bestowed.' 

Crusoe,  cast  alone  on  a  desert  island,  is  terrified  by  the  discovery 
of  a  human  footmark: 

'It  happened  one  day  about  noon,  going  towards  my  boat,  I  was  exceedingly  sur- 
prised with  the  print  of  a  man's  naked  foot  on  the  shore,  which  was  very  plain  to  be  seen 
in  the  sand :  I  stood  like  one  thunderstruck,  or  as  if  I  had  seen  an  apparition :  I  listened, 
I  looked  around  me,  I  could  hear  nothing,  nor  see  anything;  I  went  up  to  a  rising  ground 
to  look  farther:  I  went  up  the  shore,  and  down  the  shore,  but  it  was  all  one,  I  could  see 
no  other  impression  but  that  one:  I  went  to  it  again  to  sec  if  there  were  any  more,  and 
to  observe  if  it  might  not  be  my  fancy;  but  there  was  no  room  for  that,  for  thiTe  was 
exactly  the  very  print  of  a  foot,  toes,  tieel,  and  every  part  of  a  foot.  How  it  came  thither 
I  knew  not,  nor  could  in  the  least  imagine.  But  after  innumerable  fluttering  thoughts, 
like  a  man  ]>erfectly  confused,  and  out  of  myself,  I  came  home  to  my  fortificaticni,  not 
feeling,  as  we  say,  the  ground  I  went  on,  but  terrified  to  the  last  degree,  looking  behind 
me  at  every  two  or  three  steps,  mistaking  every  bush  and  tree,  and  fancying  every  stump 
at  a  distance  to  be  a  man;  nor  is  it  possible  to  describe  how  many  various  shapes  an 
affrighted  imagination  rei)resentod  things  to  me  in;  how  many  wild  ideas  were  formed 
every  monient  in  my  fancy,  and  what  strange,  unaccountable  whimsies  came  into  my 
tlioiights  by  file  Wiiy. 

When  I  came  to  my  castle,  for  so  I  think  I  called  it  ever  after  this,  I  fled  into  it  like 
one  ))ursued;  wtiellier  I  went  over  by  the  ladder,  at  first  contrived,  or  went  in  at  tlie  hole 
in  the  rock,  which  I  called  a  door,  I  cannot  renieint)er;  for  never  frighted  hare  fled  to 
cover,  or  fox  to  earth,  with  more  terror  of  mind  than  I  to  this  retreat.' 

Pcrliaps  tlio  d(>vil  left  it: 

'  I  considered  tliat  the  devil  might  have  found  out  abundance  of  other  ways  to  have 
terrified  nie,  .  .  .  that,  as  I  lived  quite  on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  he  would  never 
have  been  so  simple  to  leave  a  mark  in  a  |)l!ice  where  it  was  ten  thousand  to  one  wliether 


DE    FOE.  93 

I  should  ever  see  it  or  not,  and  in  the  sand  too.  which  the  first  surge  of  the  sea  upon  a 
high  wind  would  have  defaced  entirely.  All  this  seemed  inconsistent  with  the  thing 
Itself,  and  with  all  notions  we  usually  entertain  of  the  subtlety  of  the  devil." 

Style. — Pure,  simple,  clear,  vigorous,  colloquial,  idiomatic. 

Rank. — Unrivalled  in  the  invention  and  relation  of  incidents. 
*  Never  was  such  a  sense  of  the  real  before  or  since.'  The  grand 
secret  of  his  art  —  if  that  nia\'  be  called  art  which  is  nature 
itself  —  consists  in  an  astonishing  minuteness  of  details  and  an 
unequalled  power  of  giving  reality  to  the  incidents  which  he 
relates.  He  deceives  not  the  eye,  but  the  mind,  and  that  literally, 
as  we  have  noticed.  The  preface  to  an  old  edition  of  Iiobinso)i 
Crusoe  says: 

'The  story  is  told  ...  to  tlie  instruction  of  others  by  this  example,  and  to  justify 
and  honor  the  wisdom  of  Providence.  The  editor  believes  the  thin^  to  be  a  just  history 
of  facts;  neither  is  there  any  ai)pearance  of  fiction  in  it." 

He  sat  in  his  closet,  travelled  round  the  world  in  idea,  saw 
with  the  distinctness  of  natural  vision,  then  narrated  -so  plausibly 
as  to  deceive  the  most  intelligent. 

His  fields  of  power  were:  national  convulsions,  by  war,  by 
pestilence,  or  by  tempest;  magic,  ghost-seeing,  witchcraft,  and 
the  occult  sciences;  thieves,  rogues,  vagabonds,  swindlers,  buc- 
caneers, and  pirates.  The  courage,  the  wonderful  and  romantic 
adventures,  and  the  hairbreadth  escapes  of  pirates  seem  to  have 
had  for  him  an  indiiite  charm. 

Ch.aracter. — A  poet,  a  novelist,  and  a  polemic  ;  born  a 
writer,  as  otlier  men  are  born  generals  and  statesmen.  Without 
the  idea  of  beautv,  he  is  goo(i  and  religious,  too  good  and  relig- 
ious to  forg(!t  the  distinctions  between  virtue  and  vice,  Tlunigh 
his  subjects  are  low,  his  aims  are  moral.  In  this  respect,  he  is 
entitled  to  a  much  liiglu  r  ])raise  than  is  genrialiy  awarded  him. 
His  lierf)es  and  incidents  are  made  the  fretpuMit  occasion  of  incid- 
cating  the  fundamental  truths  of  religion,  the  being-  of  (iod,  the 
superintendencv  (i^  Providence,  the  certainty  of  Heaven  and  Ilell, 
the  one  to  reward,  the  other  to  jninisli.  Crxsof  is  1  )e  l-'oe, — 
honest,  open,  confidential,  laying  his  itunost  thoughts  and  feelings 
before  us;  ])atient  and  invincible  in  dillicultv,  in  disappointment, 
in  toil;   sanguine,  combating,  coiKiuering. 

Of  his  lial)its,  little  can  now  !)e  told  more  than  he  (■oiit"<'Ssed  : 

'God,  I  tlianVc  Tbcc  I  am  not  a  drunVianl,  or  :i  swraror,  or  a  bu-ylxxly,  or  i'l!'-,  or 
revengeful;  and  thou;,'li  this  l)c  triu-.  and  I  challeni:e  all  tlie  world  to  prove  i!i.-  (oinr^iry. 


94  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

I  must  own  I  see  small  satisfaction  in  the  negatives  of  the  common  vjrtnes;  for  though 
I  have  not  been  guilty  of  any  of  these  vices,  nor  of  many  more,  I  have  nothing  to  infer 
from  thence  but,  Te  Deum  laudamus.' 

Influence. — His  moral  teaching,  as  indicated  above,  is  gener- 
ally unexceptionable.  Good  and  evil  are  carefully  discriminated. 
Knowing  life  better  than  the  soul,  the  course  of  the  world  better 
than  the  motives  of  men,  his  best  drawn  characters  are  less 
instructive  and  salutary  than  greater  delicacy  and  profounder 
insight  would  have  rendered  them. 

His  writings,  though  they  did  not  save  him  from  want,  gained 
him  a  renown  that  will  descend  the  stream  of  time  to  the  remotest 
generation  of  men. 


SWIFT. 


The  most  unhappy  man  on  edLrih.— Archbishop  King. 

Biography. — Born  in  Dublin,  in  16G7,  but  of  English  parent- 
age. Instructed  by  his  nurse,  at  three  he  could  spell,  and  at  five 
could  read  any  chapter  in  the  Bible.  Passed  eight  years  in  the 
school  of  Kilkenny,  and  at  fifteen,  poorly  supported  by  the  charity 
of  an  uncle,  entered  Dublin  University.  Odd,  awkward,  proud, 
and  friendless,  irregular  and  desultory  as  a  student,  he  incurred 
in  two  years  no  less  than  seventy  penalties,  meditated  Aii 
Account  of  the  Kinydoui  of  Absurdities,  to  show  his  disgust  for 
the  routine  of  scholastic  training,  and  jirovoked  the  pitying 
smiles  (jf  the  i)rofcssors  for  his  feeble  brain.  Failed  to  take  his 
degree,  on  account  of  'dulncss  and  insufliciency '  in  logic.  Pre- 
sented hiinsolf  for  examination  a  second  time,  without  having 
condescended  to  read  logic.  Refused  to  answer  the  questions 
propounded,  desired  to  know  what  he  was  to  learn  from  'those 
books,'  and  was  asked  how  lie  could  expect  to  reason  well  with- 
out rules;  retorted  that  he  did  reason  withf)Ut  them,  and  that,  so 
lar  as  he  had  observed,  rules  taught  men  to  wrangle  rather  than 
to  reason.  Obtained  his  degree  at  last  by  special  fivor,  a  term 
used  in  that  university  to  denote  want  of  merit. 

At  twenty  c)ne,  left  without  subsistence,  he  was  received  into 
the  house  of  Sir  William  Temple  as  secretarv,  at  twenty  pounds 


SWIFT.  95 

a  year  and  his  board;  dined  at  the  second  table,  and  smothered 
his  rebellion.  Studied  eight  hours  a  day  to  correct  his  former 
idleness,  and  ran  up  and  down  a  hill  every  two  hours  to  correct  a 
giddiness  he  had  contracted  in  Ireland.  Wrote  bad  verses  to 
flatter  his  master,  hoped  he  was  a  poet,  and  perpetually  hated 
Dryden,  who  said  of  them,  'Cousin  Swift,  you  will  never  be  a 
poet.' 

Ambitious  of  preferment,  sick  of  hopes  deferred,  and  galled 
by  his  servitude,  he  attempted  independence,  and  took  orders  in 
the  Irish  church  in  1694,  at  a  hundred  pounds  a  year,  in  a  distant, 
secluded,  and  half  civilized  place.  Found  it  a  lower  deep,  to 
which  the  hell  he  had  suffered  seemed  a  heaven;  was  forced  to 
accept  Temple's  cordial  invitation  to  return,  from  which  time  the 
two  appear  to  have  lived  in  mutual  confidence  and  esteem. 

Upon  Temple's  death  (1G98),  who  had  left  him  a  legacy  and 
his  manuscripts,  he  edited  the  works  of  his  patron,  dedicated 
them  to  William  III,  to  remind  him  of  promised  advancement, 
got  nothing,  and  accepted  the  post  of  secretary  to  a  nol)leman; 
was  circumvented,  then  promised  the  rich  Deanery  of  Derry,  saw 
it  bestowed  on  somebody  else,  and  fell  back  on  the  post  of  pre- 
bendary.' 

Constrained  to  reside  in  a  country  which  he  detested,  and 
longing  for  the  promotion  that  would  enable  him  to  return  to 
England,  near  the  centre  of  literary  and  political  activity,  he 
launched  into  politics,  advocated  Whig  principles,  received  fine 
promises  from  party  leaders,  and  was  neglected.  In  ITlO,  lured 
by  false  hopes  till  his  ])atience  was  exhausted,  and  insulted  with- 
out redress,  he  abandoned  the  Whigs,  who  were  now  to  be 
driven  from  office,  joined  the  Tori<'s,  levelled  at  his  former  friends 
the  l)lasting  lightning  of  his  satire,  was  feared  as  a  powerful  and 
unscrupulous  pamphleteer,  became  the  familiar  associate  and 
advisor  of  tli(^  rich  and  titled,  stretched  out  his  hands  for  an 
P]nglish  bisho]M-i(',  and  received, —  what  he  professed  to  regard  as 
an  lionoral)le  exile, —  only  th(<  Deanery  of  St.  Patrick's,  T^iil)lin  ; 
for  though  favon>d  liy  the  ininistcrs  of  stat(\  by  the  (^)u(M'ii  and 
Ilio-h  Church   dignitaries,  whose   party   he   had   espouscnl,    he  was 

'  In  the  countv  of  Mciilli,  iiortliwc-t  of  niililin.  Wliili"  htfc,  he  tippointol  111.'  rc'id- 
iim  of  [inivcrs  i)ir\Vciliic<<iiiv~  iiiul  Fri.hiy-^.  On  the  first  Wcdnfsihiy.  iiflc-r  ilw  b.'ll  ti;i(i 
Cfascd  rin'^in"  for  some  time,  lindini:  tliai  thi'  coiiLrrcLTation  consistiMi  only  of  liini-.'lf  and 
his  clerk,  UoLTcr.  he  bc^an:  •  Doarly  beloved  Ho^'er,  the  S.riptnre  nii>\.'th  yoii  and  me  in 
sundry  places,"  etc.;  and  then  proceeded  regularly  throuirh  tUr  whole  >ervii  e. 


96  CRITICAL    PEKIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

disliked  as  an  uncertain  friend  and  a  doubtful  Christian,  He  had 
been  the  author  of  a  religious  lampoon  (  Tale  of  a  lub)  that  was 
fatal  to  his  eminence  in  the  church.  To  Ireland  he  repaired  in 
bitterness  of  spirit.  There  he  was  exiled  by  the  return  of  the 
Whigs  to  power  under  George  I;  and  there  he  was  confined,  con- 
trary to  his  expectations,  by  their  continued  supremacy  under 
George  II.  Isolated,  even  pelted  by  the  populace  in  the  streets, 
stung  by  the  designations  of  renegade,  traitor,  and  atheist,  con- 
scious of  superiority  and  soured  by  the  feeling  of  his  own  impo- 
tence, he  vented  his  pent-up  rage  in  torturing,  crushing  satires 
against  theologians,  statesmen,  courtiers,  society.  In  1724,  by 
delivering  Ireland  from  a  fraudulent  and  oppressive  measure, 
from  being  an  object  of  hatred  he  became  an  object  of  idolatry; 
and  the  popularity  he  thus  acquired,  he  was  diligent  to  keep,  by 
continuing  attention  to  the  public,  and  by  various  modes  of 
beneficence.  But  power  almost  despotic  could  not  reconcile  him 
to  himself  or  his  environment,  and  in  1728  he  writes: 

'I  find  myself  (ii?posotl  every  year,  or  rather  every  month,  to  lie  more  angry  and 
revengeful;  and  my  rage  is  so  ignoble  tliat  it  descends  even  to  resent  the  folly  and  base- 
ness of  the  enslaved  people  among  whom  I  live.' 

Sometimes  wished  to  visit  England,  but  the  fire  was  burning 
low,  and  he  seems  to  have  had  a  presentiment  that  he  never 
would.  Tells  Pope  he  hopes  once  more  to  see  him;  'but  if  not,' 
he  says,  'we  must  part  as  all  human  beings  have  parted.' 

Subject  to  giddiness  from  his  youth,  the  attacks  grew  more 
frequent  with  advancing  age.  He  desisted  from  study.  Deaf- 
ness came  on,  making  conversation  difficult.  Having  vowed 
never  to  wear  s]iectacles,  he  was  unable  to  read. 

Memory  left  liiin,  reason  deserted  him,'  and  he  became  first  a 
maniac,  then  an  idiot.  After  a  year  of  total  silence,  his  house- 
keeper, on  the  ;3l>th  of  November,  told  him  that  the  usual  bonfires 
and  illuminations  were  ])reparing  to  celebrate  his  birthday.  An 
interval  of  reason  fhislied  its  light  across  his  midnight  sky,  and 
he  answered,  'It  is  all  folly;  they  had  better  let  it  alone.'  Sunk 
again  into  a  silent  idiocy,  he  expired  in  the  ensuing  October, 
1744.      Wlien  his  will  was  ojiened,  it  was  found  that  he  had  left 

'  I  remember  a-;  I  and  others  were  t.ikinir  with  Swift  an  evening  walk,  abonl  a  mile 
out  of  I)iit:Iin,  lie  ^-topprd  short:  we  i)asseil  on:  t)iit  pcrceivinir  lie  did  not  follow  lis,  I 
went  liaek  and  found  liiiii  fixed  as  a  slutiie:  and  earnestly  Kaziii!.'  upwards  at  a  noble 
tree,  wliicli,  in  \\<  upper  brauclies,  wa<  much  withered  and  deeaved.  I'ointing  at  it,  he 
siiid.  'I  !hall  be  like  that  tree:   I  >liall  die  at  the  top."— /Vr.  Yountf. 


SWIFT.  97 

his  fortune  to  build  an  asylum   for  idiots  and    madmen.     His 
morning  rose  in  clouds,  and  his  evening  went  down  in  eclipse. 

LiOVeS. —  Never  was  genius  more  fatal  in  its  influence,  nor 
friendship  more  blighting,  nor  unprosperous  love  more  widely 
famed.  While  a  student  in  the  university,  he  formed  an  attach- 
ment to  Jane  Warying,  sister  of  his  college  companion,  and 
poetically  termed  '  Varina.'  In  a  letter  of  April,  1G9G,  Swift 
complains  of  her  formality  and  coldness,  tells  her  that  he  has 
resolved  to  die  as  he  has  lived  —  all  hers.  She  signifies,  at  last, 
her  desire  to  consummate  their  union;  but  the  vision  that  had 
made  the  morning  and  the  evening  varied  enchantments,  was 
passing.  A  second  letter  of  May,  1700,  is  written  in  the  altered 
tone  of  one  who  is  anxious  to  escape  from  a  connection  which  he 
regrets  ever  to  have  formed.  Time  had  perhaps  estranged  him 
by  its  unequal  development  of  their  characters,  and  the  superior 
charms  of  another  had  begun  to  Aveave  their  spell  around  the 
lover's  heart. 

In  Temple's  family,  he  met  a  very  pretty,  dark-eyed,  modest 
young  girl  of  fifteen,  a  waiting-maid, —  Esther  Johnson.  Seven- 
teen years  her  senior,  he  became  her  instructor;  found  pleasure 
in  cultivating  her  talents;  became  her  companion  and  friend, 
though  he  could  little  have  thought  how  closely  and  tragically 
their  fortunes  and  their  fame  were  hereafter  to  be  united.  She 
loved  and  reverenced  him  only;  and  he  imtiiortalized  her  ms 
'Stella,'  or  'Star  that  dwelt  apart.'  To  reconcile  himself  to  an 
obscure  retirement,  he  invited  her  with  her  friend  Mrs.  Dingl«\v 
to  reside  in  Ireland.  They  lived  in  the  parsonage  when  he  was 
awav,  and  when  he  returned,  rcTuoved  to  a  lodging,  or  to  the 
house  of  a  near  elerg-yinan.  From  I>ondon,  during  the  period  of 
his  political  struggles  (1710-1713),  iie  wrote  to  iier  twic«>  a  day, 
a  journal  of  his  daily  life,  familiarly,  ])lavfullv,  and  endearingly; 
records,  for  her  gratification,  his  slightest  actions;  tells  where  he 
goes,  where  he  dines,  whom  he  meets,  what  he  spends. 

His  letters  ai'e  his  last  occupation  at  night,  and  his  liist  in  the 
Tuorning: 

'I  can  not  iro  to  b(>(!  without  a  wonl  to  Iliciii  (Stella  and  Mrs.  I)ini.'lfyi  :  I  can  not  \»n 
out  my  candle  till  I  l)id  them  t'ood  nii;ht.' 

He  had  met  in  [>ondon  vet  another  girl,  eighteen.  l)eautifid, 
rich,  lively,  grae<'l"ul,  and  fond  of  l)Ooks,  a  merchant's  daughter, — 

7 


98  CRITICAL   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Esther  Vanhomrigh.  Twenty-six  years  her  senior,  he  offered  to 
direct  her  in  her  choice  of  studies.  She  esteemed  him,  thanked 
him,  then  loved  him,  unacquainted  witli  the  peculiar  situation  in 
which  he  stood  related  to  another.  'Vanessa' — for  so  he  had 
poetically  named  her  —  avowed  her  passion,  and  received  in 
return,  first  raillery,  then  the  cold  proffer  of  everlasting  friend- 
ship. Thinking  to  possess  her  love  without  returning  it,  he  had 
encouraged  her  feelings,  to  disappoint  her  just  expectations. 
AVith  an  irrepressible  devotion,  she  followed  him  to  Dublin, 
hoping,  waiting,  remonstrating,  entreating, —  so  impassioned,  so 
unhappy,  so  agonized,  when  all  her  offerings  had  failed,  that  her 
letters  of  love  and  complaint  are  sadder  than  wails  above  the 
dead : 

'If  you  continue  to  treat  me  as  you  do,  you  will  not  be  made  uneasy  by  me  long.  .  .  . 
I  am  sure  I  could  have  borne  the  rack  much  better  tluin  tliose  killing,  killing  words  of 
you.  The  reason  I  write  to  you  is  because  I  cannot  tell  it  to  you,  should  I  see  you.  For 
when  I  begin  to  complain,  then  you  are  angry;  and  there  is  something  in  your  looks  .so 
awful  that  it  strikes  me  dumb.  Oil,  that  you  may  have  so  much  regard  for  me  left,  that 
this  complaint  may  touch  your  so\il  with  pity  I  1  say  as  little  as  ever  I  can.  Did  you  but 
know  what  I  thought,  I  am  sure  it  would  move  you  to  forgive  me,  and  believe  tluit  I 
cannot  help  telling  you  this  and  live."  ' 

Discovering  the  gulf  he  had  incautiously  approached,  he 
sought  to  alleviate  tlie  perils  he  could  no  longer  avert,  tried  to 
turn  her  mind  to  other  objects  and  interests,  but  in  vain.  She 
refused  to  mingle  in  society,  rejected  two  advantageous  offers  of 
marriage,  and  in  J 71 7  withdrew  to  a  country  retreat,  to  nurse  in 
seclusion  her  melaticholy  and  hopeless  attachment.  Here  she 
received  occasional  visits  from  Swift,  each  of  which  she  com- 
memorated by  planting  with  her  own  hand  a  laurel  in  the  garden 
where  they  met. 

Meanwhile,  the  familiar  power  of  pleasing,  which  Stella  had 
long  possessed,  suffered  a  j)artial  eclipse.  The  altered  tone  of 
his  London  letters  betrayed  a  divided  affection,  and  ^'anes.sa's 
arrival  in  Dublin  —  whose  name  he  liad  all  but  suppressed  — 
developed  the  cause,  while  it  increased  the  apprehensions  of 
Stella.  Sensibility  to  his  late  indifference,  and  jealousy  neither 
unreasonable  nor  (lishoiioral)le,  were  ])reying  uj)on  her  healtli. 
The  V)loom  and  beauty  of  votith  liad  faded  awav  in  the  midst  of 
hopes  and  wishes  unfultillei],  while  sli(»  was  l)itterly  conscious 
that    her   re})Utation   was  clouded    by  her  mysterious  connection 

'Letter  of  Vanessa,  Dublin.  1714. 


SWIFT.  99 

with  Swift,  though  her  conduct  was  irreproachable.  She  had  an 
undoubted  claim,  however,  over  the  affections  of  his  heart,  and  he 
married  her  at  last  from  a  sense  of  duty,  in  171 G,  secretly,  in  the 
garden  of  the  Deanery,  with  the  understanding  that  she  should 
be  his  wife  only  in  name.  On  his  public  days,  she  regulated  the 
table,  but  appeared  at  it  as  a  mere  guest.  Their  ^relations  con- 
tinued as  before,  and  they  lived  on  opposite  banks  of  the  Liffey. 
Tardy,  poor,  and  feeble  reparation  !  Immediately  after  the  cere- 
mony, he  was  gloomy  and  agitated.  Delany,  his  biographer, 
called  upon  Archbishop  King,  to  mention  his  apprehensions;  met 
Swift  rushing  by  with  a  countenance  of  distraction,  found  the 
Archbishop  in  tears,  and  inquired  the  reason:  'Sir,'  said  tlie  pre- 
late, 'you  have  just  met  the  most  unhappy  man  upon  earth;  but  on 
the  subject  of  his  wretchedness  you  must  never  ask  a  question.' 

The  tragedy  deepens  as  it  draws  to  a  close.  Without  explain- 
ing his  conduct,  he  continued  his  visits  to  Vanessa  —  with  more 
reserve,  let  us  hope,  and  with  increased  anxiety  to  direct  her 
passion  into  other  channels.  Eight  years  she  had  cherished  that 
passion  in  solitude.  By  the  death  of  her  younger  sister  in  1720, 
whose  failing  health  she  had  nursed,  yet  another  sorrow  was 
added.  Her  affection  for  Swift  redoubled  its  energ}'.  Driven 
almost  to  madness  by  suspense  and  suspicion,  she  wrote  at  last 
to  Stella  to  ascertain  the  nature  of  her  connection  with  the  Dean, 
and  was  informed,  in  reply,  of  the  marriage.  Stella  gave  the 
letter  to  Swift  for  explanation.  In  a  rage  he  carried  it  to  the 
unliappy  Vanessa.  His  countenance,  as  he  entered  tlie  room, 
struck  terror  into  her  soul,  and  she  could  scarcely  invite  him  to  a 
seat.  Without  a  word,  he  flung  a  letter  on  the  table  before  her, 
and  instantlv  left.  0]>ening  the  packet,  she  found  only  her  own 
communication  to  Stella, —  the  death-warrant  to  her  lu)])es  and  to 
her  life.  She  languished  a  few  weeks  and  died,  in  Vri'-i,  a  victim 
to  the  cruelty  and  duplicity  of  him  on  whom  she  had  lavished  in  vain 
life's  warmest  and  purest  affections,  who  had  suffered  lu-r  to  pine 
and  sink  in  hopeless  allliction,  because  at  first  he  wouM  not.  and 
afterwards  dared  not,  avow  i)is  double  dealing,  ami  his  imapa- 
bilitv  of  aece|)tiiig  tlie  heart  she  offenMl.  .ludge  of  the  ran'  gilt 
and  the  costlv  saerilice,  from  the  0<7('  f<>  Sjtrln<j,  in  which  sh.> 
alludes  to  her  unhappy  attachment.  Never  was  harp  tuned  more 
touchingly  to  the  pathetic  eloijucnce  of  woe: 


100  CUITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'Hail,  blushing  goddess  I  beauteous  Spri:igl 
Who  in  thy  jocund  train  doct  bring 
Loves  and  graces  —  smiling  hours  — 
Balmy  breezes  —  fragrant  flowers; 
Come  with  tints  of  roseate  hue, 
Nature's  faded  charms  renew! 
Yet  why  should  I  thy  presence  hail  ? 
To  me  no  more  the  breathing  gale 
-Comes  fraught  with  sweets,  no  more  the  rose 
With  such  transcendent  beauty  blows, 
As  when  Cadenus'  blest  the  scene. 
And  shared  with  me  those  joys  serene. 
When  unperceived,  the  lambent  fire 
Of  friendship  kindled  new  desire; 
Still  listening  to  his  tuneful  tongue. 
The  truths  which  angels  might  have  sung. 
Divine  imprest  their  gentle  sway. 
And  sweetly  stole  my  soul  away. 
My  guide,  instructor,  lover,  friend. 
Dear  names,  in  one  idea  blend; 
Oh;   still  conjoined,  your  incense  rise, 
And  waft  sweet  odours  to  the  skies  I' 

Swift  made  a  tour  of  two  iiioiitlis  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  a 
prey  to  remorse;  returned  to  Duljlin,  and  received  Stella's  for- 
<riveiiess.  Poor  Stella,  married  when  on  her  part  all  but  life  had 
faded  away,  was  twolve  years  dying.  Living  desolately  on,  in 
hope  that  he  would  in  time  own  and  receive  her,  she  sank  into 
the  grave  in  IT'^8,  without  any  public  recognition  of  the  tie.  It 
is  said  that  Swift  never  mentioned  her  name  without  a  sigh.  That 
he  felt  distress  and  e(jntritioii,  there  is  no  doubt.  His  misan- 
thro])y  increased,  and  his  malady  grew  more  malignant.  Perhaps, 
in  the  i-ase  of  X'aiicssa,  dreading  her  grii'f,  and  watching  for  a 
favoral)le  moment,  lie  had  delayed  a  disagreeable  discovery  till 
too  late.  Aware  that  insanity  lurked  in  his  frame,  he  may  have 
felt,  in  the  case  of  Stella,  that  he  had  no  right  to  marry.  Hut  no 
plea  could  elfaee  the  l)lot  on  his  character,  that,  without  any  in- 
tention of  marrying  either,  he  attached  to  himself  two  of  the 
loveliest  women  of  his  time,  encouraged  their  friendship  foi-  his 
own  content,  and  tortured  them  by  liopes  deferred,  till  the  grave 
closed  upon  their  piteous  accents,  as  despaii'  u])ou  their  hearts. 

Appearance. — Tall,  strong,  and  w<'ll  made;  of  dark  com- 
plexion, blue  eves.  b|;ick  and  bushv  evel)rows,  hooked  nose,  and 
features  sour  and  seMic,  seMom  softened  bv  any  a])pearance  of 
gaiety. 

'  '('adcnu'- ■  =  /^fi"c//'('/*  =  tlie  Dean. 


SWIFT.  101 

Writings.— Tale  of  a  Tuh'  (1704);  a  powerful  satire,  whose 
object  was  to  ridicule  the  Romanists  and  Presbyterians,  with  the 
view  of  defending  and  exalting  the  Church  of  England.  A  father 
had  three  sons, — ^^ Peter  (Church  of  Rome),  Martin  (Church  of 
England),  antl  Jack  (Presbyterians,  or  Protestant  Dissenters). 
Upon  his  deathbed  he  bequeathed  to  each  of  tiie  lads  a  coat 
(Christianity),  warning  them  to  wear  it  plain. 

'Sons,  because  I  have  purchased  no  estate  nor  was  born  to  any,  I  have  long  consid- 
ered of  some  good  legacies  to  leave  you,  and  at  last,  with  much  care,  I  have  provided  each 
of  you  with  a  good  coat.  With  good  wearing  the  coats  will  last  you  as  long  as  you  live, 
and  will  grow  in  the  same  proportion  as  your  bodies,  lengthening  and  widening  of  them- 
selves, so  as  to  be  always  flt.' 

They  were  expressly  forbidden  to  add  to  or  diminish  from  their 
coats  one  thread.  After  a  time,  however,  they  came  to  a  town, 
adopted  its  manners,  fell. in  love  with  some  stylish  ladies,  and, 
to  gain  their  favors,  began  to  live  as  gallants.  Embarrassed  by 
the  extreme  simplicity  of  their  clothes,  they  longed  for  a  more 
fashionable  attire.  An  adroit  interpretation  of  the  will  (Bible) 
admitted  shoulder-knots.     Silver  fringe  was  soon  in  fashion: 

'Upon  which  the  brothers  consulting  their  father's  will,  to  their  great  astonishment 
found  these  words:  "Item,  I  charge  and  command  my  suitl  tliree  sons  to  wear  no  sort  of 
silver  fringe  upon  or  about  their  said  coats,"'  etc.' 

Peter,  however,  who  was  a  skilful  critic,  had  found  in  a  certain 
author,  which  he  said  should  be  nameless, — 

'That  the  same  word,  which  in  the  will  is  called  fringe,  does  also  signify  a  broom- 
stick; and  doulitU'ss  (>ni;lit  to  have  the  same  interpretation  in  this  paragrajjli.  This  an- 
other of  the  brotluTs  dislilved,  l)ecause  of  tliat  epitliet  silver,  which  could  not,  he  humbly 
conceived,  in  propriety  of  speech  be  reasonably  applied  to  a  broomstick;  but  it  was 
replied  upon  him  tiiat  this  ejjitliet  was  understood  in  a  mythological  and  allegorical 
sense.  However,  lie  objected  again,  why  their  father  should  fi)rbid  them  to  wear  a 
broomstick  on  tluir  coals,  a  caution  tliat  seemed  unnatural  and  impertinent;  upon  which 
he  was  taken  up  sliort,  as  one  who  spoke  irreverently  of  a  mystery,  which  doubtless  was 
very  useful  and  significant,  but  ought  not  to  be  over-curiously  pried  into,  or  nicely 
reaBoned  upon." 

By  similar  evasions,  gold  lace,  oml)roi(lfrv,  and  tIanic-colonMl 
satin  linings  wi^ra  adih'd  to  tlieir  coats.  The  will  was  at  length 
locked  up,  and  utterly  disregarded.  Peter,  claiming  the  suprem- 
acy, stvled  himself  My  Lord  Peter,  and  discarded  from  the  house 
his  lirotliers,  who  reojiened  tiie  will  and  liegan  to  tniderstand  it. 
To  return  to  j)rimitive  simplicity,  Martin  tort'  olT'  ten  dozen  yards 

'  ExplaiiK'il  by  Swift  to  nuMU,  thai,  as  -sailors  throw  oiil  a  lull  lo  a  «  hale  to  Vv<y  liini 
aiiiiiscd  ami  iircvcut  him  from  nniiiinLr  foul  of  ilicir  ship,  >o  in  Iliis  ir<'ali-i'.  hi-  ohjn  i  is 
toilivcrt  the  frcclliiiikcrs  of  thrday  iwho  draw  llirir  aririinirnts  fidin  thr  l,-ihill„nt  of 
Ilobbes;  from  injuring  the  -tate  l)y  tlu-ir  wild  theories  in  politics  and  religion. 


102  CRITICAL   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

of  fringe  and  a  huge  quantity  of  gold  lace,  but  kept  a  few  em- 
broideries, which  could  not  be  got  away  without  damaging  the 
cloth;  Jack,  in  his  enthusiasm,  stripped  away  everything,  reduced 
himself,  in  the  operation,  to  tatters,  and,  envious  of  Martin, 
joined  the  ^olists,  or  inspired  worshippers  of  the  wind: 

'First  it  is  generally  afflrmeri  or  confirmed  that  learning  puflfeth  men  up;  and  sec- 
ondly they  proved  it  by  the  following  syllogism:  words  arc  but  wind;  and  learning  is 
nothing  but  words;  ergo  learning  is  nothing  but  wind.  .  .  .  This,  when  blown  up  to  its 
perfection,  ought  not  to  be  covetously  hoarded  up,  stifled,  or  hid  under  a  bushel,  but 
freely  communicated  to  niankiud.  Upon  these  reasons,  and  others  of  equal  weight,  the 
wise  -Eolists  aftirm  the  gift  of  belching  to  be  the  noblest  act  of  a  rational  creature.  At 
certain  seasons  of  the  year,  you  might  behold  the  priests  among  them  in  vast  numbers, 
.  .  .  linked  together  in  a  circular  chain,  with  every  man  a  pair  of  bellows  applie<l  to  his 
neighbor  .  .  .  by  which  they  blew  each  other  to  the  shape  and  size  of  a  tun;  and  for  that 
reason,  with  great  propriety  of  speech,  did  usually  call  their  bodies  their  vessels.' 

The  work,  though  admired,  was  widely  condemned.  To  a  later 
edition  was  prefixed  an  apology,  in  which  the  author  declared 
that  his  meaning  had  been  misconceived.  Perhaps  so.  A  very 
peculiar  person,  like  Swift,  might  so  write  without  any  ill  inten- 
tion. But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  spirituality  of  him  who 
treats  with  pompous  merriment  and  witty  buffoonery  questions 
that  rest  with  the  weight  of  worlds  on  the  human  spirit?  Vol- 
taire praised  it,  recommended  his  disciples  to  read  it;  by  many  it 
was  thought  to  be  a  covert  attack  upon  Christianity.  What 
church  or  creed  does  it  not  profane?  Even  the  High  Church, 
which  he  seems  to  defend,  is  a  political  cloak: 

'  Is  not  religion  a  cloak ;  honesty  a  pair  of  shoes  worn  out  in  the  dirt ;  self-love  a  sur- 
tout:  vanity  a  shirt;  and  conscience  a  pair  of  breeches?  ...  If  certain  ermines  and  furs 
be  i)laced  in  a  certain  position,  we  style  them  a  judge ;  and  so  an  apt  conjunction  of  lawn 
and  black  satin,  we  entitle  a  bishop.' 

After  such  ribaldries,  what  reason  had  he  to  be  astonished  that 
a  Christian  ])rincess  declined  to  place  him  upon  a  clerical  throne? 
Drapier  J^cttcm  (1T24).  A  series  of  letters  against  an  Eng- 
lish patent  for  su))plyiiig  the  Irisli  market  with  co})j)er  coinage; 
inserted  in  a  l)ul)rm  iiews])aper,  and  signed  M.  Ji.  Drapier. 
Small  chaiigf  was  wanted  in  Ireland.  Tiie  English  ministers, 
without  consulting  the  Irish  government,  granted  a  ])atent  to 
coin  one  liundred  and  eight  thousand  pounds  of  copper  money. 
Swift  considrrod  the  metal  base,  and,  l)y  stirring  at>peals  to  the 
pride  and  ])atri()tism  of  the  people,  roused  them  against  the 
measure.  The  Englisli  governiufMit  bowed  to  the  storm,  and 
withdrew  the  coin.  These  letters  are  distinguished  by  artful  and 
trenchant   argument,  vast   passion   and   pride,  bitter  and  terrible 


SWIFT.  103 

rancor.  Gulliver's  TVavels  (172G),  a  satire  of  man;  the  most 
original,  most  carefully  finished,  and  most  characteristic  of  his 
works;  a  production  entirely  unique  in  English  literature.  It  is 
the  journal  of  a  voyager,  who,  like  De  Foe  in  Crusoe,  describes 
in  cool,  sensible,  and  simple  faith  the  events  and  sights  which 
he  has  seen.  In  his  first  voyage,  lie  is  carried  to  the  empire 
of  the  Pygmies,  where  the  people  are  but  six  inches  high,  and 
surrounding  objects  correspondingly  diminutive;  in  his  second, 
he  is  carried  to  the  empire  of  Giants,  where  the  people  are  sixty 
feet  high  or  upwards,  and  other  existences  proportionately  vast; 
in  his  third,  he  is  taken  to  several  fantastic  countries,  of  which 
one,  a  Hying  island,  is  inhabited  by  philosophers  and  mathemati- 
cians, another  by  wretches  who,  without  intellects  or  affections, 
are  doomed  to  a  bodily  immortality;  in  his  fourth,  he  is  carried 
to  a  region  whose  people  are  hardly  distinguishable  from  brutes: 

'At  last  I  beheld  several  animals  in  a  field,  and  one  or  two  of  the  same  kind  sitting  in 
trees.  Their  shape  was  very  singular  and  deformed.  .  .  .  They  climbed  high  trees  as 
nimbly  as  a  squirrel,  for  tliey  had  strong  extended  claws  before  and  behind,  terminating 
in  a  sharp  point,  and  hooked.  .  .  .  Upon  the  whole,  I  never  belield  in  all  my  travels  so 
disagreeable  an  animal,  or  one  against  which  I  naturally  conceived  so  great  an  antipathy.' 

How  ridiculous  are  human  interests  and  passions  when  mir- 
rored in  the  littleness  of  the  Pigmy  world  !  How  vain  are  our 
desires,  how  insignificant  our  pursuits,  when  tried  by  the  standard 
of  a  mightier  race  !  What  is  a  lawyer  but  a  hired  liar,  who  per- 
verts the  trutli  if  he  is  an  advocate,  and  sells  it  if  he  is  a  ju<lgo  ? 
What  is  a  legislator  but  a  com])ound  of  idleness  and  vice  ?  What 
is  a  noble  but  a  diseased  rake  and  rascal  ?  What  is  sentiment  but 
folly  and  weakness?  What  are  science,  art,  and  religion,  but 
cloaks  which  veil  tlie  ugliness  of  human  nature?  Brutes  that 
tear  each  other  with  their  talons,  that  howl,  and  grin,  and  cliatter, 
and  wallow  in  the  mud, — these  are  the  final  abstract  of  man  — 
of  his  instincts,  of  his  ambitions,  of  his  ho})es.  Nay,  tliev  are 
better,  for  our  species  'is  the  most  j>ernici()us  race  of  little  odious 
vermin  that  nature  ever  sulT(>red  to  crawl  on  the  face  of  tlie 
earth.'  This  l)ook  is  the  expression  of  Swift, —  the  asseiiil)ly  of 
all  his  talent  and  all  his  passion;  so  ]iictures(iue,  so  roinantii-,  so 
melancholy,  so  mocking  and  fiendisli  at  last,  yet  so  coolly  and 
simply  told,  that  criticism  was  for  a  tiiu(>  lost  in  wonder. 

A  M(>(hxt  Prnpdstil  (17-U):  a  scheme  to  prevent  the  cliiMriMi 
of  the   Irish   poor   from   l)econiiiig  a   burden    to   their   parents   or 


104  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

country,  and  to  make  them  beneficial  to  the  public.     The  scheme 
is,  that  the  children  should  be  sold  and  eaten  as  food  ! 

'I  have  been  assured  by  a  very  knowing  American  of  my  acquaintance  in  London, 
tliat  a  young  healtliy  cliild,  well  nursed,  i#,  at  a  year  old,  a  most  delicious,  nourishing, 
and  wholesome  food,  whether  stewed,  roasted,  baked  or  boiled.' 

He  enters  gravely  into  calculation: 

'A  child  will  make  two  dislies  at  an  entertainment  for  friends,  and  when  the  family 
dines  alone,  the  fore  or  hind  quarter  will  make  a  reasonable  dish,  and  seasoned  with  a 
little  pepper  or  salt  vvill  be  very  good  boiled  on  the  fourth  day.  ...  I  believe  no  gentle- 
man would  repine  to  give  ten  shillings  for  the  carcass  of  a  good  fat  child,  which,  as  I 
have  said,  will  make  four  dishes  of  excellent  nutritive  meat.' 

This  hideous  treatise,  so  shudderingly  calm,  seems  fit   to  have 
been  the  expiring  cry  of  his  genius  and  his  despair. 

Tlioughts  on  Yarious  Subjects,  of  which  the  following  are 
characteristic  and  suggestive  specimens,  models  of  form  and 
nuggets  of  wisdom  : 

'We  have  just  religion  enough  to  make  us  hate,  but  not  enough  to  make  us  love  one 
another.' 

'When  a  true  genius  appeareth  in  the  world,  you  may  know  him  by  this  infallible 
sign,  that  the  dunces  are  all  in  confederacy  against  him.' 

'The  reason  why  so  few  marriages  are  happy,  is  because  young  ladies  spend  their 
time  in  making  nets,  not  in  making  cages.' 

'No  wise  man  ever  wished  to  be  younger.' 

'A  nice  man  is  a  man  of  nasty  ideas.' 

'Complaint  is  the  largest  tribute  Heaven  receives,  and  the  sincerest  part  of  our 
devotion." 

'  The  stoical  scheme  of  supplying  our  wants  by  lopping  off  our  desires,  is  like  cutting 
off  our  feet  when  we  want  shoes." 

'The  common  fluency  of  speech  in  many  men  and  most  women  is  owing  to  a  scarcity 
of  matter  and  scarcity  of  words:  for  whoever  is  a  master  of  language,  and  hath  a  mind 
full  of  ideas,  will  be  apt,  in  speaking,  to  hesitate  upon  the  choice  of  both;  whereas  com- 
mon s|)eakers  have  only  one  set  of  ideas,  and  one  set  of  words  to  clothe  them  in,  and 
these  are  already  at  the  mouth.  So  people  come  faster  out  of  a  church  when  it  is  almost 
empty,  than  when  a  crowd  is  at  the  door.' 

Style. — Sim})le,  plain,  pure,  rugged,  vigorous,  Saxoii.  With- 
out ornament,  it  is  rich  in  the  variety  of  its  words  and  phrases. 
Always  under.staiidiiig  himself,  he  was  always  understood  by 
others.  He  illustrates  admirably  an  important  principle  of  com- 
position,—  that,  when  a  man  has  .stamped  upon  his  mind  all  the 
parts  and  joints  of  his  subject,  and  is  confident  of  his  cause,  he 
has  only  to  resist  the  temptation  to  write  finely,  in  order  to  write 
effectively. 

Hank. — In  originality  and  strength  he  has  no  superior,  and 
in   irony  no  equal.     He  had  the  genius  of  insult,  as  Shakespeare 


SWIFT.  105 

of  poetry.  Unscrupulous  sarcasm  and  vituperation,  crushing 
logic,  knowledge  of  men  and  life,  vehement  expression,  made  him 
the  most  formidable  pamphleteer  that  ever  lived.  He  was  deH- 
cient  in  refinement  of  taste  and  loftiness  of  imagination,  and 
lacked  the  nobility  of  nature  to  become  a  true  poet,  philosopher, 
or  reformer.  The  grandeurs  of  the  human  spirit  escaped  him. 
Palpable  and  familiar  objects,  common  words,  connnon  things, 
were  the  sources  of  his  inspiration.  Several  peculiarities  con- 
tributed to  produce  his  effect, —  skilful  miimteness  of  narrative; 
power  to  give  to  fiction  the  air  of  truth;  the  habit  of  expressing 
sentiments,  the  most  absurd  or  atrocious,  as  sober  conmionplaces; 
of  relating  the  most  ludicrous  and  extravagant  fancies  with  an 
invincible  gravity. 

As  a  man,  he  is  the  most  tragic  figure  in  our  literature. 

Character. — Haughty  and  magisterial,  with  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  superiority,  seeming  to  consider  himself  exempt  from 
the  necessity  of  ceremony,  and  entitled  to  the  homage  of  all, 
without  distinction  of  sex,  rank,  or  fame.  While  a  simple  jour- 
nalist, he  demanded  an  apology  of  the  ])rime  minister,  received 
it,  and  wrote:  'I  have  taken  Mr.  Harley  into  favor  again.' 
Warned  the  Secretary  of  State  never  to  ap]>ear  cold  to  him,  for 
he  wouldn't  be  treated  like  a  school-boy.  Invited  to  dine  with 
the  Earl  of  Burlington,  he  said  to  the  mistress  of  the  house: 
'Lady  Burlington,  I  hear  you  can  sing;  sing  me  a  song.'  The 
lady  resented  his  freedom,  and  he  said  she  should  sing  or  he 
would  make  her.  'Why,  madam,  I  suppose  yon  take  me  for  one 
of  your  poor  Englisli  liedge-iiarsoiis  ;  sing  when  I  bid  you!' 
Unable  to  control  her  vexation,  she  burst  into  tears  and  retin'd. 
Meeting  her  afterward,  he  inquired:  'Pray,  madam,  are  you  as 
proud  and  ill-natured  now  as  when  I  saw  you  last?"  A\'riting  to 
the  l)uch(\ss  of  QuecMisbury,  he  says: 

'I  am  i;lii(I  vou  know  your  duty;  for  it  lujr;  licon  a  known  aii<l  ost!il>li>lii'<i  rule  .'iliout 
twenty  years  in  England,  that  the  lirst  advances  liavi'  t)een  constaiilly  made  nie  liy  all 
the  ladies  who  aspiri'd  to  my  ae<iuaiMtance,  and  the  i;reater  their  quality,  the  L;ir.d'T 
were  their  advances.' 

Tells  Stella,  with  a  vengeful  joy: 

'I  generally  am  acquainted  with  ahout  thirty  in  the  drawjuL'  room,  and  am  -o  jiroud 
that  I  make  all  the  lords  come  up  to  me.     One  passes  half  an  hour  pleasantly  ciioiiL'h.' 

Possibly  he  expected  this  to  l)e  received  as  his  pi-culitif  mode 


106  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS, 

of  jocularity.     Pope,  one  of  his  few  friends,  has  preserved  us  a 
specimen  of  his  humor: 

'"Tis  so  odd,  that  there's  no  describing  it  but  by  facts.  I'll  tell  you  one  that  first 
comes  into  my  head.  One  evening  Gay  and  I  went  to  see  him ;  you  know  how  intimately 
we  were  all  acquainted.  On  our  coming  in,  "Heyday,  gentlemen''  (says  the  Doctor), 
"  what's  the  meaning  of  this  visit?  How  came  you  to  leave  the  great  lords  that  you  are  so 
fond  of,  to  come  hither  to  see  a  poor  Dean;  "  "Because  we  would  rather  see  you  than 
any  of  them."  "Ay,  anyone  that  did  not  know  you  so  well  as  1  do  might  believe  you. 
But  since  you  are  come,  I  must  get  some  supper  for  you,  1  suppose."  "No,  Doctor,  we 
have  supped  already."  "Supped  already?  that's  impossible !  why, 'tis  not  eight  o'clock 
yet.  That's  very  strange :  but  if  you  had  not  supped,  I  must  have  got  something  for  you. 
Let  me  see,  what  should  I  have  had?  A  couple  of  lobsters;  ay,  that  would  have  done 
very  well:  two  shillings  —  tarts,  a  shilling:  but  you  will  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  me, 
though  you  suppeil  so  much  before  your  usual  time  only  to  spare  my  pocket?  "  "  No,  we 
had  rather  talk  with  you  than  drink  with  you."'  "  But  if  you  had  supped  with  me,'  as  in 
all  reason  you  ought  to  have  done,  you  must  then  have  drank  with  me.  A  bottle  of  wine, 
two  shillings  —  two  and  two  is  four,  and  one  is  five;  just  two  and  sixpence  apiece. 
There,  Pope,  there's  half  a  crown  for  you,  and  there's  another  for  you,  sir;  for  I  won't 
save  anything  by  you,  I  am  determined."'  This  was  all  said  and  done  with  his  usual 
seriousness  on  such  occasions;  and  in  spite  of  everything  we  could  say  to  the  contrary, 
he  actually  obliged  us  to  take  the  money." 

He  was  minutely  critical  and  exacting".  Once  when  he  dined 
alone  with  the  Earl  of  Orrery,  he  said  of  a  waiter  in  the  room: 
'That  man  has,  since  we  sat  to  the  table,  committed  fifteen 
faults.' 

He  was  constitutionally  incapable  of  religion  —  incapable  from 
a  vulgar  temperament.  Joy  is  wanting,  save  the  joy  of  tearing. 
The  idea  of  the  beautiful  seldom  or  never  enters. 

He  delights  in  images  that  repel  a  refined  taste.  But,  though 
coarse,  he  is  never  licentious;  liis  grossness  is  repulsive,  not 
seductive.  He  spent  his  days  in  discontent,  in  a  rebellion  of 
wounded  pride  and  unsatisfied  desire.  All  suffering  seems  color- 
less beside  the  deep,  long  agony  of  his  soul. 

Influence. — He  agitated  kingdoms,  stirred  the  laughter  and 
rage  of  millions,  and  left  to  posterity  memorials  (  Gulliver  and 
T((le  of  (I,  Ti(h)  that  will  perish  only  with  the  English  language. 
His  satire  will  furnish  food  for  profitable  reflection;  his  romance 
will  continue  to  amuse,  doing  the  good  that  mere  pleasure  can 
do;  but  anything  liovond?  Did  lie  give  any  iinpulse  to  holi- 
ness? Did  he  ff'cl  the  burden  of  souls?  Do  his  writings  breathe 
a  wish  (ir  praver  for  ])crsonal  perfection?  In  his  philosophy  of 
life  were  two  rundaiiiental  evils,  either  of  which  must,  at  the 
outset,  ])rove  fatal  to  tlie  highest  order  of  influence, —  a  vulgar 
materialism,  and  a  Ijitter  misantliropy.      He  never  rose  above  the 


THE    POET   OF    ART.  107 

mercenary  practical  —  his  views  were  always  directed  to  what  was 
imtaediately  beneficial,  which  is  the  characteristic  of  savages; 
man,  to  him,  was  a  knave  and  a  fool.  Perhaps,  therefore,  his 
chief  service  to  us,  as  his  chief  legacy  to  the  race,  is  indirect, — 
the  warning  spectacle  of  his  powerful  and  mournful  genius,  with 
its  tempest  of  hopes  and  hatreds.  It  is  a  theme  on  which  the 
lightest  heart  might  moralize.  Over  his  grave,  as  in  the  sigh  of 
the  wailing  wind,  we  hear  the  words:  Kiiowledge  uninspired  by 
universal  love,  xirdeavened  by  reliyious  depth  and  earnestness, 
serves  oidy  to  inflate  icith  an  insolent  self-sufficiency  and  to 
dry  up  xcith  a  sensual  pride;  knowledye  whose  paramount  or 
final  end  is  to  gratify  curiosity,  to  flatter  vanity,  to  push  for 
precedence,  to  nmiister  to  ambition,  is  vanity  and  vexation  of 
spirit. 


POPE. 


lie  was  the  poet  of  personality  aiul  of  polished  Wto.—lIazlUt. 

Biography. — Born  in  London,  in  1G88,  the  memorable  year 
of  the  Revolution.  His  father  was  a  linen-merchant,  who,  with 
a  moderate  fortune,  retired  in  a  few  years  to  a  small  estate  in 
Windsor  Forest.  He  learned  very  early  to  read,  and  by  copying 
from  printed  books,  taught  himself  to  write.  l?oth  parents  were 
Papists.  For  such  trivial  elements  of  a  schoolbov's  learning  as 
he  possessed  at  all,  he  was  therefore  indebted  to  private  tuition. 
At  eight,  he  was  instructed  by  tlie  familv  priest  in  tiie  rudiments 
of  Greek  and  Latin.  Was  next  s(Mit  to  a  Romanist  seminary, 
where  he  lampooned  his  teacher,  was  whippe(|,  and  removed  by 
his  indignant  parents.  From  the  scene  of  his  disgrace,  he  passi'd 
under  the  tuition  of  several  other  masters  in  rapid  succession,  but 
with  little  profit.  Seareelv  twelve,  he  resolxed  to  diriM't  liiinself, 
formed  a  plan  of  studv,  and  executed  it  with  littK'  other  incite- 
ment than  the  desire  of  excellence.  His  father,  tiiough  uiial'l'' 
to  guide  him,  proposed  sul)jects,  obliged  him  to  correct  liis  per- 
formances In''  frecjuent  revisals,  and,  wIhmi  satisfied,  would  sa  \  . 
'These  are  good  rliynies.'  His  early  passion  was  to  be  a  |mji-i: 
and  he  used  to  sav  that  he  could  not  reiiieiuber  the  time  when  lie 
beiran  to  make  verses. 


108  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'Why  (lid  I  write?    What  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipp'd  nie  in  ink,  my  parent:?'  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  number.s,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade, 
No  duly  broke,  no  father  di.sobey'd : 
The  muse  but  served  to  case  some  friend,  not  wife. 
To  hell)  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life." 

At  this  tender  age  he  wrote  a  tragedy,  which  he  persuaded  his 
schoolmates  to  act,  and  an  Ode  on  Solitude.  From  thirteen  to 
fifteen,  he  composed  an  epic  of  four  thousand  verses.  His  time 
was  now  wholly  spent  in  reading  and  writing.  He  studied  books 
of  poetry  and  criticism,  English,  French,  Greek,  and  Latin  authors, 
with  such  assiduity  that  he  nearly  died.  Of  all  English  poets,  his 
favorite  was  Dryden,  whom  he  held  in  such  veneration  that  he 
persuaded  some  friends  to  take  him  to  a  coffee-liouse  which  Dry- 
den frequented,  to  delight  himself  with  a  glimpse  of  his  model 
and  master.  Who  can  bound  the  possibilities  of  one  that  so  early 
feels  the  power  of  harmony  and  the  zeal  of  genius,  and  wlio  does 
not  regret  that  the  master  died  before  he  learned  the  value  of  the 
homage  paid  him  by  his  admiring  pupil? 

His  life  as  an  author  is  computed  from  the  age  of  sixteen. 
For  choice  words  and  exquisite  arrangement,  his  poetry  already 
surpassed  Dryden's.  At  seventeen  he  was  asked  to  correct  the 
poems  of  a  reputable  author  of  sixty-nine,  and  corrected  them  so 
well  that  the  author  Avas  mortified  and  olTended.  AVits,  courtiers, 
statesmen,  and  the  brilliant  of  fashion  caressed  and  honored  him. 
His  known  devotion  to  letters  and  his  promise  of  future  excel- 
lence had  from  earliest  bovhood  won  the  flattering  attentions  of 
the  most  accomplished  men  of  the  world. 

In  17 IT),  lie  persuaded  his  parents  to  remove  to  Chiswick,  where 
two  years  lator  liis  father  died  suddenly,  in  the  seventy-fifth  year 
of  his  age.  The  j)oot,  with  his  now  aged  mother,  shortly  removed 
to  Twiekenliciiii,  a  spot  to  which  his  residence  afterwards  ])rocured 
such  classic  ceiolirity.  His  grounds  (five  acres  in  all)  he  tastc;- 
fully  embellished  with  those  designs  of  vine,  shrvib,  and  tree, 
which  his  verses  mention.  For  conveni(Mit  admission  to  a  garden 
across  the  higliway,  he  cut  a  subterraneous  passage,  adorned  it 
with  fossil  forms,  atid  called  it  a  grotto,  into  whose  silence  and 
retreat  care  and  passion  might  not  enter.  '  Vain'ty  produced  a 
grotto  where  necessity  enforced  a  })assage.'    Here,  in  poetic  ease. 


POPE.  109 

he  continued  to  live  in  the  smiles  of  fortune  and  to  bask  in  the 
favors  of  the  great.  His  domestic  relations  were  always  the  hap- 
piest—  one  placid  scene  of  parental  obedience  and  of  gentle  filial 
authority.  In  spirit  and  inclination,  his  parents,  we  imagine, 
would  have  subscribed  themselves,  '  Yours  dutifuUv.'  However 
petulant  and  acrimonious  his  disposition  as  displayed  to  others,  to 
them  he  never  intermitted  the  piety  of  a  respectful  tenderness. 
Aware  that  his  mother  lived  upon  his  presence  or  by  his  image, 
he  long  denied  himself  all  excursions  that  could  not  be  accom- 
plished witliin  a  week;  and  to  the  same  cause  must  be  ascribed 
the  fact  that  he  never  went  abroad, —  not  to  Italy,  not  to  Ireland, 
not  even  to  France.  His  life  was  always  one  of  leisure,  and, 
but  for  his  strange  mixture  of  discordant  parts,  must  have  been 
like  a  dream  of  pleasure, —  a  condition  more  conducive  to  effemi- 
nacy than  to  strength,  more  favorable  to  elegance  of  thought 
than  to  grandeur. 

'A  tart  temper  never  mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is 
the  only  edged  tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.'  Pope's 
increasing  pride  and  irritability,  his  supercilious  contempt  of 
struggling  authors,  raised  around  him  a  swarm  of  enemies  ani- 
mated by  envy  or  revenge.  His  later  years  were  agitated  by 
the  asperities  of  personal  dispute  and  the  loss  of  genial  compan- 
ionships. In  1732,  lie  was  deprived  of  Atterbury  and  Gay,  two 
of  his  dearest  friends.  From  Addison  he  had  been  estranged. 
Swift,  sunk  in  idiury,  he  had  virtually  lost  forever.  In  It'Mi 
occurred  the  death  of  his  mother,  then  ninety-three  years  old. 
She  had  for  some  time  I)een  in  her  dotage,  unable  to  recognize 
any  face  but  that  of  her  son.  Three  days  after,  writing  to  a 
painter,  with  the  view  of  having  her  ])ortrait  taken  b(>f()re  the 
coffin  was  closed,  he  says: 

'I  thank  Goci  Irt  cUatli  \v.i>  as  easy  as  her  lift.'  was  iniioLtiit ;  and  as  it  cost  licr  not  .'i 
groan  nor  oven  a  sigh,  tluTc  is  yot  upon  her  coimtcnancc  such  an  cxiJri'ssiDii  of  tiamiiiillitv 
that  it  would  afford  the  finest  image  of  a  saint  ixpinil  that  cvir  painting  drew.  Adieu, 
may  you  die  as  happily." 

It  is  a  pleasing  reih'ction  that  tln'  parents  w\\i)  idolized  him, 
who  had  fondly  watciied  his  spark  of  genius  fann(Ml  into  tlanie, 
lived  to  see  him  the  idol  of  the  nation.  He  now  complains  l)it- 
terly  that,  if  ha  would  have  fiicnds  in  tli(>  future,  h(>  inii.st  .-^<M-k 
them  amongst  strangers  and  another  geni'ration.  I  Iciiccforuard 
he  was  chiellv  emjaffcd  in  satires. —  Ids  satire  doid)ilt\ss  rendered 


110  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

more  intense  by  his  sense  of  desolation, —  and  was  entangled  in 
feuds  of  various  complexions  with  people  of  various  pretensions. 
In  1742  he  became  sensible  that  his  vital  powers  were  rapidly  de- 
clining. His  complaint  was  a  dropsy  of  the  chest,  and  he  knew 
it  to  be  incurable.  With  a  behavior  admirably  philosophical,  he 
discontinued  original  composition,  and  employed  himself  in  revis- 
ing and  burnishing  those  former  works  on  which  he  must  rely  for 
his  reputation  with  future  ages. 

A  few  days  before  his  death,  he  was  delirious,  and  afterwards 
mentioned  the  fact  as  a  sufficient  humiliation  of  human  vanity. 
In  his  closing  hours  he  complained  of  inability  to  think;  saw 
things  as  through  a  curtain,  in  false  colors,  and  inquired  at  one 
time  what  arm  it  was  that  came  out  from  the  wall.  He  dined  in 
company  two  days  before  he  died;  and  a  few  mornings  before, 
during  a  fit  of  delirium,  he  was  found  very  early  in  his  library, 
writing  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Asked  whether  a  priest 
should  not  be  called,  he  answered,  *I  do  not  think  it  essential,  but 
it  will  be  very  right  and  I  thank  you  for  putting  me  in  mind  of 
it.'  In  the  morning,  after  the  last  sacraments  had  been  given,  he 
said,  'There  is  nothing  that  is  meritorious  but  virtue  and  friend- 
ship; and  indeed  friendship  itself  is  only  a  part  of  virtue.'  He 
died  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  the  month  of  flowers,  in  1744; 
so  quietly  that  the  attendants  could  not  distinguish  the  exact 
moment  of  his  dissolution. 

Appearance. — A  dwarf,  four  feet  high,  hunch-backed,  thin, 
and  sickly  ;  so  crooked  that  he  was  called  the  '  Interrogation 
Point';  so  weak  that  he  had  constantly  to  wear  stays,  scarcely 
able  to  hold  himself  erect  till  they  were  laced;  so  sensitive  to 
cold  that  he  had  to  be  wrapped  in  flannels,  furs,  and  linen,  and 
had  his  feet  encased  in  three  pairs  of  stockings;  so  little  that  he 
required  a  high  chair  at  the  tabh:;;  so  bald,  after  the  middle  of  life, 
that,  when  lu^  had  no  company,  he  dined  in  a  velvet  cap.  He  could 
neither  dress  nor  undress  without  help.  His  vital  functions  were 
so  mucli  disordered  that  liis  life  was  'a  long  disease.'  He  had  a 
large,  fiiu'  eye,  and  a  long,  handsome  nose.  His  voice,  when  a 
child,  was  so  sweet  that  lie  was  fondly  styled  'The  little  Night- 
ingale.' He  was  fastidious  in  his  dress,  and  elegant  in  his  man- 
ners. We  ar(!  willing  to  believe  that  his  bodily  defects  were 
advantageous    to    him    as    a    writer.      'Whosoever,'    says    Bacon, 


POPE.  Ill 

*hath  anything  fixed  in  his  person  that  doth  induce  contempt, 
hath  also  a  perpetual  spur  in  himself  to  rescue  and  deliver  him- 
self from  scorn.' 

Peculiarities. — We  are  prepared  to  find  him  whimsical,  fret- 
ful, punctilious,  and  exacting.  Persons  and  occasions  were  ex- 
pected to  be  indulgent  of  his  humor.  When  he  wanted  to  sleep, 
he  nodded  in  company;  and  once  dozed  while  the  Prince  of  Wales 
was  discoursing  of  poetry.  Often  invited,  he  was  a  troublesome 
guest.  The  attentions  of  the  whole  family  were  needed  to  supply 
his  immcrous  wants.  His  errands  were  so  many  and  frivolous 
that  the  footmen  were  soon  disposed  to  avoid  him,  and  Lord  Ox- 
ford had  to  discharge  several  for  their  resolute  refusal  of  his  mes- 
sages. The  maids  were  wont  to  justify  a  neglect  of  duty  by  the 
plea  that  they  had  been  attending  to  the  demands  of  Mr.  Pope. 
He  loved  highly  seasoned  dishes,  and  would  eat  till  his  stoma(>h 
was  oppressed.  Often,  without  a  word,  capriciously,  unaccount- 
ably, he  would  quit  the  house  of  the  Earl  of  Oxford,  and  nnist 
be  courted  back.  He  was  sometimes  sportive  with  servants  or 
inferiors,  but  was  himself  never  known  to  laugh. 

Method.  —  By  his  own  account,  from  fourteen  to  twenty  he 
read  for  amusement,  from  twenty  to  twenty-seven  for  imj)rove- 
ment  and  instruction:  in  the  first  period,  desiring  only  to  know; 
in  the  second,  endeavoring  to  judge.  In  his  multifarious  reading, 
he  was  diligently  selective;  appropriated  all  poetic  ornaments, 
graceful  contrasts,  nol)le  images,  and  stored  them  away  in  his 
memory  as  his  literary  wardrol)e;  combined  and  classified  into  a 
mental  dictionary,  so  as  to  be  n\a(ly  at  liis  call,  the  materials 
which  might  serve  to  round  his  periods  or  illuminate  his  ideas. 
What  he  heard,  he  was  attentive  to  retain.  It'  conversation 
ofl'ered  anvtiiiiig,  he  coinniitted  it  to  pap»M-.  If  a  tliouglit  or 
word,  ha])))ier  tlian  usual,  occurred  to  him,  he  wrote  it  down.  He 
required  his  writing-box  to  be  ])laced  upon  his  bed  before  hi'  insf. 
Lord  Oxford's  domestic  is  said  to  have  been  called  fioni  her  Ix-d 
four  times,  of  a  winter's  nigliT,  to  sujiply  him  with  iiapcr  Irst  Ik- 
should  lose  a  thought. 

Having  written,  he  exaininei]  and  poIisluMl  long;  aiiiplit yiiig^ 
adorning,  and  retining.  Wlien  lie  had  eoini)leteil  a  nianuseii|>t  — 
his  first  thoughts  in  his  first  words  —  lie   kept   it   iwi  year<   under 


112  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

his  inspection;  invited  the  criticism  of  his  friends,  took  counsel 
of  his  enemies  ;  retouched,  line  by  line,  with  a  diligence  that 
never  wearied;  sometimes  recast  till  the  original  could  not  be 
recognized  in  the  final  revision.  The  only  pieces  which  he  wrote 
with  an  appearance  of  haste,  were  written,  almost  every  line, 
twice  over.  'I  gave  him  a  clean  transcript,'  says  the  publisher, 
'which  he  sent  some  time  afterwards  to  me  for  the  press,  with 
almost  every  line  written  twice  over  a  second  time.'  A  work, 
when  once  it  had  passed  the  press,  continued  to  receive  improve- 
ments in  new  editions. 

We  need  not  inquire  what  will  be  the  distinctive  character  of 
the  product.  Method,  leisure,  independence  of  fortune,  freedom 
from  turmoil,  consecration  that  makes  poetry  the  lodestar  of  life, 
—  this  is  the  school  of  training  for  brilliant  and  perfect  art. 

"Writings.  —  jE.-<sa>/  on  Criticism  (1711);  a  judicious  selec- 
tion of  precepts  from  Horace,  Shakespeare,  and  other  critics  of 
the  poetic  art.  Composed  two  years  before  publication,  when 
Pope  was  only  twenty-one.  The  first  poem  that  fixed  iiis  reputa- 
tion, and  commonly  regarded  as  one  of  his  greatest,  though  one 
of  his  earliest,  efforts.  In  arrangement,  novel;  in  illustration, 
happy;  in  pruieiple,  just;  in  expression,  terse  and  vigorous;  in 
thought,  for  so  young  a  man,  marvellous;  in  harmony,  uniform; 
in  rhyme,  defective.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  its  particu- 
lar beauties  is  the  comparison  of  a  student's  progress  in  science 
with  the  journey  of  a  traveller  in  the  Alps, —  a  simile  that  at  once 
aids  the  understanding  and  elevates  the  fancy. 

Rape  of  (he  Lork  (1712);  the  finest,  most  brilliant,  mock- 
heroic  j)ocm  in  the  world.  Lord  Petre  cut  a  lock  of  hair  from 
the  head  of  a  fasliionable  beauty.  A  quarrel  ensues.  To  laugh 
the  estranged  lovers  together  again.  Pope  writes  an  epic  in  gauze 
and  silver  spangles.  Invocations,  apostrophes,  councils,  fatal 
catastrophes,  fearful  combats  l^etween  beaux  and  belles,  si)irits 
of  the  air  —  sylplis,  gnomes,  nymphs,  and  salamanders,  form  the 
poetic  mechanism  and  action.  The  loftiness  of  style  contrasts 
with  the  frivolous  nature  of  the  events.  The  history  of  a  trifle 
is  given  with  the  pomp  of  heraldry,  and  the  meanest  things  are 
set  off  with  stately  phrase  and  profuse  ornament.  A  game  at 
cards  is  a  mimic  Waterloo,  whose  hosts  are  marshalled  by  the 
king  and  queen  of  hearts: 


POPE.  113 

'Behold  four  kings,  in  majesty  revered, 
Willi  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard; 
And  four  fair  queens  whose  hands  sustain  a  ftow'r, 
Th'  expresisive  emblem  of  their  softer  power; 
Four  knaves  in  garb  succinct,  a  trusty  band; 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberds  in  their  baud; 
And  parti-colored  troops,  a  shining  train. 
Drawn  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain.' 

We  confess  to  a  feeling  of  impatience  at  this  abuse  of  talent, 
this  triumph  of  utter  insignificance,  and  seek  for  some  worthier 
employment  of  the  artist's  skill,  as  in  the  exquisite  description  of 
the  guardian  sylphs  which  flutter  around  his  heroine: 

'But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides. 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides* 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  tlie  waters  die; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play,  .  .  . 
The  lucid  squadrons  rouiul  tlie  sails  repair; 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  the  aerial  whispers  breathe. 
That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight. 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  tlio  wind  their  airy  garments  flew. 
Thin  glitfring  textures  of  the  fllmy  dew. 
Dipped  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies. 
Where  life  disports  in  ever  mingling  dyes: 
While  ev'ry  beam  new  transient  colors  flinirs, 
Colors  that  chantre  whene'er  they  wave  their  wings.' 

The  new  race  of  supernatural  agont.s, —  Hr.st  given  a  poetical 
existence  by  Pope, —  were  a  lia])py  substitute  t'i)r  the  classic 
deities  of  ancient  writers,  and  the  })ersoiiified  abstractions  of  the 
romantic  school.  Though  unsuccessful  in  its  office  of  mediation, 
the  poem  added  greatly  to  the  fame  of  the  author,  and  probal)ly 
deserved  well  of  the  public  for  its  humorous  satire  of  current 
foppery  and  folly. 

JVindsor  Ftjre.st  (1713);  a  descriptive  poem  of  much  variety 
and  elegance,  in  which  the  jiicturesque,  ho\V(»ver,  is  made  siil)- 
servient  to  skf^telies  of  life  and  morals.  Composed  in  lii.s  earlier 
years,  when  the  iuMirt  is  more  keenly  receptive  of  natural  iiitlu- 
ences,  it  shows  a  warmer  sympathy  with  the  sights  of  earth  ami 
sky  than  aiiv  of  his  other  proiluetioiis.  In  diction,  neat,  often 
rich;  in  versification,  smootli  and  harmonious.  l"'ragments  of  it 
are  admirable.  The  features  are  given  in  phrase  so  exact,  .^o 
8 


114  CRITICAL   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

copious,    tliat    the   imagination,   as   in   the   flight    of    the    dying 
pheasant,  must  see  the  reality  in  the  painting: 

'See  from  the  brake  the  whirring  pheasant  springs, 
And  mounts  exulting  on  triumpliant  wings; 
Short  is  his  joy;   he  feels  the  fiery  wound, 
Flutters  in  blood    and  panting  beats  the  ground. 
Ah:  what  avail  his  glossy  varying  dyes, 
Ilis  purple  crest  and  scarlet-circled  eyes; 
The  vivid  green  his  shining  plumes  unfold, 
His  painted  wings,  and  breast  that  flames  with  gold?' 

But  Pope  is  never  so  much  a  child  in  the  presence  of  nature, 
that  he  forgets  his  business;  never  so  riveted  by  the  vision  of 
beauty,  that  he  forgets  to  count  his  syllables,  to  round  his 
periods,  to  finish  his  picture;  and  so  the  lily  of  the  field  becomes, 
in  his  hand,  a  hot-house  plant,  and  the  living  rose  is  transformed 
into  a  flower  of  diamonds. 

The  Dunciad  (1728),  or  Iliad  of  the  dunces  ;  written  to 
avenge  himself  on  his  literary  enemies.  Public  games  are  insti- 
tuted, and  the  authors  of  the  time  contend  for  the  palm  of 
stupidity.  Theobald,  Pope's  successful  rival  in  editing  Shake- 
speare, wins,  mounts  the  throne  of  Dulness,  but  is  subsequently 
deposed  from  his  jireeminence  to  make  room  for  Gibber,  an  actor 
and  dramatic  scribbler,  whose  chief  distinction  is,  that  he  has 
been  thus  embalmed  in  the  lava  of  Pope's  volcanic  wrath.  This 
savage  satire  had  the  desired  effect, —  it  blasted  the  characters  it 
touched.  Some  were  in  danger  of  starving,  as  the  booksellers 
had  no  longer  any  confidence  in  their  capacity.  On  the  day  the 
book  was  first  jnit  upon  the  market,  a  crowd  of  writers  besieged 
the  shop,  endeavoring  by  entreaties  and  threats  to  suppress  the 
sale.      Pope  was  executed  in  <'ffigy. 

The  'Dunces,' — as  they  were  now  known, —  held  weekly  clubs 
to  determine  j)lans  of  retaliation.  A  surreptitious  edition  was 
j)rinted,  witli  an  owl  in  the  frontispiece.  For  distinction,  the 
true  one  a(lo])t('d,  instead,  an  ass  laden  with  authors. 

The  work  dis])lays  fertility  of  invention,  variety  of  illustration, 
force  of  diction;  l)ut  is  oftcMi  indelicate,  oftencr  unjust,  and  with- 
out gciiorai  intcM'cst.  Insipid  and  heavy  as  a  whole,  it  is  splendid 
in  parts,  as  in  the  closing  sketch  of  the  decline  and  eclipse  of 
learning  and  taste  before  tlie  darkening  emigre  of  advancing 
Dulness  : 

'She  comes;    ^ll(•  cdiiics:    tlie  sable  tlirone  beliold 
Of  niirlit  piiincxnl,  and  of  t'lia'>s  old! 


POPE.  115 

Before  her  Fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay. 
And  all  its  varying  rainlK>ws  die  away. 
Wit  nlioots  in  vain  its  momentary  liret«. 
The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a  tlasli  exi)ires. 
As  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea".s  strain. 
The  sick'ning  stars  fade  off  th'  ethereal  plain; 
As  Argus'  eyes,  by  Hermes"  wand  oppressed. 
Closed  one  by  one  to  everlasting  rest; 
Thns,  at  her  felt  approach  and  secret  might. 
Art  after  art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night." 

Essay  on  Man  (1T33),  the  noblest  of  his  works,  the  most 
influential,  and  the  surest  guarantee  of  his  immortality.  The 
essay  consists  of  four  '  Epistles.'  The  first  considers  man  in  his 
relation  to  the  universe;  the  second,  his  relation  to  himself  ;  the 
third,  his  relation  to  society;  the  fourth,  his  relation  to  happi- 
ness. The  design  is  to  reconcile,  on  principles  of  human  reason, 
the  contradictions  of  human  life  ;  to  vindicate  the  ways  of  God 
to  man,  by  representing  evil,  moral  and  physical,  to  be  a  {)art  of 
the  Divine  scheme  for  the  government  of  the  world.  But  what 
is  more  ridiculous  than  a  musician  in  the  chair  of  wisdom?  For 
once,  Pope  was  not  master  of  his  subject,  and  undertook  to  teach 
what  he  had  not  learned,  and  could  not  comprehend.  He  aspired 
to  harmonize  conflicting  systems  of  thought,  and  succeeded  in 
making  a  chaos.    AVhy  approve  or  condenni  at  every  step,  if, — 

'One  truth  is  clear:    Wlialever  is,  in  rir/ht ' .' 

What  becomes  of  moral  responsibiiitv,  if, — 

'Who  heaves  old  ocean,  and  who  wings  the  sti)nns. 
Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  desar's  mind '  ' 

What  becomes  of  Godward  aspirations,  if  God,  withdrawn  into 
the  far  depths  of  an  eternal  silence,  never  touclios  the  circle  of 
human  interests?  Go  ask  tlie  pestilence  to  e.xcuse  your  frailties, 
and  tlie  earthquake  t<)  forgive  your  sins  I  P>at,  drink,  and  be 
merry,  for  you  arc  sliut  up  in  tlie  prison-houst-  of  Fatel 

Bolingbrokr,  whom  Pope  apostrophized  as  his  genius,  guide, 
and  friend,  privately  ridiculed  him,  as  having  adopted  and  applied 
principles  of  which  he  did  not  perccMve  tht»  conse<|uence,  and  as 
blindly  j)ropagating  opinions  contrarv  to  his  own.  The  principles 
of  the  l£s!>(ni  wen>  not  inimedi;it(^Iy  e.\;imined,  ;ind  so  little  was 
any  evil  tendencv  at  lirst  discovered,  that  bv  nianv  it  was  rciid 
as  a  inaTiual  ol'  piety.  We  <]()  not  look  for  vipers  in  a  liou(|uet  of 
flowers.  Criticism,  however,  .soon  revealed  that  its  provisions, 
for  the   most    part,  terminated    fatally   to   the    highest    hopes  and 


116  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

interests  of  mankind,  and  Pope  was  under  the  ban  of  rejecting 
Revelation  and  favoring  Atheism.  He  begins  to  distrust  himself, 
to  doubt  the  tendency  of  his  teachings,  shrinks  back  from  his 
conclusions  appalled,  and  writes  his  gratitude  to  the  man  who  has 
sought  to  give  to  the  obnoxious  parts  an  innocent  and  consistent 
interpretation: 

'Yon  have  niade  my  system  as  clear  as  I  ought  to  have  done,  and  could  not.  It  is 
indeed  the  same  system  as  mine,  bui  illustrated  with  a  ray  of  your  own,  as  they  say  our 
natural  body  is  the  same  still  when  it.  is  glorified.  I  am  sure  I  like  it  belter  than  I  did 
before,  and  so  will  every  man  else.  I  know  I  meant  just  what  you  e.xplaiu,  but  I  did  not 
explah)  my  own  meaning  so  well  as  you.  You  understand  me  as  well  as  I  do  myself,  but 
you  express  me  better  than  I  could  express  myself.' 

Aware  of  his  weakness,  brought  face  to  face  with  the  inscruta- 
ble enigma,  he  turns  his  back  upon  the  infinite,  abandons  the 
problem,  and  writes  The  Universal  Prayer,  as  a  compendious 
exposition  of  the  meaning  which  he  desired  to  be  attached  to  the 
l£ssai/, —  the  forgetful,  genuine  cry  of  a  soul  that  once,  if  never 
again,  feels  the  sadness  of  the  universe,  and  sinks  in  a  sense  of 
divine  mystery: 

'FATIIEl?  of  all  1   in  every  ago,  Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

In  ev'ry  clime  ador'd.  To  see  the  good  from  ill; 

By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage,  And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Jeho\  ah.  Jove,  or  Lord  I  Left  free  the  human  will. 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood.  What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done 
Who  all  my  sense  conlinM  Or  warns  me  not  to  do, — 

To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  God,  This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun; 
And  that  myself  am  blind:  That  more  than  lieaven  pursue." 

Again  it  is  to  be  observed,  here  as  elsewliere,  that,  while  the 
whole  is  unsatisfactory,  the  details  are  admirable, —  loss  admira- 
ble, indeed,  for  flic  idea.'^,  than  for  the  art  of  exjiressing  them. 
That  we  see  but  little;  that  God  is  wise,  though  we  are  fools; 
that  self-intere.st,  well  understood,  will  produce  social  concord; 
that  mutual  benefits  are  a  mutual  gain;  that  our  true  honor  is, 
not  to  have  a  groat  i)art,  but  to  act  it  well;  that  evil  is  made  sub- 
.servifMit  to  good;  that  ha])piness  lies  in  virtue  and  in  submi.ssion 
to  the  l)iviiie  Will: — -tlie.'^^e,  though  salutary  truths,  are  common 
property:  but  sjileiidor  of  imagorv,  inimitable  workmanship,  give 
to  these  coiuinoiiplaces  a  potent  charm,  and  secure  for  them  an 
abiding  place  in  the  gallorv  whore  beatity  garners  immortally  her 
own.  What  gives  to  the  J^ssai/  on  Man  the  perpetuity  of  its 
thought  is  the  niarvellous  expression.  Xover  was  familiar  knowl- 
edge expressed  in  words  more  ofTective,  in  style  more  condensed. 


POPE.  117 

in  melody  more  sweet,  in  contrasts  more  striking,  in  enibellisli- 
ments  more  blazing.  Mark  the  multiplied  treasures  in  the  follow- 
ing,—  nearly  every  line  an  antithesis  and  an  abstract: 

'Know  then  thyself,  prci'iunc  not  (iod  to  scan. 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 
Plac'd  on  Ihis  isthmus  of  a  middle  state, 
A  being  darkly  wise,  and  rudely  great; 
With  too  much  knowledge  for  the  sceptic  side. 
With  too  much  weakness  for  the  stoic's  pride. 
He  hangs  between;   in  doubl  to  act,  or  rest, 
•  In  doubt  to  deem  himself  a  God,  or  beast. 

In  doubt  liis  mind  or  body  to  prefer. 
Born  but  to  die,  and  reas'ning  but  to  err; 
Alike  in  ignorance,  his  reason  such. 
Whether  he  thinks  too  little  or  too  mucli; 
Cliaos  of  thought  and  passion,  all  confused; 
Still  he  himself  abus'd  or  disabus'd; 
Created  half  to  rise,  and  half  to  fall; 
Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  prey  to  all; 
Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hiirVd, 
The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world." 

With  what  lu.xuriancc  and  care  he  amplifies  his  thought  in  the 
noble  but  vain  attempt  to  define  the  Deity  without  subjecting 
him  to  the  limitations  of  matter: 

'All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole. 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  (iod  tlie  soul; 
That,  chang'd  througli  all.  and  yet  in  all  the  same. 
Great  in  tlie  earth,  as  in  th"  ethereal  frame. 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze. 
Glows  in  the  .stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees; 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  <'.\tent. 
Spreads  undivided,  ojjerales  uns|)eMt; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  iiart. 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart- 
.^s  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  Iliat  mourns, 
.\s  th('  rapt  serapli  that  adores  and  burns: 
To  Him  no  hii;h,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small. 
He  fills,  He  bomuls.  connects,  and  equals  all." 

In  lines  like  the  following,  he  speak.s  witii  a  dignity  which 
perhaps  has  never  lieen  exceeded  among  the  sons  of  men: 

'I.o,  tlie  iioor  Indian:  whose  iiiiliitor'd  snind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  Him  in  tlie  wind; 
His  <ouI  proud  science   never  taUL'ht  to  <tray 
Far  as  the  -olar  walk,  or  milky  way; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  i:iven. 
Behind  the  cloudtopt  hill,  an  humbler  heaven: 
Some  safer  world,  in  depth  of  woo(N  embrac'd. 
Some  liai)pier  inland  iu  the  watery  wa^te, 
Wliere  slavis  once  more  their  native  laud  b.liold, 
Xo  lieiids  torment,  no  ( •liri-tians  tliirst   foi-  'jold. 
To  be,  contents  his  iiatiiral  desire: 
He  asks  no  :iiiL'el"s  wiuL',  no  ~rrapli"-  tire: 


118  CRITICAL   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company.' 

Superior  excellence  of  form  explains  why  no  English  poet  — 
Shakespeare  excepted  —  has  supplied  to  our  current  literature 
and  conversation  a  larger  number  of  apt  and  happy  quotations. 
His  maxims,  as  the  following  from  the  Essay,  have  become 
proverbs: 

'An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God.' 

'Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  sense. 
Lie  in  three  words,  health,  peace,  and  competence.'  , 

'Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast: 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home. 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come.' 

'For  forms  of  government  let  fools  contest; 
Whate'er  is  best  administered,  is  best. 
For  modes  of  faith  let  graceless  zealots  fight; 
His  can't  be  wrong  whose  life  is  in  the  right. 
In  faith  and  hope  mankind  may  disagree. 
But  all  the  world's  concern  is  charity." 

Style. —  Refined,  ornate,  antithetical,  pointed,  terse,  regular, 
graceful,  musical. 

P,ank. —  In  every  literary  work  there  are  two  constituents, — 
the  substance  and  the  form.  These  two,  while  they  exist  in  and 
by  each  otlier,  may  be  given  different  degrees  of  prominence.  If 
the  attention  is  bent  chiefly  to  thought  and  feeling,  the  result  is 
preeminently  substantial  or  creative  merit;  if  to  expression,  the 
result  is  preeminently  formal  or  critical  merit.  Corresponding 
to  these  two  attitudes  of  the  mind,  there  are  two  classes  of 
poets, —  the  creative,  and  the  critical;  the  sublime,  and  the 
beautiful;  the  powerful  and  free,  and  the  painstaking  and  con- 
.strained;  —  the  natural  and  the  artificial.  The  first  charm  more 
by  their  ma.ssive  grandeur  of  tfiought,  the  second  by  their  careful 
finish  of  detail;  tiie  first  please  rather  the  earnest,  the  second  the 
elegant;  tlie  first  view  nature  and  man  through  telescopes,  the 
second  through  microscopes;  the  first  give  us,  for  our  field  of 
vision,  a  natural  laiidscaj^e,  with  its  diversities  of  mountain  and 
valley,  of  forest  and  meadow, —  the  second  'a  velvet  lawn,  shaven 
by  the  scythe,  and  levelled  l)y  the  roller.' 

In  the  age  of  Pope,  the  critical  spirit  was  u])permost,  and  he  was 
its  best  embodiment.  Ilis  rank,  therefore,  is  not  in  the  first  order 
of  poets,  but  in  the  second;  and  here  he  is  the  equal  of  Dryden. 


POPE.  119 

He  proposed  at  the  start  to  make  correctness  the  basis  of  his  fame. 
A  friend  had  told  him  that  only  one  way  of  excelling  was  left. 
*We  had  several  great  poets,'  said  Walsh,  'but  we  never  had  one 
great  poet  that  was  correct;  and  he  advised  me  to  make  that  my 
study  and  aim.'  Correct  poetry,  then,  was  a  business  from  which 
he  was  never  diverted.  His  first  study  was  to  make  verses  —  his 
last,  to  mend  and  adorn  tliem.  With  what  nice  regard  he  fab- 
ricates his  verse!  'The  fourth  and  fifth  svllables,'  he  says,  'and 
the  last  but  two,  are  chiefly  to  be  minded;  and  one  must  tune 
each  line  over  in  one's  head,  to  try  whether  they  go  right  or  not.' 
Far  and  wide  he  searched,  not  for  passions,  but  for  style;  not  for 
great  ideas,  but  for  colors.  To  this  career  of  cold,  outside  scru- 
tiny he  was  born.  Of  the  fine  frenzy  in  which  we  lose  thought 
of  words,  he  was  by  nature  incapable.  In  him  were  no  sovereign 
sympathies,  no  impetuous  images,  no  tormenting  convictions,  no 
internal  tempests,  no  sombre  madness,  wiiich  urge  forward  a 
Shakespeare,  a  Milton,  a  Bunyan,  a  Byron,  and  move  them  to 
write  from  an  overcharged  soul;  but  the  calm  reasonings,  the 
self-command,  which  box  up  a  subject  in  a  regular  plan,  divide  it 
by  rule  and  compass,  and  dispose  the  ideas  in  files  mathematically 
exact.  In  religion,  he  was  lukewarm;  in  politics,  indilTerent;  in 
everything,  studious  of  his  own  tranquillity: 

'In  my  politics,  I  think  no  further  than  how  to  prefer  tlie  peace  of  my  life,  in  any 
government  under  which  I  live;  nor  in  my  relif;ion,  than  to  preserve  the  peace  of  my 
conscience  in  any  churcli  with  wliich  I  communicate.  I  hope  all  churches  and  ijovern- 
ments  are  so  far  of  God,  as  Ihey  are  rightly  underslood  and  rightly  administered:  And 
where  they  err,  or  may  be  wrong,  I  leave  it  to  God  alone  to  mend  or  reform  them.' 

His  emotion  is  always  slight,  his  fancy  usually  sportive;  he 
shuns  the  heroic  and  the  tragic;  they  could  take  no  abiding  mot 
in  a  hothouse  regulated  by  a  thermometer.  To  a  heroine  lloating- 
in  her  boat  on  a  shoreless  sea,  he  prefers  one, — 

'Laiuiched  on  tlie  Ijosoin  of  the  silver  Tlianies." 

A  ravished  lock  of  hair  is  a  more  fitting  subject  for  his  poetry 
than  the  real  loss  that  makes  the  lieart  with  sl('ej>l('ss  sorrow  ach(>. 
He  sees  in  the  moon,  not  the  ])ageant  of  the  uiiiver.se,  l)ut  the 
chandelier  of  the  drawing-room.  A  gewgaw  in  a  lady's  head- 
dress inspires  his  muse  mon^  than  the  one  white  flower  among  the 
rocks.  Occasional  gl(»anis  then'  are,  as  we  have  seen,  from  the 
deeps  of  feeling  and  the  heights  of  thought,  I)ut  they  aic  mete- 
oric.     We  read,  and  are  instruc-ted  —  if  we  read  slowly,  and  are 


120  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

not  dazed  bj'  the  shower  of  sparkles  or  entranced  by  the  wonder- 
working sounds  that  roll  so  nimbly  and  brilliantly  along;  but  he 
touches  no  chord  of  the  heart,  lifts  us  into  no  region  of  high 
aspiration,  wraps  us  in  no  dream  of  the  infinite.  He  moved  and 
felt  within  a  retired  and  narrow  circle.  The  men  and  women  of 
fashion,  their  opinions  and  customs,  their  oddities  and  vanities, 
his  own  loves  and  hatreds,  were  his  favorite  themes,  which  he 
treats  without  the  enthusiasm  or  depth  of  greatness.  It  is  said 
that  he  never  tried  to  be  pathetic  but  twice.  He  has  somewhere 
given  a  receipt  for  making  an  epic.  It  would  be  a  phenomenal 
cook  whose  pudding  should  give  us  a  deep  insight  into  the  work- 
ings of  the  heart,  or  inspire  us  with  cravings  after  the  ideal !  He 
was  a  sceptic  in  poetry,  as  Hume  in  religion.  The  age  required 
it.  He  wrote  for  a  finical  society,  which  preferred  raillery, 
compliments,  and  epigrams,  to  the  beautiful,  the  grand,  and  the 
impassioned.  In  all  things  he  displayed  the  same  critical  taste 
and  exactness, —  in  his  letters,  in  his  dress,  in  his  surroundings. 
As  a  landscape  gardener,  he  was  famous.  From  him  the  Prince 
of  Wales  took  the  design  of  his  garden.  From  him,  Kent, 
the  improver  and  embellisher  of  pleasure  grounds,  received  his 
best  lessons. 

Witliout  the  universality  of  Shakespeare  or  the  sublimity  of 
Milton,  he  is,  among  the  poets  of  artificial  life  and  manners,  the 
most  brilliant  and  accomplished. 

Character. — A  collection  of  contradictions.  Professing  con- 
tempt of  the  world,  he  lived  upon  its  pleasure.  Pretending  to 
neglect  fame,  he  courted  it.  Affecting  to  ignore  the  critics,  he 
writlied  under  their  attacks.  Scorning  the  great,  he  loved  to 
oinunerate  the  men  of  high  rank  with  whom  he  was  acquainted. 
Tells  his  friends  that  'he  has  a  heart  for  all,  a  house  for  all,  and, 
whatever  they  may  think,  a  fortune  for  all,'  yet  entertained  scant- 
ilv;  as  when  he  would  set  a  single  pint  upon  the  table,  and, 
liaving  himself  (Iruiik  two  small  glasses,  would  retire,  and  say, 
'Gentlemen,  1  leave  you  to  your  wine.'  Avowing  benevolence, 
he  was  guilty  of  meanness  which  it  is  impossible  to  defend. 
S(Mretly  or  o])enly,  ho  jinrsued,  with  an  implacable  vengeance, 
all  who  questioned  or  slighted  his  poetical  supremacy;  and  still 
he  could  write: 


POPE.  121 

'Teach  me  to  feel  aiiother'8  woe. 
To  hide  the  faults  I  8ee; 
That  mercy  1  to  others  show, 
That  mercy  show  to  me." ' 

Dennis,  who  had  been  wantonly  assailed,  speaks  of  him  as  a 
'little  allected  hypocrite,  who  had  nothing  in  his  mouth  at  the 
same  time  but  truth,  candour,  friendship,  good-nature,  humanity, 
and  mao-nanimity.'  In  social  intercourse  he  delighted  in  artitice, 
and  was  always  an  actor.  If  lie  wanted  a  favor,  he  contrived  to 
obtain  it  indirectly,  by  unsuspected  hints  at  its  general  conven- 
ience. It  is  said  that  he  hardly  drank  tea  without  a  stratagem, 
and  used  to  play  the  politician  about  cabbages  and  turnips.  He 
resembles  a  coquette,  who, — 

'  In  hopes  of  coutradictiou  oft  will  say, 
"  Methinks  I  look  most  horrible  to-day."" 

He  has  left  us  an  account  of  a  rehearsal  before  Lord  Halifax, 
which,  if  it  be  not  duplicity,  lies  on  the  border-land,  and  is  char- 
acteristic: 

'The  famous  Lord  Halifax  was  ra'thcr  a  pretender  to  taste  than  really  jwssessed  of 
it.  When  I  had  finished  the  two  or  three  first  books  of  my  translation  of  the  "7/mrf."" 
that  Lord  desired  to  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  them  read  at  his  house.  Addison, 
Consreve,  and  Garth,  were  there  at  the  reading.  In  four  or  five  places,  Lord  Ilulifax 
stopped  me  very  civilly,  and  with  a  speech  each  time  of  much  the  same  kind,  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mr.  Pope;  but  there  is  sometliing  in  that  passage  that  does  not  quite  please 
me.  Be  so  good  as  to  mark  the  j)lace,  and  consider  it  a  little  at  your  leisure.  I  am  sure 
you  can  give  it  a  little  turn."  I  returned  from  Lord  Halifax"  with  Dr.  (Jarth,  in  his 
chariot;  and  as  we  were  going  along,  was  saying  to  the  Doctor,  that  my  loril  had  laid  me 
under  a  great  deal  of  dilHcuIty  by  such  loose  and  general  observations;  that  I  had  been 
thinking  over  the  passages  almost  ever  since,  and  could  not  guess  at  what  it  was  that 
offended  his  lordship  in  either  of  them.  Garth  laughed  heartily  at  my  embarrassment: 
said,  I  had  not  l)een  long  enougli  accpiainted  witli  Lord  Halifax  to  know  his  way  yet; 
that  I  need  not  puzzle  myself  about  looking  those  places  over  and  over  when  I  got  home. 
"All  yon  need  do  (says  he)  is  to  leave  them  just  as  tliey  are:  call  on  Lord  Halifix  two  or 
three  niontlis  hence,  tliank  him  for  his  kind  observations  on  those  i)assaKes,  and  then 
read  them  to  liini  as  altered.  I  liavc  known  him  much  longer  than  you  have,  and  will  be 
answerable  for  the  event."'  I  followed  Ids  advice:  waited  on  Lord  Halifax  sonu'  time 
after:  said  I  hoped  he  would  fin<l  his  objections  to  those  passages  removed;  read  them 
to  him  exactly  a-;  tliey  were  at  first:  and  liis  lordslii])  was  extremely  pleased  with  them, 
and  cried  out,  ".Vy,  now  tiny  are  perfectly  right;  notliing  can  do  better."' 

In  rclioioii,  as  we  liave  seen,  ho  was  a  man  of  easy,  soiiunvhat 
elastic,  j)i("tv.  ^V  w(M'Id]y  ])oet  niu.st  be  such.  Like  Swift,  but 
with  les.s  o.xcuso,  he  found  pleasure  in  filthy  images.  His  verse 
is  often  the  receptacle  of  dirt.  Some  of  his  passages  Swift  alone 
might  have  seemi'd  cajjable  of  writing. 

With  all  his  literary  vanity,  he  is  said  never  to  have  llattf.'red, 

'  Univernal  Prayer. 


122  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

in  print,  those  whom  he  did  not  love,  nor  to  have  praised  those 
whom  he  did  not  esteem.  Certainly,  his  independence  secured 
hiiri  from  the  servile  drudgery  of  offering  praise  and  congratula- 
tions for  sale.  He  was  a  fond  and  faithful  friend  to  the  chosen 
few.  'I  never  in  my  life,'  said  Bolingbroke,  'knew  a  man  that 
had  so  tender  a  heart  for  his  particular  friends,  or  a  more  general 
friendship  for  mankind.'  It  may  be  remembered,  against  many 
faults,  that,  while  resentful  and  irritable  to  others,  he  was  uni- 
formly gentle  and  reverential  to  his  venerable  parents: 

'Me  let  the  tender  office  long  engage. 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  reposing  age; 
With  lenient  arts  extend  a  mother's  breath, 
Make  languor  smile  and  soothe  the  bed  of  death; 
Explore  the  thought,  explain  the  asking  eye, 
And  keep  at  least  one  parent  from  the  sky.' 

His  generous  sentiments  would  seem  to  have  been  the  colors 
of  his  better  and  present  moments.  He  had  the  feeling  and  the 
admiration  of  moral  excellence,  and  has  described  it  admirably; 
but  the  wingless  brute  was  stronger  than  the  winged  seraph,  and 
was  constantly  dragging  him  down. 

Influence. — To  Pope  the  English  language  will  always  be 
indebted.  He,  more  than  any  other  before  or  since,  discovered 
its  power  of  melody,  enriched  it  with  poetical  elegances,  with 
happy  combinations  of  words,  and  developed  its  capacities  for 
terse  and  brilliant  expression.  In  the  form  of  his  verse, —  the 
rhymed  decasyllabic  line,  which  he  made  for  a  time  supreme, — 
his  influence  is  no  longer  felt ;  but  in  the  taste  he  created  for 
correct  diction  and  polished  versification,  his  influence  will  never 
cease. 

By  his  satires,  he  was  a  public  Ijenefactor.  The  poet  may 
influence  the  mind  by  virtue  directly,  by  warnings  and  exhorta- 
tions ;  or  indirectlv,  bv  scourging  vice  and  exposing  folly.  Tlie 
latter  is  the  nietliod  of  the  satirist,  who  is  the  .Tudge  Lynch  of 
civilized  soeietv.  The  ease-hardened,  with  whom  serious  admoni- 
tion is  vain,  he  ex))oses  to  the  public  gaze  for  the  ])ublic  sport, 
not  to  efTect  anv  iinjuoveitieiit  in  tJioii,  but,  by  showing  their 
exaitiple  to  l)e  iiitrinsiea  II  v  contemptible,  to  prevent  the  eoinmu- 
riieation  of  tluir  (lis;'asc  to  others.  Thus  Po])e  was  serviceal)le 
to  liis  generation  by  satirizing  its  false  taste,  fals(^  virtue,  false 
liap])iness,  false  life;  and,  in  the  character  of  satirist,  may  claim 
a  moral  purjjose: 


POPE.  123 

'Hear  this  and  tremble,  you  ivho  escape  the  laws; 
Yes,  while  I  live,  no  rich  or  noble  knave 
Shall  walk  the  world  in  credit  to  his  grave."  ' 

We  must  acknowledge  his  service  to  us  in  reflecting,  with 
curious  completeness,  the  thoughts  of  his  clay.  He  resembles  a 
plastic  material,  which  has  taken,  with  singular  sharpness  and 
fidelity,  the  main  peculiarities  of  the  time.  A  semi-Deist,  with- 
out well  knowing  what  Deism  meant,  he  exhibits  in  the  Essay  on 
Man  the  religious  creed  of  the  age, —  a  creed  which,  by  refining 
the  Deity  into  an  abstraction,  leaves  religion  soulless, —  a  bare 
skeleton  of  logic.  In  his  translation  of  JIomer''s  Iliad,  he  exem- 
plifies in  its  utmost  excellence  the  theory  of  artificial  poetry.  His 
various  satires  are  significant  of  the  social  structure. 

In  spiritual  interests,  his  influence  will  ever  be  one  of  mixed 
good  and  evil.  The  reason  is  simple, —  he  had  not  spiritual 
healthfulness.  No  man  can  inspire  and  sustain  his  fellow-beings 
with  high  and  happy  emotions,  who  has  not  religious  realization, 
and  a  just  sense  of  the  dignity  of  human  nature.  Here  is  liis 
characteristic  view  of  human  life: 

'BclioM  the  child,  by  nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw: 
Some  livelier  playtliing  cives  his  youth  delifrht, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite: 
Scarfs,  garters,  jrold,  amuse  his  riper  age, 
And  beads  and  i)rayer-books  are  the  toys  of  age; 
Pleased  with  this  bauble  still,  as  that  before. 
Till  tired  he  sleei)s,  and  life's  poor  play  is  o'er." 

The  'rattle,'  the  'straw,'  the  '  beads,'  and  the  '  |)rayer-l)ooks' 
are  equally  baubles,  and  end  alike  in  weariness  and  death.  This 
is  deliberate  and  final, —  the  sum  of  'life's  poor  play 'I  The 
greatest  hkmi  have  indeed  had  a  sense  of  the  pettiness  of  our 
lives;  no  great  soul  could  ever  be  without  it;  but  mark  the  dif- 
ference: life  is  a  brief  dn^am,  vanishing  into  the  vast  abyss  of 
ever-present  mystery, —  be  humble;  it  is  a  shifting  scene,  but 
Heaven  is  b(^hind  the  veil  of  {phenomena, —  b(^  of  good  cheer 
amid  vour  frailties;  von  are  gifted  with  an  immortal  spirit,  but 
vou  stand  in  the  shadow  of  i\w  great  darkness, —  lie  lowly  wise. 
We  would  liav(>  it  considered  well,  that  he  who  would  give 
endurino-  and  efficient  utterance  to  those  echoing  sentiments 
which  search   the   heart,  and   in  virtue  of   which   jxx^try   fulfils   its 

'  I'ope'-i  Imiiaiioiis  <i'  lliintc. 


124  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

truest  mission  of  soothing  and  elevating  the  soul  ;  he  who  would 
gain  the  orbit  of  the  high,  the  holy,  and  the  real,  see  them  in 
their  eternal  beauty,  feel  them  in  their  universal  interest,  and 
exert  the  measure  of  their  power  on  the  minds  of  his  readers, — 
must  have  first  a  profound  reverence  for  the  divine,  and  a  pro- 
found sympathy  for  the  human, —  its  hopes  and  its  sorrows,  its 
infirmities  and  its  aspirations. 

What  we  would  commend  to  the  student's  careful  remem- 
brance, as  of  practical  moment,  is  Pope's  admirable  unity  of 
method.  He  searched  the  pages  of  Dryden  for  the  best  fabric  of 
verse,  and,  having  found  it,  used  it  habitually.  He  read,  first  to 
know,  then  to  judge, —  always  with  reference  to  a  fixed  object. 
As  he  read,  he  possessed  himself  of  the  beauties  of  speech, 
gleaned  what  he  thought  to  be  brilliant  or  useful,  and  preserved 
it  all  in  a  regular  collection.  His  intelligence  was  perpetually 
on  the  wing.  Not  content  with  well-done,  he  endeavored  to  do 
better.  In  his  highest  flights,  he  wished  to  go  higher.  Having 
written,  he  revised  often,  retouched  every  part  with  an  unsparing 
hand  and  an  attentive  eye.  Here  is  a  specimen  indicative  of  his 
continual  corrections  and  critical  erasures  : 

'The  wrath  of  Peleiis'  son,  the  direful  spring 
Of  all  the  Grecian  woes*,  O  Goddess,  sing; 
That  wrath  which  hiirl'd  to  Pluto"s  gloomy  reign 
The  i<oul.s  of  mighty  chief;*  untimely  slain.'' 

'The  stern  Pelides"  rage,  O  Goddess,  sing, 

wrath 
Of,  all  the  woes  of  Greece  the  fatal  spring. 

Grecian 
That  strewed  with  icarriors  dead  the  Phrygian  plain, 

heroes 
And  peopled  (he  dark  hell  ivith  heroes  slain.' » 
fill'd  the  shady  liell  with  chiefs  untimely 

Milton,  Addison,  Tasso,  Balzac,  Pascal,  felt  similar  anxictie.s. 
The  first  was  solicitous  after  correct  punctuation,  the  second  after 
the  minutiiP  of  the  press.  Tlie  manuscripts  of  the  third,  still  pre- 
served, are  illegible  from  the  vast  number  of  corrections.  Balzac, 
dissatisfied  with  his  first  thoughts,  would  expend  a  week  on  a 
single  page,  and  Pascal  frequently  occui)ie(l  twenty  days  on  one 

'/Ha/i,— as  printed. 

'  Corrcspondint;  lines  of  the  original  manuscript,  the  words  in  italics  being  erased, 
and  those  under  them  adopted  instead.  Between  this  copy  and  the  printed  page,  was,  of 
course,  an  intermediate  manuscript. 


POPE.  125 

of   his   Provincial  Letters.     They   realized    that    posterity   will 
respect  only  those  who  — 

'File  off  the  mortal  part 
Of  glo\vin<;  thought  with  Attic  art." 

'A  little  thing  gives  perfection,'  said  an  ancient  philosopher, 
'but  perfection  is  not  a  little  thing-.' 


CRITICAL  PERIOD:   SECOND   PHASE. 


CHAPTER  III. 


FEATURES. 


What  do  we  look  for  in  studying  tlie  history  of  ii  past  age?  Is  it  to  learn  the  political 
transactions  and  characters  of  the  loading  public  men?  Is  it  to  make  ourselves  acquainted 
with  the  life  and  being  of  the  time?  ...  I  take  up  a  volume  of  Dr.  Smollet,  or  a  volume  of 
the  'Spectator,'  and  say  the  fiction  carries  a  greater  amonijt  of  truth  in  solution,  than  the 
volume  which  purports  to  be  all  true.  Out  of  the  fictitious  book  1  get  the  expression  of 
the  life  of  the  time;  of  the  manners;  of  the  movement,  the  dress,  the  pleasures,  the 
ridicules  of  society;  the  old  times  live  again,  and  1  travel  in  the  old  country  of  England. 
Can  the  heaviest  historian  do  more  for  mti'i— Thackeray. 

Politics. — A  period  of  Whig"  supremacy.  Pressed  by  the 
people  and  abandoned  by  the  crown,  the  Tories  were  unable  to 
take  any  share  in  the  govennnent.  Strong  in  numbers  and  in 
property,  they  had  scarcely  a  single  man  of  distinguished  talents 
in  business  or  debate.    The  preponderance  of  intellect  was  Whig. 

Internally  —  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  ineffectual 
attempts  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  —  a  time  of  political  tor})or. 
Faction  had  sunk  into  rej)ose. 

Two  ministers  give  lustre  to  the  administrative  jjolicy,  Robert 
Walpole  and  William  Pitt.  The  first  loved  peace,  and  made  his 
country  prosperous;  the  second  loved  war,  and  made  her  glorious. 

Society. — For  literary  merit,  a  dark  night  between  two  sunny 
days.  The  age  of  princely  patronage  had  ])assed;  that  of  general 
intelligence  had  not  arrived.  A  poet  was  a  wild  ass  wedded  to 
his  desolate  freedom;  a  ragged,  squalid  fellow  who  lodged  in  a 
garret  up  four  flights  of  stairs,  dined  in  a  cellar  on  musty  jnid- 
ding  amcjiig  footuKMi  out  of  place,  wore  dirtv  linen  and  a  greasy 
coat,  stood  at  restaurant  windows  snuffing  the  scent  of  what  he 
could  not  afford  to  taste;  slept,  like  Savage,  amid  the  ashes  of  a 
glass-house  in  December,  .died  in  a  hospital,  and  was  burie<l,  not 
in  Westininster  Abbey,  but  in  a  parish  vaidt.  Stich  was  the  fate 
of  many  a  writer  who,  had  he  lived  thirty  years  earlier,  might 
have   sat    in  Parliament;   and,  had   li(>  written    in   our  day,  wouUl 


POSITION    OF    WRITERS  —  MAN^NERS.  127 

have  lived  in  comfort  by  the  mere  sale  of  his  writings.  A  few 
eminent  authors  were  more  fortunate.  Pope,  raised  above  want 
by  his  legacy,  and  tlie  patronage  which,  in  his  youth,  both  parties 
extended  to  his  Iliad,  lived  calm  and  admired  in  his  villa.  Upon 
Young,  Walpole  had  bestowed  his  only  pension  as  the  reward  of 
literary  excellence.  Thomson,  by  attaching  himself  to  the  oppo- 
sition, had  obtained,  after  much  severe  suffering,  the  means  of 
subsistence.  Richardson  depended  less  upon  his  novels  than  upon 
his  shop.  Johnson  and  Fielding,  two  of  the  ablest  men  of  the 
period,  were  hunted  by  bailiffs,  and  arrested  for  debt. 

The  change  in  the  position  of  writers  was  injurious  to  society, 
as  well  as  to  literature.  The  government,  by  helping  only  those 
who  would  em])loy  their  talent  in  the  lowest  forms  of  political 
libel,  gave  society  a  frivolous  and  material  tone  which  it  has 
never  wholly  lost. 

Moral  revolutions  are  slow.  As  in  the  preceding  period,  we 
see  corruption  in  high  places,  and  brutality  in  low.  In  the 
House  of  Commons,  members  were  notoriously  at  the  command 
of  the  highest  bidder,  formed  combinations,  and  extorted  large 
wages  by  threatening  to  strike.  Here  is  a  man  of  the  world 
doing  business:  'He  (Walpole)  wanted  to  carry  a  question  .  .  . 
to  wliicli  he  knew  there  would  be  great  opposition.  .  .  .  As  he 
was  passing  through  the  Court  of  Requests,  he  met  a  member  of 
the  contrary  party,  whose  avarice,  he  imagined,  would  not  reject 
a  large  bril>e.  He  took  him  aside,  and  said,  "  Such  a  question 
conies  on  this  day;  give  me  your  vote,  and  here  is  a  bank-bill  of 
two  thousaml  pounds,"  whicli  he  j)ut  into  his  hands.  The  mem- 
ber made  him  this  answer:  "Sir  Robert,  you  have  lately  served 
some  of  mv  particular  friends;  and  when  my  wife  was  last  at 
court,  the  king  was  very  gracious  to  her,  which  must  have  hap- 
pened at  your  instance.  1  should  therefore  think  myself  very 
ungrateful  (putting  the  bank-bill  into  his  pocket)  if  I  were  to 
refuse  the  favor  you  are  now  pleased  to  ask  me.'" 

Private  maimers  were  not  more  estimable  than  public. 
'  Monev,'  wrote  Montesquieu,  'is  here  esteemed  above  every- 
thing, lionor  and  virtue  not  much.''  Tiie  coarseness  of  fashion- 
able life,  j)revailirig  in  the  first  years  of  the  century,  was  but 
little  mitigated.  The  novels  of  Richardson,  attaining  at  once  an 
extraordinarv    p()[)ularity,   did    soiiH'thiiig   to    refine    the    tone    of 


128  CRITICAL    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

society,  but  there  was  no  very  perceptible  improvement  till  the 
reign  of  George  III.  The  professor  of  whist  atid  quadrille  was 
a  regular  attendant  at  the  levees  of  fashionable  ladies.  Wrote 
Chesterfield  to  his  son:  'It  seems  ridiculous  to  tell  you,  but  it  is 
most  certainly  true,  that  your  dancing-master  is  at  this  time  the 
man  in  all  Europe  of  the  greatest  importance  to  you.'  Among 
the  entertainments  in  London,  in  1730,  we  find  'a  mad  bull  to  be 
dressed  up  with  fire-works  and  turned  loose  in  the  game  place,  a 
dog  to  be  dressed  up  with  fire-works  over  him,  a  bear  to  be  let 
loose  at  the  same  time,  and  a  cat  to  be  tied  to  the  bull's  tail,  a 
mad  bull  dressed  up  with  fire-works  to  be  baited.'  Such  amuse- 
ments were  mingled  with  prize-fighting,  and  boxing-matches 
between  women. 

Gin  had  been  discovered  in  1G84;  in  1742,  England  consumed 
annually  seven  millions  of  gallons.  Nine  years  later  it  was 
declared  to  be  '  the  principal  sustenance  (if  it  may  so  be  called) 
of  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  people  in  the  metropolis,' 
and  that,  'should  the  drinking  of  this  poison  be  continued  at  its 
present  height  during  the  next  twenty  years,  there  will,  by  that 
time,  be  very  few  of  the  common  people  left  to  drink  it.' '  A 
tax  was  imposed  to  stop  the  madness,  but  the  minister,  finding 
himself  threatened  with  a  riot,  repealed  it,  declaring  that  '  in  the 
present  inflamed  temper  of  the  people,  the  Act  could  not  be  car- 
ried into  execution  without  an  armed  force,' 

The  general  level  of  humanity  was  little,  if  any,  higher  than 
that  of  the  preceding  generation.  Executions,  if  not  a  public 
amusement,  were  at  least  a  favorite  public  spectacle.  In  IT45,  a 
ghastly  row  of  rebel  heads  lined  the  top  of  Temple  Bar.  When 
Blackstone  wrote,  one  hundred  and  sixty  offences  were  punish- 
able with  death,  and  not  infrequently  ten  or  twelve  culprits  were 
hung  on  a  single  occasion.  In  every  important  quarter  of  the 
city  were  gallows,  and  on  many  of  them  corpses  were  left  rotting 
in  chains.  Often  the  criminals  were  led  to  their  doom  intoxi- 
cated, and  some  of  the  most  distinguished  were  first  exhibited 
bv  the  turnkeys  at  a  shilling  a  head.  Women  convicted  of  nuir- 
dering  their  husbands  were  publicly  burned.  Both  men  and 
women  were  still  whipped  at  the  tail  of  a  cart  througli  the 
streets. 

'  Fielding:  On  Ihf  Ixile  Increase  of  Robbern. 


RELIGION — THE    RENEWAL.  129 

The  impunity  with  which  outrages  were  yet  committed  in 
London,  it  is  difficult  now  to  realize.  Thieves  organized  with 
officers,  a  treasury,  a  commander-in-chief,  and  multiplied,  though 
every  six  weeks  they  were  carried  to  the  gallows  by  the  cart-load. 
*  One  is  forced  to  travel,'  it  was  said  in  1751,  'even  at  noon,  as  if 
one  were  going  to  battle.'  Perhaps  no  portion  of  English  history 
has  contributed  so  much  to  the  romance  of  crime. 

Religion. — Among  the  educated  classes  the  main  thing  was 
to  imitate  the  French, —  their  grace  and  dexterity,  their  sustained 
elegance,  their  glitter,  their  fine  drawing-room  polish.  English 
literature  has  no  sadder  sentence  than  that  in  which  Butler,  in 
1736,  declares:  'It  is  come,  I  know  not  how,  to  be  taken  for 
granted  by  many  persons,  that  Christianity  is  not  so  much  as  a 
subject  of  inquiry;  but  that  it  is  now  at  length  discovered  to  be 
fictitious.  And  accordingly  they  treat  it  as  if,  in  the  present 
age,  this  were  an  agreed  point  among  all  people  of  discernment; 
and  nothing  remained  but  to  set  it  up  as  a  principal  subject  of 
mirth  and  ridicule,  as  it  were  by  way  of  reprisals,  for  its  having 
so  long  interrupted  the  pleasures  of  the  world.'  In  1751,  he 
speaks  of  the  general  decay  of  religion  'in  this  nation,  which  is 
now  observed  by  every  one,  and  has  been  for  some  time  the 
complaint  of  all  serious  persons';  and  adds  that  'the  deplorable 
distinction  of  our  age  is  an  avowed  scorn  of  religion  in  some, 
and  a  growing  disregard  of  it  in  the  generality.'  Warburton 
mourned  that  he  had  'lived  to  see  the  fatal  crisis  when  religion 
had  lost  its  hold  on  the  minds  of  the  people.'  Religion,  like 
literature,  was  cold  and  unspiritual.  Preachers  were  more  eager 
to  denounce  an  absent  adversary  than  to  save  the  souls  of  those 
who  heard  them.  Not  enthusiasm  and  extravagance,  but  sobri- 
ety and  good  sense  were  the  qualities  most  valued  in  the  pulpit. 
'Discourses,'  said  Voltaire,  'aiming  at  the  pathetic  and  accom- 
panied with  violent  gestures,  would  excite  laughter  in  an  English 
congregation.  ...  A  sermon  in  France  is  a  long  declamation, 
scruj)ulously  divided  into  three  parts,  and  delivered  witli  enthu- 
siasm. In  England,  a  sermon  is  a  solid  but  sometimes  drv  dis- 
sertation, which  a  man  reads  to  the  people  without  gesture  and 
without  any  partit'ular  exaltation  of  the  voice.'  We  remember 
that  Tillotson,  tli(»  most  authoritative  of  divines  in  his  time,  talked 
9 


130  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

like  a  demonstrator  of  anatomy.     Mark  the  style  of  his  first  ser- 
mon, —  77ie  Wisdom  of  heimj  Religious: 

'These  words  consist  of  two  propositions,  which  arc  not  distinct  in  sense;  ...  So 
that  they  differ  only  as  cause  and  effect,  which  by  a  metonymy,  used  in  all  sorts  of 
authors,  are  frequently  P»t  one  for  another.  .  .  .  Having  thus  explained  the  words,  I 
come  now  to  consider  the  proposition  contained  in  them,  which  is  this:  That  religion 
is  the  best  knowledge  and  wisdom.  This  I  shall  endeavor  to  make  good  these  three 
ways : 

1st.   By  a  direct  proof  of  it. 

2d.   By  showing  on  the  contrary  the  folly  and  ignorance  of  irreligion  and  wickedness. 

3d.  By  vnidicating  religion  from  those  common  imputations  which  seem  to  charge  it 
with  ignorance  or  imprudence.     I  begin  with  the  direct  proof  of  this.' 

Expositions,  a])ologies,  moral  essays,  while  they  supply  rational 
motives  to  virtue,  rarely  kindle  a  living  piety,  and  are  utterly 
unable  to  reclaim  the  depraved.  The  heart  is  not  touched  by 
the  dust  that  settles  on  the  countenance.  But  between  the  dregs 
at  the  bottom  and  the  foam  at  the  top  quietly  coursed  the  genu- 
ine sap  of  the  national  life.  Under  the  smoke,  burning  in  silence, 
glowed  the  simple  faith  that  never  dies,  soon  to  give  evidence 
of  its  powerful  vitality.  The  revival  began  with  a  small  knot  of 
Oxford  students,  whose  master  spirit  was  Jolm  W^esley.  Their 
methodical  regularity  of  life  gained  them  the  nick-name  of  Metli- 
odists.  Breaking  away  from  the  settled  habits  of  the  clerical 
profession,  they  avoided  all  polemical  and  abstract  reasoning, 
and  preached,  as  they  were  moved  by  the  spirit,  the  lost  condi- 
tion of  every  man  born  into  the  world;  the  eternal  tortures  which 
are  the  doom  of  the  unconverted;  justification  by  faith;  free  sal- 
vati(jn  by  Christ  ;  the  necessity  of  personal  regeneration  ;  the 
imminence  of  death  —  doctrines  which  were  now  seldom  heard 
from  a  Cliurch  of  England  j)ulj)it.  These  they  regarded  as  the 
cardinal  tenets  of  tlie  Christian  religion,  and  taught  them  with  a 
vehemence  and  lire  that  .started  the  smouldering  piety  of  the 
nation  into  Ihiiiic  Their  unstudied  eloquence  and  their  complete 
di.sri'gard  of  conventionalities  contrasted  with  tlie  polished  and 
fastidious  si-nnons  that  were  the  ])revailing  fashion  of  the  time. 
^^'(■slev,  relying  upon  the  Divine  guidance,  frequently  oj^ened 
the  Bible  at  random  for  a  text.  lie  Ix'lieved  in  the  devil,  saw 
God  in  the  comniont'st  events,  heard  su])eriuitural  noises.  His 
father  had  been  tliiiee  pushcfl  l)v  a  ghost.  lie  declared  that  'a 
string  of  opinions  is  no  more  ('liristian  faith  than  a  string  of 
l)eads  is  Ciiristiaii  holiness.'  .Sucli  convictions  are  abh^  to  turn 
emotion   into   nia<liiess,  and    render  the   madness  contai>"ious.      At 


RELIGION  — THE   METHODISTS.  131 

his  death,  he  had  ei<»'lity  thousand  disciples;  now  he  has  a  million. 
The  oratory  of  Whitefield,  another  of  the  Oxford  society,  was 
so  impassioned  that  at  times  he  was  overcome  by  his  tears,  while 
half  his  audience  were  convulsed  with  sobs.  His  first  sermon,  as 
a  bishop  complained,  'drove  fifteen  people  mad.'  He  instituted 
itinerant  preaching,  became  a  roving  evangelist,  sought  the  haunts 
of  ignorance  and  vice,  to  deal  out  to  their  half-savage  populations 
the  '  bread  of  life.'  His  rude  auditors,  immbering  five,  ten,  fifteen, 
or  even  twenty  thousand,  were  electrified,  A  few  incidents  will 
exemplify  his  peculiarities,  and  at  the  same  time  illustrate  the 
characteristics  of  this  reaction  against  the  colorless,  marble  polish 
of  the  age.  On  one  occasion,  seeing  the  actor  Shuter,  wlio  was 
then  attracting  much  attention  in  the  part  of  Ramble  in  the 
Ramhler,  seated  in  a  front  pew  of  the  gallery,  he  turned  sud- 
denly towards  him,  and  exclaimed:  'And  thou,  too,  poor  Ramble, 
who  hast  rambled  so  far  from  Him,  oli  !  cease  thy  rainblings  and 
come  to  Jesus.'  'God  always  makes  use  of  strong  passions,' 
he  was  accustomed  to  say,  'for  a  great  work,'  and  it  was  his 
object  to  rouse  such  passions  to  the  highest  point.  Sometimes 
he  would  reproduce  the  condemnation  scene  as  he  had  witnessed 
it  in  a  court  of  justice.  With  tearful  eyes  and  a  trembling  voice, 
he  would  begin,  after  a  momentary  ))ause:  'I  am  now  going  to 
put  on  the  condemning  cap.  Sinner,  I  must  do  it.  I  must  pro- 
nounce sentence  upon  you.'  Then,  with  a  dramatic  change  of 
tone,  he  thundered  over  his  awe-struck  hearers  the  solemn  words: 
*  De])art  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire  I '  On  another 
occasion,  to  illustrate  the  peril  of  sinners,  he  descril)ed  an  old 
blind  man  deserted  by  his  dog,  tottering  feebly  over  the  desolate 
moor,  vainlv  endeavoring  to  fei'l  his  way  with  the  staff,  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  verge  of  an  awful  precipice;  and  drew 
the  picture  so  vividly  that  iIk^  url)ane  Chesterfield  lost  all  self- 
possession,  and  was  heard  to  exclaim,  '(iood  God!  lie  is  gon(\' 
Preaching  before  seamen  at  New  York,  he  adoj)ted  the  familiar 
symbols  of  tlieir  occu])ation:  'Well,  my  boys,  we  have  a  clear 
sky,  and  are  making  fine  headway  ov(>r  a  smooth  sea  before  a 
liglit  breeze,  and  we  shall  soon  lose  sight  of  land.  But  what 
means  this  sudden  lowering  of  the  heavens,  and  that  dark  eloml 
ai'ising  from  beneath  the.  western  hori/on  V  Hark  I  don't  vou 
hear  distant  thunder?     Dcju't  vou  see  those  flashes  of   liLrhtning? 


132  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

There  is  a  storm  gathering.  Every  man  to  his  duty  !  How  the 
waves  arise  and  dash  against  the  ship  !  The  air  is  dark  !  the 
tempest  rages  !  Our  masts  are  gone  !  The  ship  is  on  her  beam- 
ends !  What  next?'  'The  long  boat!  take  to  the  long  boat!' 
shouted  the  excited  crowd.  His  favorite  maxim  was,  that  'a 
preacher,  when  he  entered  the  pulpit,  should  look  upon  it  as  the 
last  time  he  might  preach,  and  the  last  time  his  people  might 
hear.' 

In  this  burning  fervor  of  re;,ilization,  began  the  revival  of  popu- 
lar religion, —  a  revolt  against  the  frigid  and  formal  teaching,  the 
easy-going  indiiference  of  the  dominant  church;  and  this  reac- 
tionary movement,  communicating  its  impulse  to  contemporary 
thought,  is  premonitory  of  the  general  return  to  rapture  and 
imagination,  the  grand  and  the  tragic. 

Poetry. — To  arrange  words  in  decasyllabic  couplets  so  that 
the  accents  may  fall  correctly,  that  the  rhymes  may  strike  the 
ear  strongly,  that  the  lines  may  flow  in  unbroken  cadence,  is  an 
art  as  mechanical  as  that  of  mending  a  shoe,  and  may  be  learned 
by  any  dunce  wlu)  will  never  blunder  on  one  happy  thought  or 
expression.  Dry  den  suggested  the  art;  Pope  mastered  it,  and 
his  brilliant  success  produced  a  host  of  dull  imitators.  His  well 
chosen  sounds  and  symnietrical  rhythms  were  adopted  as  fashion 
and  fine  manners,  wherein  the  point  of  excellence  was  not  to  alter 
the  pattern,  l)ut  to  vary  its  details  of  color.  Without  his  powers, 
they  atfectcd  his  livery,  till  it  became  trite,  then  offensive.  In 
their  devotion  to  form,  they  forgot  the  spirit  that  warms  it. 
Sense  was  — 

'Sacrificed  to  sound, 
And  trill li  cut  short  to  make  tlie  period  round.'' 

Poetry,  impoverished,  soulless,  and  hollow,  was  waiting  for  a 
new  development. 

A  few  assert  tlieir  freedom,  strike  the  key-note  of  a  higher 
strain,  and  seem  to  givc^  signs  that  the  human  mind  is  turning  on 
its  hinges, —  that  externals  are  not  the  true  concern  of  the  poet, 
that  a  pink  doll  is  not  a  woman,  that  gallantry  is  not  love,  that 
amusement  is  not  happiness,  that  — 

'Kind  liearts  are  more  tliiin  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Xorman  blood." 

Four   poems    mark    the    change,  —  Thomson's    Seasons,   Young's 


POETRY  —  DESCRIPTIVE    AND    MEDITATIVE.  133 

Night  Thoughts,  Akenside's  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  and 
Gray's  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard.  Their  main 
current  runs  in  the  direction  of  sentimental  reflection. 

Tliomson  was  contemplative,  affectionate,  sympathetic,  and 
artless.  He  loved  nature  with  those  fresh  feelings  and  glad  im- 
pulses which  all  would  wish  to  cherish,  and  he  painted  his  love, 
in  its  smallest  details,  without  being  ashamed.  His  lines  on  the 
robin  in  Winter  are  in  his  best  vein: 

'The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Whicli  Providence  assigns  them.    One  alone. 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods. 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky. 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
Ills  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.    Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats;   then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth;   then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor. 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is; 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.' 

A  passage  at  the  end  of  Spring  contains  a  well-known  line,  and 
is  characteristic: 

'Delightful  ta>k:   to  rear  the  tender  thought. 
To  teach  the  younfj  idea  how  to  shoot. 
To  pour  the  fresh  instruction  o"er  the  mind. 
To  breathe  the  enlivening  spirit,  and  to  fix 
The  generous  purpose  in  the  glowing  breast.' 

In  his  mode  of  thinking  and  of  expressing  his  thought,  he  was 
original. 

Young  was  a  clergyman  and  a  courtier,  who  had  aspired  in 
vain  to  a  seat  in  Parliament,  then  to  a  bishopric  in  the  Church; 
married,  lost  his  wife  and  children,  but  made  use  of  his  disap- 
pointments and  sufferings  to  write  meditations  on  lAfe,  Death, 
Iraiaortalitg,  Time,  Friendship,  and  similar  themes.  He  was  a 
lover  of  gloom,  of  the  imagery  of  the  grave,  of  the  awful  mysteries 
of  life.  When  he  was  writing  a  tragedy,  Grafton  sent  him  a  human 
skull,  with  a  candle  in  it,  as  a  lamp;  and  he  used  it.  His  })oem  is 
a  wilderness  of  reflection,  through  which  his  fertile  fancy  scatters 
flowers  of  every  hue  and  odor.  Its  strength  is  in  the  vast  tuimber 
of  noble  and  sublime  passages,  nuixims  (jf  the  highest  practical 
value,  everlasting  truths, — 


134  CRITICAL    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

'The  glorious  fragments  of  a  flro  immortal, 
With  rubbish  mixed,  and  glittering  in  the  dust." 

The  following  may  suggest  its  general  complexion: 

'Tod  low  they  build,  who  build  beneath  the  stars.' 

'Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time/ 

'In  human  hearts  what  bolder  thought  can  rise 
Than  man's  presumption  on  to-morrow's  dawnr' 

'Shall  man  be  proud  to  wear  his  livery. 
And  souls  in  ermine  scorn  a  soul  without? 
Can  place  or  lessen  us,  or  aggrandize? 
Pygmies  are  pygmies  still,  though  perched  on  Alps, 
And  pyramids  are  pyramids  in  vales.' 

'Look  nature  through,  'tis  revolution  all! 
AH  change,  no  death;   day  follows  night,  and  night 
The  dying  day;  stars  rise  and  set,  and  set  and  rise; 
Earth  takes  the  example.    Sec,  the  Summer  gay. 
With  her  green  chaplet  and  ambrosial  Howers, 
Droops  into  jialiid  autumn:   Winter  gray. 
Horrid  with  frost  and  turbulent  with  storm. 
Blows  Autumn  and  his  golden  fruits  away. 
Then  melts  into  the  Si)ring:   soft  Spring,  with  breath 
Favonian,  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south, 
Recalls  the  first.     All,  to  reflourish,  fades; 
As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks  to  reasecud; 
Emblems  of  man,  who  ])asses,  not  expires.' 

Akenside,  earnest  and  sevi-re,  helieved  ho  had  a  message  to 
deliver  to  mankind,  and  wrote  in  blank  verse  a  philo.soj)hicaI 
poem  on  the  pleasures  of  the  purified  intellect,  as  it  contem]>lates 
flourishing  groves,  murmuring  streams,  calm  seas  under  moon- 
light, autunni  mists  slumbering  on  the  gray  sky,  noble  ai'chitec- 
ture,  music,  sculpture,  painting.  AVe  look,  if  not  for  a  vision, 
for  something  that  suggests  an  element  of  progress, —  at  least,  a 
disposition  to  cease  chiselling,  and  to  (juarrv  the  living  rock  : 

'Say,  wliy  was  man  so  eminently  raised 
Amid  the  vast  cri'ation;  why  (irdaincd 
Through  life  and  death  to  dart  liis  piercing  eye, 
Willi  thoughts  beyond  the  limit  of  his  frame: 
But  that  the  Omnipotent  might  send  liim  forth 
In  sight  of  mortal  and  immortal  jinwers, 
As  ou  a  boundless  theatre,  to  run 
The  irreat   career  of  justice:    lo  cxall 
Mi-  L'<-iirri)iis  aim  to  all  diviucr  dreds  ?  .  .  . 
Who  that,   from  Alpin(>«luMi.'hts,  liis  labouring  eye 
Sliools   round  the  wide  bori/.on,  to  survey 
Nilu~  or  (Jaiigcs  rollint.'  his  l)riglit  wave 

Through  mountains,  plains,  through  empires  black  with  shade. 
And  continents  of  sand,  will  turn  his  gaze 
To  mark  Ilie  wiiidiMLrs  of  a  -canly  lill 
Tluit  murmurs  at   hi^  feet  'f  .  .  . 


POETRY  — SENTIMENTAL    REFLECTION.  135 

For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Malcer  said. 
That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  delight. 
Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  Renown, 
Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's  flowery  lap. 
The  soul  should  tind  enjoyment;  but  from  these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good, 
Through  all  the  ascent  of  things  enlarge  her  view. 
Till  every  bound  at  length  should  disappear. 
And  infinite  perfection  close  the  scene.' 

Gray,  a  man  of  vast  and  varied  acquirements,  felt,  with  a 
nrelancholy  sweetness,  the  mystery  of  the  world  in  its  relation  to 
universal  humanity,  and  gave  voice  to  his  musings  in  verse  whose 
audience-chamber  is  capacious  as  the  soul  of  man  ;  for  it  reflects, 
as  in  peaceful  stream,  images  in  which  every  mind  has  an  inter- 
est, and  expresses  sentiments  which  find  in  every  bosom  an  echo. 
On  the  eve  of  a  decisive  battle,  silently  gliding  along  the  St. 
Lawrence,  in  view  of  the  hostile  heights  pencilled  upon  the  mid- 
night sky,  Wolf  repeated  the  J^Jlct/i/,  in  low  tones,  to  the  other 
officers  in  his  boat.  'Now,  gentlemen,'  said  he,  at  the  close  of 
the  recitation,  'I  would  rather  be  the  author  of  that  poem  than 
take  Quebec  I '  One  stanza,  one  noble  line,  must  have  been 
fraught  with  a  mournful  meaning  : 

'The  boast  of  Heraldry,  the  pomp  of  Power, 
And  all  that  Beauty,  all  that  Wealth  e'er  gave. 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour: 
Tlie  pat/ix  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  (jr<tce.' 

All  four,  however,  while  they  denote  a  transition  era,  show 
the  influence  of  the  artificial  school.  The  intfdlect  triumphs  over 
the  emotions;  their  emotion  is  formal,  their  tears  are  academical. 
Thomson's  muse  is  often  dainty,  formal,  cold.  He  saw  correctly 
what  was  before  him,  the  outward  show  of  things,  but  had  no 
glim])se  of  — 

'The  lii^'ht  that  never  «'rt.s'  on  sea  or  land, 
Tlie  insi)irati<)n,  and  the  poet's  dream.' 

Young  lashes  himself  into  a  never-ending  series  of  antitheses, 
strikes  attituiles,  and  a.ssum(>s  theatricals.  Akenside  is  stillly 
classical  in  manner,  and  gives  us  too  much  foliagi'  for  the  fruit. 
He  helps  on  his  age  chiefly  by  his  suf)ject.  (iray  cannot  shake 
off  th«!  classical  dra])erv.  He  is  fastidious,  scrupulouslv  delicatt' 
and  exact,  rather  than  fiery,  tend(>r,  or  inventive. 

Before  anv  aspect  of  natun^  or  fact  of  life  is  capable  of  poetic 
treatment,  it  must  have  j)ass<'d  inward, —  out  of  the  mere  region 


130  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

of  intellect  into  the  warmer  atmosphere  of  imaginative  feeling, — 
there  have  flushed  into  glowing  color,  and  kindled  the  soul  to  '  a 
white  heat.' 

Drama. —  Of  slight  literary  importance.  In  1732,  Gay 
brought  society  upon  the  stage,  held  up  the  mirror  of  nature,  in 
which  men  and  women  could  see  themselves  as  others  saw  them, — 
see  vice  made  vulgar, —  see  their  most  striking  peculiarities  and 
defects  pass  in  gay  review  before  them,  then  learn  either  to  avoid 
or  to  conceal  them.  The  beggar's  Opera  was  acted  in  London 
without  interruption  for  sixty-three  days.  The  characters  are 
highwaymen,  who  wear, —  such  was  the  similitude  between  high 
and  low, —  the  manners  and  morality  of  fine  gentlemen.  Hear 
people  of  quality  converse: 

'"If  any  of  the  ladies  chuse  gin,  I  hope  they  will  be  so  free  as  to  call  for  it." 
"Indeed,  sir,  I  never  drink  strong  waters  but  when  I  have  the  colic."  "Just  the  excuse 
of  the  fine  ladies  I    Why,  a  lady  of  quality  is  never  without  the  colic."  * 

Tragedy  was  marked  rather  by  cold  correctness  and  turgid 
declamation  than  by  the  freedom  and  warmth  which  lead  captive 
the  feelings  and  the  imagination.  As  a  reflection  of  the  move- 
ment in  literature,  Shakespeare,  who  had  been  banished  from  the 
stage,  began  slowly  to  reappear.  In  1741,  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  was  produced  in  its  original  form,  after  an  eclipse  of  one 
hundred  years.  In  October  of  this  year,  Garrick  appeared,  for 
the  flrst  time  on  the  I-ondon  stage,  in  Richard  III.  It  is  worthy 
of  notice  that  this  great  actor  produced  a  revolution  in  the  art  of 
acting.  He  displaced  the  habit  of  slow,  monotonous  declama- 
tion, of  unnatural  pomp,  by  a  more  various  and  rapid  intonation, 
and  a  more  careful  regard  for  the  truth  of  nature  and  history. 
'If,'  .said  Quin,  'the  young  fellow  is  right,  I  and  the  rest  of  the 
players  have  been  all  wrong';  and  he  added,  'Garrick  is  a  new 
religion, —  Whitefield  was  followed  for  a  tim(% — but  they  will  all 
come  to  church  again.'  Garrick  re])lied  in  a  happy  epigram,  'that 
it  was  not  heresy  but  reformation.' 

Periodical. — Tlie  daily  miscellany,  which  Addison's  singu- 
lar humor  had  made  so  popular,  passed  into  inferior  hands,  and 
fell  into  disrepute.  Johnson,  in  1750,  and  again  in  1760,  vainly 
attempted  to  revive  it. 

The  period  is  remarkable  as  the  era  of  the  commencement  of 


PROSE — PERIODICAL  —  FICTION.  137 

magazines  and  reviews.  In  1731,  appeared  the  Gentleman^ 8  Mag- 
azine; and  in  1749,  the  Monthly  Review,  devoted  to  criticism. 
These  periodicals  are  evidence  of  the  large  increase  of  readers, 
and  they  show,  by  their  contents,  that  authors  had  begun  to 
'intermeddle  with  all  knowledge,' — criticism,  politics,  philosophy, 
poetry,  fiction. 

The  press  was  now,  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
world,  the  exponent  of  public  opinion.  Said  a  member  of  Par- 
liament in  1738: 

'The  people  of  Great  Britain  are  governed  by  a  power  that  never  wa*  heard  of  as  a 
supreme  autliority  in  any  age  or  country  before.  ...  It  is  the  government  of  the  precs. 
The  stuff  which  our  weekly  newsspapers  are  filled  with,  is  received  with  greater  reverence 
than  Acts  of  Parliament,  and  the  sentiments  of  one  of  these  scribblers  have  more  weight 
with  the  multitude  than  the  opinion  of  the  best  politician  in  the  kingdom." 

Said  Johnson  in  1758: 

'No  species  of  literary  men  has  lately  been  so  much  multiplied  as  the  writers  of 
news.  Not  many  years  ago  the  nation  was  content  with  one  Gazette,  but  now  we  have 
not  only  in  the  metropolis,  papers  of  every  morning  and  every  evening,  but  almost  every 
large  town  has  its  weekly  historian." 

Novel. —  Prose  fiction,  we  first  observe,  is  not  a  wandering 
maze  of  fancy,  but  a  tale  with  more  or  less  loftiness  of  style, 
fulness  of  detail,  and  unity  of  action.  If  the  interest  turns  on 
supernatural,  improbal)le,  or  marvellous  incidents,  the  story  is 
called  a  romance;  if  on  pictures  of  life,  showing  the  web  and 
texture  of  society  as  it  really  exists,  or  has  existed,  it  is  called  a 
novel.  If  the  novel  recreates  the  events  and  characters  of  history, 
putting  us  into  living  contact  with  a  given  phase  of  national  life, 
it  is  historical;  if  it  paints  human  nature  and  facts,  with  a  moral 
effect  or  design,  it  i.s  ethical.  The  ethical  novel  may  convoy  its 
lesson  in  two  principal  ways, —  it  may  inflict  morality,  or  insinu- 
ate it;  it  may  wall  up  the  heart  with  discipline,  subjecting  its 
impulses  uniformly  to  a  severe  ideal,  or,  less  exacting,  may  adopt 
expansive  and  lil)eral  measures,  allowing  a  generous  supply  of  air 
and  suiisliiii(\  The  first  was  the  method  of  Richardson,  the 
second,  of  Fielding.  The  one  represents  nol)le  dreams,  enthu- 
siastic elevation;  the  other,  nt)isy  hilarity  and  frank  benevolence. 
The  heroine  of  the  one  is  studious,  loving,  and  pious;  of  the  other, 
modest,  loving,  and  —  an  excellent  cook.  Each  is  the  complement 
of  the  other,  and  both  are  artists.  In  a  literary,  artistic  view,  the 
novels  of  Richardson  and  Fielding  are  tlie  freshest  feature  of  the 
period,  and  the  most  interesting.      Few  works  yield  riclier  profit 


138  CRITICAL    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

or  delight.  In  them  we  see  veritable  men  and  manners,  imbibe 
our  notions  of  virtue  and  vice  from  practical  examples,  and  see 
life  translated  into  a  spiritual  language.  Where  should  we  go  for 
so  satisfactory  an  account  of  the  general  state  of  society  as  the 
standard  productions  in  this  species  of  composition  afford?  His- 
tory gives  us  names  and  dates,  we  see  the  panoramic  splendor  of 
kings,  and  hear  the  sonorous  sounds  of  war,  but  cannot  see  the 
many-hued  daily  life,  the  mad  menagerie  of  passions,  which  tliey 
conceal.  We  see  the  dance  and  sparkle  of  the  rose-colored 
waters,  hut  think  not  of  the  hidden  skeletons  of  death. 

History. — The  historical  literature  of  a  people  is  developed 
by  successive  stages.  Falling  at  first,  like  the  mind  itself,  under 
the  absolute  dominion  of  the  imagination,  its  earliest  expression 
is  legendary,  and  its  form  is  metrical, —  songs,  epics,  and  ballads. 
These  are  the  groundwork.  They  preserve  the  stock  of  oral  tra- 
ditions, and  tlius  mark  the  dim  beginnings  of  national  life.  AVe 
have  listened  to  the  impassioned  war-chant  of  the  Anglo-Saxons, 
which  exhibits  beforehand  the  flower  in  the  bud: 

'The  army  goes  forth;  the  birils  sing,  the  cricket  chiri)s,  the  war-weapons  sound,  tlie 
hince  clangs  against  the  shield.  Now  shineth  the  moon,  wandering  under  the  sky.  Now 
arise  deeds  of  woe,  which  the  enmity  of  this  jjcople  prepares  to  do.  .  .  .  Then  in  the  court 
came  the  tumult  of  war-carnage.  They  seizo<l  with  their  hands  the  hollow  wood  of  the 
shield.  They  smote  through  tlie  bones  of  the  head.  The  roofs  of  the  castle  rebounded, 
until  Garulf  fell  in  battle,  the  tirst  of  earth-dwelling  men,  son  of  (Juthlaf.  Around  him 
lay  many  brave  men  dying.  The  raven  whirled  about  dark  and  sombre,  like  a  willow  h'uf. 
There  was  a  sparkling  of  blades,  as  if  all  Finsburg  were  on  fire.  Never  have  I  heard  of 
a  more  worthy  battle  in  war." ' 

Such  productions  are  a  .source  of  amusement  in  time  of  peace,  of 

inspiration  in  time  of  war;  and  the  minstrels  who  sing  them  rise 

to  the  dignity  of  final  umpires  in  disputed  questions.''      It  will  be 

found    that   the  first  rudiments  of   knowledge  consist  always  of 

poetiy.     In  the  absence  of  authentic  records,  this  is  the  form  best 

calculated  to  assist  the  memory. 

This  sort  of  hero-worship,  as  a  m(>ans  of  perpetuating  public 

memori(>s,  is  at  length   succeeded    by  annals  or  chronicles,  with 

bare  dates;   a  diary  of  passing  experience  —  a  kind  of  historical 

aliiiaiiac  in  jirosc  or  verse.      We   hav(;  seen   how  tlie   monks  with 


PROSE  —  HISTORICAL   METHOD.  139 

monotonous  dryness  gather  up  and  take  note  of  the  great  visible 
events: 

'A.D.  788.  TM>-  year  there  was  a  synod  assembled  at  Fingal  in  X<)rthiimberland,  on 
the  fourth  day  before  the  nones  of  September;  and  Abbot  Albert  departed  this  life. 

A.D.  788.  Here  Ehvald,  King  of  Ilie  Northumbrians,  was  slain  by  Siga,  on  the  llth 
day  before  the  calends  of  October;  and  a  heavenly  light  was  often  seen  there,  where  he 
was  slain.  He  was  buried  in  the  church  of  Hexam;  and  Osred,  the  son  of  Aired,  who 
was  his  nephew,  succeeded  to  him  in  the  government.  This  year  there  was  synod  assem- 
bled at  Acley. 

A.D.  790.  Here  Archbishop  Eanbert  died,  and  Abbot  Ethelherd  was  chosen  arch- 
bishop the  same  year,  and  Osred,  King  of  the  Northumbrians,  was  betrayed,  and  banished 
from  his  kingdom,  and  Ethelred,  the  son  of  Ethelwald,  succeeded  him.' 

We  have  heard  the  dull  babbling  of  Robert  Mannyng,  as  he  turns 
the  fabulous  history  of  England  into  prosaic  rhymes.' 

These  are  the  infant  attempts  at  regular  narrative  —  mere  pegs 
without  tapestry  to  cover  them.  The  narrator,  however,  in  tell- 
ing his  story  of  the  present  or  past,  has  thus  far  no  choice  of 
materials.  Like  the  society  for  which  he  has  written,  he  has  a 
natural  appetite  for  the  marvellous,  sharpened  by  the  mystery 
which  hangs  over  what  is  distant.  Nothing  is  too  absurd  for  his 
or  the  general  belief.  The  legends  of  the  bard  and  the  supersti- 
tions of  the  monastic  —  omens,  prodigies,  apparitions,  monstrous 
appearances  in  the  heavens  —  are  recounted  with  grave  minute- 
ness of  detail,  and  copied  from  book  to  book  as  if  they  were  the 
choicest  treasures  of  human  wisdom.  Thus  in  1-183,  the  pedigree 
of  the  London  bishops  was  traced  back  to  the  migration  of  Brutus 
from  Troy,  even  to  Noah  and  Adam.  The  History  of  the  Britons, 
composed  in  1147,  and  professing  to  take  a  comprehensive  view 
of  the  subject,  relates  how  Brutus,  having  slain  the  giants  who 
peopled  ?]nglan<l,  built  Lontlon;  how,  during  a  succeeding  gov- 
ernment, it  rained  blood  tliree  consecutive  days;  how  the  coasts 
were  infested  by  a  horrid  sea-monster,  which,  having  devoured 
multitudes,  swallow(>d  the  reigning  king;  how  a  giant,  more  ter- 
rible tlian  tli(!  others,  clotlied  himself  in  furs  made  entirely  from 
the  beards  of  kings  he  had  killed,  but  fell  hiinself  a  victim  to  the 
prowess  of  Artlntr.  The  reputation  of  this  work  procured  for  its 
author  a  bishoiirii-,  an<l  for  several  centuries  but  two  or  three 
critics  venture(l  to  (juestiou  its  accuracy. 

As  th(>  bounding  boyhood  of  faiiev  merges  into  the  sober  man- 
hood of  rea.son,  as  the  I'o.seate  hues  of  morning  fade  into  the  calm 

'  Sec  Vol.  I,  p.  181. 


140  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

uniformity  of  noon,  so  the  poetical  legend  and  the  simple  chroni- 
cle, with  their  mingled  truth  and  fiction,  advance  to  the  dignity  of 
genuine  history,  whose  aim  is  to  paint  the  past  as  it  really  was; 
to  reconstruct  the  external  picture  of  objects  and  the  internal 
picture  of  soul;  to  reveal  the  living  man,  in  his  voice,  gesture, 
and  dress,  eating,  feeling,  suffering,  fighting,  toiling;  to  verify 
tradition,  to  rectify  dates  and  texts,  to  reproduce  the  unity  and 
drift  of  events  by  the  motion  and  chain  of  ideas.  This  is  history 
proper,  as  distinguished  from  mere  annals  on  the  one  hand  and 
philosophical  history  on  the  other  —  a  linking  together  of  causes 
and  effects.  It  had  its  beginning  nobly  signalized  by  Kaleigh's 
History  of  tJte  World  (1G41).  Thougli  full  of  that  uncritical  sort 
of  learning  which  now  provokes  only  an  incredulous  smile,  the 
eloquent  strain  of  reflection  to  which  it  sometimes  rises,  is  pro- 
phetic of  the  coming  master: 

'"I  have  considered,"  saith  Solomon,  "all  the  works  that  are  nnder  the  sun,  and,  be- 
hold, all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit "" ;  but  who  believes  it  till  Death  tells  it  us  ?  .  .  . 
O  eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  Death:  whom  none  could  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded; 
what  none  hath  dared,  thou  hast  done:  and,  whom  all  the  world  hath  Haltered,  thou  only 
hast  cast  out  of  the  world  and  despised;  thou  hast  drawn  together  all  the  far-stretched 
greatness,  all  the  i)ride,  cruelty,  and  ambition  of  man,  and  covered  it  all  over  with  these 
two  narrow  words,  Ilicjucetl' 

But  the  first  work  to  acquire  literary  jireeminence  in  this 
department  was  Hume's  History  of  England.  In  the  charm 
of  its  narrative,  in  its  endeavor  to  construct  an  organic  whole,  it 
is  an  enduring  monument.  Increased  attention  to  history,  under 
imjiroved  methods,  is  a  most  important  characteristic  of  the 
period. 

Theology. — Theological  composition  was  the  continuous, 
central  eurr(Mit  of  prose  literature.  The  Baconian  method,  an 
a])j)eal  to  olxservation  and  experience,  had  unsettled  received 
oj^inioiis  in  matters  of  ])liysical  science.  I.ocke,  applying  this 
method  to  the  science  of  mind,  had  led  men  with  increasing  zeal 
to  examine  the  principles  of  ethics  and  of  religion,  and  to  exalt 
reason  against  autlioritv- — -the  reason  of  later  inquirers  against 
that  of  earlier.  Like  the  ju'eceding,  it  was  a  rationalizing  age. 
In  the  two  ])i'evious  c(Mituries,  the  anti-Christian  attacks  had 
been  met  on  grounds  more  or  less  arbitrary.  The  obligation  of 
religious  belief  had  l)eeti  based,  to  a  large  extent,  upon  the  dictinu 
of  the  Church;  l)Ut,  it  was  re])lied,  if  that  ])rinciple  were  admitted, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  justil'v  the  separation  from  Rome.     The 


PROSE — RATIONALISM    AND   SCEPTICISM.  141 

old-school  Puritans  had  made  the  Scriptures  themselves  the  final 
court  of  appeal,  but  this  was  discredited  by  the  internrfnable 
differences  of  interpretation.  Others  imagined  they  had  found 
an  infallible  oracle  in  a  certain  inward  light  residing  in  the  souls 
of  believers;  but  this  expedient  —  too  niystical  and  extravagant 
to  be  of  any  force  in  argument  —  had  also  to  be  abandoned.  The 
orthodox  party  were  thus  forced  to  defend  themselves  by  logic. 
Is  the  Bible  a  forgery,  or  the  word  of  the  living  God  ?  Is  Chris- 
tianity an  imposture,  or  the  light  which  alone  can  lighten  the 
world  ?  Such  were  the  questions  that  broadly  define  the  struggle. 
The  Deists  urged  that  the  Christian  doctrines  were  irrational,  and 
proposed  to  substitute  for  revealed  religion  the  religion  of  nature. 
The  divines  replied  that  a  revelation  was  an  antecedent  proba- 
bility, and  was  supported  by  evidence,  internal  and  external,  so 
weighty  and  conclusive  that  prudence  and  common  sense  com- 
pelled its  acceptance. 

The  series  of  Deistical  writings  in  this  age  closed  with  the 
posthumous  publications  of  Bolingbroke,  in  17-52.  Admitting 
the  existence  of  God,  he  denies  His  providence;  admitting  the 
possibility  of  a  revelation,  he  denies  the  fact;  admitting  that  mira- 
cles, if  wrought,  prove  a  Divine  revelation,  he  maintains  that  the 
canonical  books  belong  to  a  later  age  than  the  events  they 
describe. 

Middleton,  a  most  insidious  and  powerful  assailant,  first 
opened  out  the  whole  question  of  the  historical  evidence  of  mir- 
acles by  his  attacks,  in  1748,  on  the  miraculous  narratives  of  the 
Fathers. 

The  complete  develojmient  of.  the  scepticism  of  this  period, 
however,  is  re])reseiited  by  Hume,  whose  teachings  and  influence 
will  be  considered  hereafter. 

The  orthodox  ]^osition  was  given  most  fully  and  philosophic- 
ally bv  Bishop  Butler  —  incom]>arably  the  greatest  of  Christian 
advocates,  in  1  i-5*>,  appeared  his  Anrdor/;/  of  RcUr/lon,  Xattn-al 
and  Revealed,  to  the  (U>nstUiitlon  and  Course  of  Xritin-e.  Its 
aim  was  to  present  the  leading  points  in  the  controversy;  to 
show  that  every  objection  urged  against  the  Ciiristian  faith  may 
be  urged  equally  against  the  economy  of  i\w  natural  world,  and 
is  equally  valid  for  the  disproof  of  truths  which  are  universally 
believed;    to   find    in    outward    and  visible   things   the    type   and 


142  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

evidence  of  those  within  the  veil;  to  explain  that  the  difficulties 
of  reVfealed  religion  have  their  likeness  in  that  part  of  the  Divine 
proceedings  vehich  comes  under  our  view  in  the  daily  business  of 
life.  Thus,  as  the  rose  suspends  its  vital  current  but  dies  not, 
losing  its  grace  and  loveliness  but  springing  forth  afresh;  as  the 
insect  languishes,  withdraws  into  its  silken  shroud,  motionless 
and  powerless,  yet  bursts  its  tomb  and  enters  into  a  new  world, 
rejoicing  in  the  possession  of  new  and  enlarged  powers, —  so  the 
spirit  of  man  may  be  renewed  through  the  dust  and  ashes  of  his 
dissolution,  though  our  straining  eyes  niay  not  follow  it  into  the 
dark  beyond.  True,  we  may  not  reach  demonstration.  Here  we 
see  through  a  glass  darkly  —  let  probability  be  our  guide.  This  is 
the  principle  on  which  lie  retires,  sensible  to  the  sad  discords  of 
the  universe.  Who  that  has  gone  deep  enough  into  the  condi- 
tions of  knowledge  to  feel  the  weary  burden  of  'this  unintelligi- 
ble world'  is  not  inclined  to  consider  this  a  wise  conclusion?  The 
Analo(pi,  in  spite  of  its  faulty  style,  is  destined,  by  its  very  solidity 
and  moral  earnestness,  to  be  the  eternal  heritage  of  mankind. 

AVjout  the  middle  of  the  century,  Deism,  as  a  creed  or  con- 
structive system  to  live  and  die  by,  vanquislu>d  and  languishing 
from  internal  decay,  fell  into  disrepute. 

Amid  this  dust  of  del)ate,  we  may  hear  now  and  then  the  voice 
of  ecstatic  meditation,  '  soi'e  sick'  of  the  long  din,  convinced  of 
its  futility  to  arrest  religious  decadence  or  (|uicken  the  ordinary 
soul,  and  calling  men  to  the  birth  of  a  lieavenlv  life.  Perhaps 
the  writer  who  exercised  the  deepest  influence  in  the  revival  of 
the  eighteenth  century  was  "William  LaW,  who,  almost  alone 
among  his  (■ontem])oraries,  might  stand  for  a  primitive  Christian 
come  to  re\  isit  a  strangelv  altered  scene.  To  his  rapt  contem- 
plation, we  ai-e  pilgi'iins  liling  swiftlv  across  the  stag(>  of  action, 
tarrying  an  instant,  vet  in  that  instant  on  the  road  for  eternitv. 
'The  whole  lace  of  mankind  are  a  race  of  fallen  s])irits  that  pass 
thiougli  this  w<irld  as  an  arrow  passes  through  the  air.'  \N'ith 
such  convictions,  he  was  a  fit  niessengi-r  sent  to  Vanity  Fair,  to 
order  its  inlialiitani  s  to  put  on  sackcloth  and  aslu^s.  HeligicMi, 
from  Ijeinu"  histoiical  and  rational,  lieconies  subjective  and  emo- 
tional, '{'he  appeal  is  to  the  heart.  'I'lie  ( 'liristian  must  separate 
liimself  altf)gether  in  life  and  re(  lings  from  the  world  that  is 
about   him: 


PROSE  —  SCIENCE  —  ETHICS.  143 

'All  worldly  attuinments,  wlietlu-r  of  greatness,  wisdom,  or  bravery,  are  but  empty 
sounds.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  wise  or  great  or  noble  in  a  human  spirit  but  rightly  to 
know,  and  heartily  to  worship  and  adore  the  great  God  who  is  the  support  and  life  of  all 
spirits,  whether  in  heaven  or  earth.' 

Christianity  is  reduced  to  a  single  point, —  redemption  from 
the  earthly  to  the  divine;  and  the  proof,  as  against  the  infidel, 
lies  in  each  man's  consciousness: 

'I  had  frequently  a  consciousness  rising  up  within  nic  that  the  debate  was  equally 
vain  on  both  sides,  doing  no  more  real  good  to  the  one  than  to  the  other;  not  being  able 
to  imagine  that  a  set  of  schohistic,  logical  opinions  about  history,  facts,  doctrines  of  the 
Church,  or  a  set  of  logical  objections  against  them,  were  of  any  significancy  toward 
making  the  soul  of  man  either  an  eternal  angel  of  heaven  or  an  eternal  devil  of  hell.' 

His  /Serious  Cull  is  one  ol'  the  most  solemn  and  powerful  works 
of  its  kind  in  any  literature.  Wesley  even  dates  the  rise  of 
Methodism  from  its  appearance  in  1T30. 

Science. — The  history  of  optics  and  astronomical  observa- 
tion is  marked  in  this  age  by  the  important  correction  of  the 
Newtonian  views  as  to  the  dispersion  of  refracted  light,  and 
by  the  invention  of  the  achromatic  telescope.  Franklin,  by  his 
famous  experiment  of  175'^,  discovered  the  identity  of  electricity 
and  lightning,  which  was  followed  by  his  invention  of  lightning- 
rods.  In  general  chemistry  were  announced  many  new  and 
valuable  facts  illustrative  of  the  ])henomena  of  respiration  and 
combustion.  But  the  literature  of  Physical  Science  is  valued 
more  for  its  coiitont  than  for  its  literary  character,  and  the  sub- 
ject is  here  noticed  only  as  it  indicated  and  assisted  that  critical 
tone  of  thought  which  was  setting  at  jar  the  two  elements  of 
creation,  the  natural  and  the  supiM'iiatural. 

Ethics. — This,  ill  coiiiiiion  with  theology,  was  showing  the 
spirit  fostei'ed  by  the  Or;/<ni unt.  IJacon,  directing  attention  to 
facts  rather  than  to  t'stal)lish('(l  opinions,  had  produced  a  feel- 
ing of  scepticism  in  the  studvof  matt<'r.  His  disciples,  it  has 
been  seen,  naturallv  ap|)li(Ml  tliis  method  to  the  study  of  morals, 
and  tlie  coiitn)\('rsy  which  tlit>y  sprung  has  continued  down  to 
our  own  dav.  ^^^■  possess  the  idea  of  ri<j/it  and  of  its  oppo- 
site, irroin/.  ^\  hat  is  tlie  origin  of  tliest»  idfas':*  ^^^'  feel  that 
we  ought  to  do  till'  right  as  known,  and  to  avoid  tlie  wrong 
as  known.  ^\'lH•Il(•(■  tliis  I'l'ding  of  obligati(Mi?  Tlie  answers  as 
before  ex]>laiiied  may  l)e  rcducfd  to  two  rival  theories, —  tiie  intu- 
itive and  the  utilitarian.      By  the  lirst,  the  moral  id(^a  is  a  part  of 


144  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

our  native  iiitelligencej  a  portion  of  the  mind's  original  furniture, 
in  the  light  of  which  it  sees  and  understands;  by  the  second,  it  is 
derived  from  experience, —  from  an  observation  of  the  course  of 
life  which  is  conducive  to  our  own  and  the  general  interest.  The 
first  teaches  that  we  must  do  right  for  the  sake  of  right,  'in  scorn 
of  consequence';  the  second,  that  we  must  do  it  because  it  tends 
to  promote  the  good  of  others,  and  hence  our  own.  In  the  view 
of  the  utilitarian,  'ought'  and  'ought  not'  mean  the  prospect  of 
gaining  or  losing  pleasure.  Ask  him  why  you  should  be  benevo- 
lent.— Because  others  will  reciprocate  your  kindness.  Why  keep 
your  promise?  —  Because  it  is  useful.  Why  be  charitable? — To 
secure  the  esteem  of  those  around  us,  and  a  return  of  favors 
bestowed.  Whence  the  pleasure  of  being  loved?  —  The  pro- 
spective services  we  anticipate  from  those  who  love  us.  Whence 
tlie  pleasure  of  piety?  —  The  expectation  of  the  favor  of  God 
in  this  life  and  another.  Of  these  ant;igonistic  schools,  the 
first  may  in  this  age  be  represented  by  Butler,  the  second  by 

Hartley. 

PlliloSOpliy. —  Here  we  find  theories  of  a  similar  kind. 
The  source  of  knowledge  was  taken  as  the  central  idea.  For 
example,  I  have  the  idea  of  sjHfca: — the  idea  of  a  real,  though 
invisil)le,  fact.  T  know  that  it  denotes  a  reality  independent  of 
mvself, —  that  it  would  exist  if  I  were  otherwise  constituted, — 
exist  though  the  Onniipotent  were  not, —  uncreated,  for  it  is  no 
object  of  creation, —  indestructible,  for  it  is  no  object  of  destruc- 
tion, r  am  ecjuallv  sure  that  every  effect  must  have  a  cause; 
that  the  whole  is  greater  than  a  part;  tluit  if  equals  be  added  to 
ecpials,  the  sums  will  be  equal.  Such  ideas  are  distinguisju'd  as 
necessarv  truths,  axioms,  necessarv  laws  of  thought, —  born  with 
us,  not  derived  from  ol)servation.  Ol)served  events  are  only  tlie 
occasion  of  tlicir  Ix'iiig  evoked.  I  also  have  the  idea  of  hltftr; 
but,  on  reflection,  I  discover  that  this  idea  rejiresents,  not  an 
independent  reality,  l)ut  something  relative  to  my  ])resent  consti- 
tution, and  hence  contingent.  I  )ifTerentlv  const ituted,  T  shouhl 
have  a  different  sensation,  and  therefore  a  difTeicnt  idea;  and  the 
sup])osed  bitterness  would  cease  to  l)e.  To  admit  the  existence 
of  these  two  classes  <»f  iih-as,  togetlier  wit h  their  correspondent 
external  olijects,  is  [iriilisju:  to  reject  the  first  and  retain  the 
second,  is  Mud  rialisin;   to  deny  the   phvsical   facts   which  corre- 


RESUME.  145 

spond  to  our  sensations,  or  to  affirm  that  the  sensation  is  no  proof 
of  anything  without,  is  Idealism.  The  first  divides  the  mental 
from  the  physical,  and  believes  that  the  mind  has  proof  of  both; 
the  second  resolves  the  mental  into  the  physical;  the  third 
resolves  the  physical  into  the  mental.  The  first  is  the  underlying 
philosopliv  of  religion  and  daily  life;  the  second  is  the  prevailing 
drift  of  English  speculation;  the  third  is  a  reaction  against  the 
second, —  a  noble  but  mistaken  endeavor  to  rescue  the  hopes  and 
beliefs  of  men. 

Bacon,  HobbeS,  Locke,  and  Hume  make  up  the  line  of 
materialistic  succession.  The  first  made  seeing  and  hearing  the 
conditions  of  thinking,  and  thus  gave  English  thought  a  material 
bent.  The  second  made  this  tendency  excessive  and  one-sided. 
The  third  was  peculiarly  influential  at  one  point, —  the  origin  of 
ideas.  He  assertetl  that  the  sole  ground  of  knowledge  was  ex- 
perience. The  mind  contributed  nothing, —  it  was  simply  paper, 
on  which  the  images  of  outward  things,  and  the  states  they 
occasioned,  were  received.  The  fourth  carried  the  views  of  his 
predecessor  to  startling  consequences. 

Xtesume. — A  new  form  of  landscape  gardening  was  intro- 
duced. Symmetry  of  design,  so  popular  in  the  reign  of  Anne, 
was  discarded  for  the  variety  and  freedom  of  nature.  Hogarth 
cultivated  the  taste  for  portrait-painting,  as  yet  'the  only  flour- 
ishing branch  of  the  high  tree  of  British  art.'  He  translated  the 
inward  into  the  outward,  exhibiting  manners,  with  deep  and 
various  meaning,  in  color  and  form.  The  impulse  givcMi  to  sacred 
music,  and  the  origin  of  the  English  oj)era,  are  the  capital  events 
in  musical  history.      These  facts  indicate  the  tendencies  of  taste. 

Both  literature  and  govertnu(Mit  were  given  a  more  popular 
turn.  Instead  of  the  vices,  miseries,  and  frivolities  of  the  great, 
the  people  now  saw,  in  what  they  read,  an  account  of  themselves. 

The  critical  spirit  of  the  age  was  at  once  formal  anil  substan- 
tial,—  increasingly  the  latter. 

Prose  was  preemiiuMit,  and  spread  far  and  wide  into  many 
realms.  Historv  was  a  favorite  study.  No  liti-rary  labor  was 
more  remunerative,  nor  did  any  other  so  readily  raise  to  distinc- 
tion those  who  excelleil  in  it. 

Tile  j)revailing  style  was  still  classical;  but  to  the  nimble  move- 
10 


146  CRITICAL   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

ment  of  Pope  and  the  graceful  pace  of  Addison,  was  now  added 
the  ponderous  and  stately  gait  of  Johnson. 

Poetry,  open  to  petty  and  superficial  criticism,  conformed  to 
the  rules  and  proprieties,  but  was  divorced  from  living  nature. 

Formalism  and  rationalism  provoked  reactionary  efforts,  dis- 
closing far-off  forces  at  work,  promises  of  the  coming  spontaneity 
in  which  poetry  should  flow  as  lava  from  volcanoes,  light  from 
stars,  or  perfume  from  flowers. 


RICHARDSON. 

His  power  was  his  own  in  the  strictest  sense;  not  borrowed  from  booiis,  little  aided 
even  bj-  experience  of  life,  derived  almost  solely  from  introspection  of  himself  and  com- 
munion with  his  own  heart.— CraiA. 

Biography. — Born  in  Derbyshire,  in  1G89,  son  of  a  poor  car- 
penter. Received  a  common-school  education,  and  at  the  age  of 
sixteen  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer  in  London  —  a  calling  to 
which  he  was  determined  by  its  prospective  opportunities  for 
reading.  Advanced  rapidly  by  industry  and  good  conduct,  was 
taken  into  partnership,  and  ultimately  became  the  head  of  an 
extensive  business,  x\t  fifty,  became  an  author,  writing  during 
his  leisure  moments  in  his  shop  parlor.  Delicate,  nervous,  often 
ill,  his  disorders  terminated  fatally  on  the  4th  of  July,  17G1. 

Writings. — Known  from  his  youth  as  a  fluent  letter-writer, 
ho  had  been  engaged  to  prepare  a  manual  of  familiar  letters  on 
useful  subjects,  and  it  occurred  to  him,  while  executing  the  task, 
that  the  work  would  be  greatly  enlivened  if  the  letters  were  made 
to  tell  a  cf)iuiected  story.  The  result  was  P<nt)ela,  or  Virtue 
Ilf'Vdrdf'd  (1740);  ]iul)lislied  in  order  to  cultivate  the  princi])les 
of  virtue  and  religion  in  the  minds  of  the  young. 

Pamela   is  an  artless  and   lovelv  child  of  fifteen,  half  servant 

and   half  favorite,  who  finds  luTself  exposed  to  the  wickedness  of 

a  rich  and  aristocratic  young  master,  a  justice  of  the  peace,  a  sort 

of  divinity  to  her.      He  insults  her,  l)ut  she  is  always  timid  and 

liiinilile: 

'It  i-  for  you,  sir,  to  say  what  you  please,  and  for  me  only  to  sa.\,  God  bless  yi)ur 
hi. nor:  ■ 


RICHARDSON.  147 

Again  he  is  kind,  and  she  is  confused: 

'To  be  .-^iire  I  did  think  nothing  but  cnrfsy  and  cry,  and  wa.-  all  confusion  at  his 
goodness.' 

He  confines  her  for  several  months  witli  a  'wicked  creature'; 
threatens  her,  tries  money,  then  gentleness.  Everything  is 
against  her  —  even  her  own  heart,  for  she  loves  him  secretlv. 
The  toils  close  around  her,  and  she  seems  lost;  but  a  grand  sen- 
timent saves  her.  Distinctions  of  soul  are  the  only  ones  that 
will  live  in  Heaven: 

'My  soul  is  of  equal  importance  to  the  soul  of  a  princess,  thouy;h  my  quality  is 
Inferior  to  that  of  the  meanest  slave.' 

He  learns  to  respect  her,  wishes  now  to  marrv  her,  and  sIk-  an- 
swers him  in  a  timid,  troubled  way: 

'I  fear  not,  sir,  the  i^raco  of  God  supporting  me,  that  any  acts  of  kindness  would  make 
me  forget  what  I  owe  to  my  virtue;  but  .  .  .  my  nature  is  too  frank  and  open  to  make  me 
wisli  to  be  ungrateful:  and  if  I  should  be  taught  a  lesson  I  never  yet  learnt,  with  what 
regret  should  I  descend  to  the  grave,  to  think  that  I  could  not  hate  my  undoer;  and  that 
at  the  last  great  day,  I  must  stand  up  as  an  accuser  of  the  poor  unhappy  soul  that  1  could 
wish  it  in  my  power  to  save.' 

She  is  happy  now,  for  she  may  trust  him;  and  day  by  day  her 
letters  joyoush'  and  gratefully  record  the  preparations  for  their 
marriage.  For  her  wedding  jiresent,  she  ol)taiiis  the  pardon  of 
those  who  have  ill-treated  her.  As  a  wife,  she  prays  to  God  that 
she  may  be  enabled  to  discharge  her  duty;  hopes  her  husband 
will  be  indulgent  to  the  overflowings  of  her  grateful  heart; 
resolves  to  read  in  his  absen,ce,  that  she  may  j)olisli  lier  mind,  and 
make  herself  worthier  of  his  company  and  conversation. 

Clarissa.  Ilarloire  (1 748),  his  masterpiece.  Like  the  other,  a 
novel  of  conflict,  but  in  which  virtue,  subjected  to  a  severer  test, 
is  given  its  greatest  promineuee.  The  heroine  is  of  noble  inin(i, 
sainllv  j)uritv,  and  never-failing  sweetness  of  temper.  A  despotic 
father,  with  ati  aml)ition  to  found  a  house,  wishes  to  marry  her  to 
a  coarse  and  heartless  fool;  she  reliels.  is  imj)ortinied  l)y  her 
mother,  urge(l  liv  a  furious  brother,  stung  by  a  venomous  sister, 
grfiwleil  at  bv  two  uncles,  hounded  by  the  whole  family  —  aunt 
and  nurse  iiiehided.  Siie  offers  to  give  up  her  pro]>erty,  never  to 
marrv  at  all,  concedes,  begs,  implores,  weeps,  faiiUs,  but  in  vain. 
True,  tliev  are  afraid  of  Ikm'  tears,  but  the  torture  is  obstinate, 
incessant.  It  is  the  sort  of  parental  tvrannv  an<l  stupidity  that 
drives  the  victim  to  madness,  ilishonor,  or  death.  ^\  hen,  at  the 
last  moment,  she  thinks  to  escape  them,  she  is  chased  l)y  another 


148  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

more  dangerous,  a  splendid  and  accomplished,  a  gay  and  smiling 
villain,  who  desires  to  possess  her,  only  because  she  is  hard  to 
conquer:  '  I  always  considered  opposition  and  resistance  as  a 
challenge  to  do  my  worst.' 

He  s})ares  no  expense,  scruples  at  no  treachery,  invents 
stories,  forges  letters,  even  gives  the  Harlowes  servants  of  his 
own.  Duty,  humanity,  prayers,  entreaties,  his  own  remorse,  stay 
not  the  hand  of  the  cruel  executioner.  She  is  vigilant,  lives  in 
tlie  shadow  of  present  and  Hnal  judgment.  Her  life  has  been 
entrenched  by  precepts  and  princi])les.  She  reasons  upon  them, 
examines  herself,  and  is  conscientious  where  others  are  enthusi- 
astic. With  philosophic  ctjinposure,  she  takes  an  inventory  of 
character: 

'That  siicli  a  liiis^band  iniy;lit  iinf-ettlo  mo  in  all  my  own  ))rintii)les,  and  hazard  my 
fiitiiri;  hoi»cs.  That  he  has  a  very  immoral  character  to  women.  That,  knowim,'  this,  it 
is  a  hiLjh  degree  of  impurity  to  think  of  joining  in  wedlock  with  such  a  man.' 

Tlu)iigh  yentle,  she  has  pride  ;  defends  every  incii  of  ground, 
renews  the  struggle  each  day  and  loses, —  breaks,  but  bends  not. 
Pamela  had  too  little  dignity,  Clarissa  has  too  much;  the  former 
was  too  submissive,  the  latter  is  too  sublime. 

Sir  ('li(irl<-H  Grandhoa  (1|5'3),  designed  to  represent  the 
ideal  of  a  perfect  man,  in  whom  the  elegance  of  fashion  com- 
bines with  the  virtues  of  piety.  The  lier(j  is  courteous,  gallant, 
generous,  delicate,  good,  irreproachable  —  through  a  tliousand 
])ages.  His  mild  and  gracious  wife,  whose  tears  are  the  'dew- 
drops  of  heaven,'  savs  src 

'lint  could  he  111'  oth.rwi-e  than  the  b.'-t  of  hiishands.  who  was  the  most  dutiful  of 
Mins,  who  is  the  most  atTeetionate  of  brother-,  tlie  most  faithful  of  frienils:  who  i-  '."'od 
niKui  i»rinei|ile  in  every  relation  of  life?' 

Style. —  I'^pistolary.  prolix,  realistic,  ])laiti,  business-like.  He 
seems  to  have  written  utterly  without  artifice,  using,  on  all  occa- 
sions, tiie  lirst  words  and  tlie  first  incidents. 

Rank. — l)e  Foe  had  paitited  adv(>ntures  rather  than  maninTS. 
Tf)  llicliardsoii  liclou-is  the  honor  of  having  constructecl  the  first 
epic  of  real  life  —  the  novel  of  character.  Yet  he  was  not  of  the 
world.  He  drew  his  insjiiration  less  from  observation  than  from 
intiospection.  (iiven  the  idea  of  a  sim])le  countrv  girl,  lier  ordi- 
nary situation,  a  fact  or  two  from  nature,  he  makes  r.ut  all  the 
rest  by  the  mere  force  of  reasoning  imaginatif)n,  as  if  nothiiiir 
existed    lievond  the  little  room  in  which  lie  writes.      He  describes 


RICHARDSON.  149 

objects  and  events  with  the  literal  minuteness  of  a  common 
diary,  spiiniing  the  web  and  texture  of  his  story  from  a  myriad 
gossamer  threads;  yet  never  distracted,  never  forgetful  of  the 
single  end;  twining  and  linking  the  innumerable  fibres  to  bring 
out  a  figure,  an  action,  a  lesson.  While  he  twines,  he  colors. 
Unlike  De  Foe,  who  sees  only  the  plain  literal  truth  of  things,  he 
sees  through  an  atmosphere  of  ideal  light,  sees  things  beautified, 
elevated  above  nature.  His  best  paintings  are  pictures  of  the 
heart,  expressions  of  the  motives  and  feelings  that  make  fellow- 
ship between  man  and  man.  Hence,  apart  from  the  story,  a 
large  element  of  the  interest  is  in  the  sentiments  uttered,  in 
motives  of  action  rather  than  modes. 

We  could  wish  tiiat  his  characters  were  less  circumspect,  less 
calculating,  less  conscious.  They  preach  too  much.  Pamela  is 
a  little  too  tame,  Clarissa  almost  too  heavenly.  Sir  Charles  is 
proper  as  a  wax  figure  —  he  never  did  a  mean  thing,  nor  made  a 
wrong  gesture.  But  we  must  not  forget  that  idealization  was 
Richardson's  real  excellence,  as  it  was  his  necessity. 

Character. — As  a  writer  he  ])osscssed  original  genius.  He 
held  ill  liis  hand  almost  all  the  moving  strings  of  humanity,  and 
made  tlieiii  vibrate  in  harmony.  In  the  duties  of  morality  and 
pietv,  regular  and  exemplary.  Conscience,  with  its  auxiliaries, 
religion,  law,  education,  ])roprieties,  was  an  armed  sentinel 
guarding  the  wav  of  life.  Gentle,  benevolent,  and  —  vain.  His 
vanitv  grew  bv  what  it  fed  upon, —  the  flattery  of  female  friends. 
He  was  alwavs  partial  to  female  society.  At  thirteen  lie  was  the 
confidant  of  three  vouiig  woukmi;  conducted  their  love  corre- 
spondence, without  betraving  to  one  tlic  fact  that  lie  was  secre- 
tarv  and  adviser  to  tin'  others. 

'As  a  busliful  ami  not  forward  boy.  I  was  an  I'arly  favorite  with  all  yoiiutr  woiik'II  of 
taste  and  rcadin'^  in  tlic  nt'iirlihorhood.  Half  a  dozen  of  them,  when  met  to  work  with 
their  needles,  iisi-d,  when  they  sol  a  book  they  liked,  .and  thought  I  should,  to  borrow  me 
to  read  to  them  :  tlndr  mothers  sometimes  with  them:  and  both  mothers  and  daUL'hters 
used  to  be  ijleased  with  the  observations  thi'y  put  me  ui)on  making'.' 

He  lias  ])ortrave(l  irmiself  in  his  novels.  The  following  sen- 
\,ences  are  cliaracteristic: 

'The  i)ower  of  iloinu'  i-'ood  to  worthy  objects  is  the  only  enviable  eircnmstaiiee  in  the 
lives  of  iieople  of  fortune." 

'Notliiiii:  in  human  nature  is  so  (;od-like  as  the  disiiosiiioii  to  do  <:ooil  to  our  fellow- 
cr<'atures.' 

'.\  sood  person  will  rather  choose  to  be  censured  for  doin;.'  his  duly  than  for  a 
defect  in  it." 


150  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'Xfither  a  learned  nor  a  fine  education  is  of  any  other  value  thiin  as  it  tends  to 
improve  the  morals  of  men,  and  to  make  them  wise  and  good.' 

'The  most  durable  ties  of  friendship  are  those  which  result  from  a  union  of  minds 
formed  ujjon  religious  principles." 

'All  our  pursuits,  from  childhood  to  manhood,  are  only  trifles  of  different  sorts  and 
sizes,  proportioned  to  our  years  and  views.'' 

'A  good  woman  is  one  of  the  greatest  glories  of  the  creation.' 

'  It  is  a  most  improving  exercise,  as  well  with  regard  to  style  as  to  morals,  to  accustom 
ourselves  early  to  write  down  everything  of  moment  that  befalls  us.' 

'There  is  a  docile  season,  a  learning-time  in  youth,  which,  suffered  to  elapse,  and  no 
foundation  laid,  seldom  returns." 

lufl'Uence. — When  a  man  of  ideas  is  a  good  man,  and  uses 
his  strength  for  a  noble  purpose,  he  carries  out  the  great  thought 
of  God;  idealizes  and  beautifies  life;  multiplies  humanity,  justice, 
love,  piety;  increases  the  desire  for  e.Kcellence  of  manhood,  of 
womanhood;  and  the  powers  of  goodness  which  he  sets  afloat  go 
on  with  the  irresistible  gravitation  of  the  universe,  for  the  Infinite 
is  behind  them.  The  ethical  novelist  is  such  a  benefactor.  He 
unfolds  the  soul  of  things  to  our  eye,  translates  morality  from 
the  language  of  theory  into  that  of  ]>ractice,  brings  the  higher 
and  lower  principles  of  action  into  striking  antithesis,  and 
prompts  our  affection  to  the  good,  sharpens  our  antipathy  to  tlie 
bad.  Hence  Pope  praised  the  Pamela  as  likely  to  do  more  good 
than  twenty  volumes  of  sermons,  and  an  eminent  divine  recom- 
mended it  from  the  pulpit.  When  we  consider  liow  readers  had 
yawned  themselves  to  sleep  over  the  old  school  of  chivalric  fable, 
with  what  delight  tliev  turned  to  this  first  'romance  of  real  life,' 
how  fashional:)le  circles  made  it  the  theme  of  their  enthusiasm, 
we  cannot  doubt  that  Richardson  opened  up  a  spring  of  moral 
healtli, —  a  fountain  which,  beginning  to  flow,  should  never  dry. 
Men  and  women  lookt^l  in,  became  acquainted  with  the  best  things 
in  them,  saw  the  unsummed  gold  which  .sle])t  unseen,  saw  of  what 
manner  (if  sjjirit  tlun'  were,  and  this  new  light  changed  them. 
Thus  old  (trccian  storv  relates  how  Narci.ssus  went  about  among 
the  rude,  ill-niann('rc(l  swiiins  of  Attica,  and  thought  himself  but 
oiH>  of  them,  till  oii(>  dav  by  accidtmt  he  saw  in  the  wat(>r  a  face 
jiiorc  bfautiful  than  .\])hrodite's  or  Apollo's,  and  was  astonished 
to  Icjiin  that  it  was  his  own,  and  that  he  too  Ixdonged  to  the 
handsoint'    kindred    of    the    gods.      Henceforth    he   went    another 

'  Wliat  grcal  man,  lookiniz  upun  the  everlasting  clil)  and  flow  of  mortal  things,  snatcli- 
iiiL'  .1  kind  of  .-olcmn  joy  from  the  L'i(l(lini--s  wliith  follows  his  guze  into  the  inlinite,  has 

not   felt  Ihc  same  seiiseof  pcftiiics: lliat   tlic  world,  at  best,  is  but  a  inclaiielioly  i)lace, 

full  of  w.-i-ti<l  imrposes  anil  fading  imaL'i'sr 


THE    NOVELIST    OF    MANNERS.  151 

man,  driving  the  swine  a-field  as  if  he  were  himself  a  god,  scorn- 
ing all  unseemly  and  all  ungodly  conduct. 

Perhaps  the  vice  which  Richardson  chose  to  delineate  does  not 
admit,  under  modern  taste,  the  slow  anatomizing  with  which  he 
exposes  it.  Owing,  also,  to  their  prolixity  and  poverty  of  style, 
his  works  have  continually  decreased  in  popularity.  So  essential 
is  excellence  of  form  to  permanence  of  interest. 


FIELDING 


Truth  to  English  nature,  and  sympathy  with  manly  quality,  perform  in  Fieldin<r,  to  a 
degree,  the  worii  of  morality. — Bascom. 

Biograpliy. —  Born  in  Somersetshire,  in  1707;  educated  at 
Eton  ;  studied  law  at  Leyden,  but  quit  '  money-bound '  before 
completing  his  course;  returned  to  England,  and  at  twenty  com- 
menced writing  for  the  comic  stage;  had  abundance  of  health, 
plunged  into  jovial  excess,  took  mischances  easily;  married  at 
twenty-eight,  adored  his  wife,  retired  to  a  small  estate  left  him 
by  his  mother,  feasted,  gave  dinners,  kept  fine  horses,  a  pack  of 
hounds,  a  magnificent  retinue  of  servants  in  yellow  livery,  and  in 
three  years  spent  his  inheritance  and  his  wife's  fortune;  specu- 
lated in  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  and  failed;  finished  his  law 
studies,  was  admitted  to  the  Bar  in  1740,  but  was  unsuccessful  ; 
continued  to  write  for  the  support  of  his. family,  engaged  actively 
in  political  controversy,  always  maintaining'  liberal  principles ; 
became  a  magistrate,  destroyed  bands  of  robbers,  and  earned  the 
'dirtiest  money  on  earth';  lost  his  wife  while  they  were  strug- 
gling on  in  their  worldly  difficulties,  was  almost  broken-hearted, 
and  found  no  relief  but  in  weeping,  in  concert  with  her  maid- 
servant, 'for  the  angel  they  mutually  regretted';  naturally  (Muled 
by  iiiarrvirig  the  maid  ;  departed  for  Lisbon  in  the  suiuiiier  of 
1754,'  to  restore  his  failing  health,  and  tli(M-e  died  on  the  Sth  of 
the  ensuing  OctolxT.  He  had  sown  to  the  wind,  and  lie  reaped  to 
the  wliirlwiiid. 

^'•W/'iliifiidin/.  Jum-  J.3.  J7;''..— Oil  tliis  day  tlic  iiiosl  inclanelioly  siiu  I  h:i(l  cvor  lirlicld 
arose,  anil  fomiil  iiu'  awake  at  my  li(m>e  at  Kordliook.  I!y  tlic  HliIiI  of  this  ^mi  I  was.  in 
iny  own  opinion,  hi^t  lo  bcliold  and  take  leave  of  some  (if  Ihose  (■rcaturc>  on  whom  I  doted 
with  a  niothcr-liki'  fondness,  jruided  by  natnre  and  |)a>>ion.  and  nnennd  and  nnliardeiied 
by  all  tlic  doetrinc  "f  that  jiliilo^ophical  x-lioul  where  I  had  h'arned  t"  li<-ar  ])ain-  and  to 
desihse  deatli.'— .1    Voijiigt-  lo  Liahon. 


152  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

"Writing^. —  Joseph  Andreics  (1742),  conceived  with  the 
design  ot"  turning  Rarnela  into  ridicule.  Joseph  is  Paniehi's 
brother,  and  resists  the  advances  of  his  mistress,  as  Pamela  had 
rciiisted  those  of  her  master.  Pamela  herself  is  degraded  from 
her  moral  elevation,  and  is  represented  as  Lady  Booby,  whom  the 
parson  is  compelled  to  reprove  for  laughing  in  church.  The 
strength  of  the  novel  is  Parson  Adams,  who  is  learned,  amiable, 
innocent.  He  is  unsuspectingly  simple,  absent-minded;  declares 
that  he  would  willingly  walk  ten  miles  to  fetch  his  sermon  on 
vanity,  merely  to  convince  Wilson  of  his  thorough  contempt  for 
the  vice;  consoles  himself  for  the  loss  of  a  Greek  author  by  sud- 
denly recollecting  that  he  could  not  read  it  if  he  had  it,  because 
it  is  dark.  He  drinks  beer,  smokes  pipes,  moralizes,  and,  when 
necessary,  uses  his  fists  with  effect  and  relish.  He  is  Joseph's 
friend,  and  both  are  models  of  virtue  and  excellence.  They  give 
and  receive  many  cuffs,  have  basins  flung  at  their  heads,  their 
clothes  rent  by  dogs,  their  horse  stolen,  never  have  any  money, 
are  threatened  with  imprisonment;  yet  they  go  merrily  on,  with 
thick  skins,  keen  appetites,  and  potent  stomachs.  Rude  jests, 
tavern  brawls,  ludicrous  situations,  combine  to  turn  the  tragic  of 
Richardson  into  the  grotesque. 

JoriatliAUi  Wild  (1?43),  an  account  of  a  famous  thief,  who 
turns  thief-catcher,  and  ends  his  career  at  the  gallows.  Its  best 
character  is  the  prison  chaplain,  who  exhorts  the  condemned  man 
to  repent,  accepts  from  him  a  bowl  of  punch,  because  '  it  is 
nowhere  spoken  against  in  Scripture,'  then  resumes  his  ghostly 
admonitions. 

Torn  Jonc-'i  (1740),  the  history  of  a  foundling;  his  masterpiece. 
It  was  written  during  the  first  year  of  his  magistrate  life,  and 
contains  a  vast  varietv  of  lifelike  characters  (most  of  whose  faces 
are  red),  drawn  chiefly  from  the  daily  experience  of  the  police- 
bench.  Western  is  u  country  squire,  rich,  fond  of  drink,  igno- 
rant, boorish,  impati(Mit  of  contradiction,  and  given  up  to  every 
U'ust  of  passion;  yet  he  has  tenderness  and  tears,  and  when  the 
wind  changes,  can  lie  led  like  a  child.  Tom  dares  to  fall  in  love 
with  liis  daughter  Sophy,  who  is  'the  jov  of  my  heart,  and  all 
tlie  hope  and  comfort  of  my  age.'  Immediately  Tom  must  be 
thrashed,  and  Sophy  shall  lie  turned  out  to  'starve  and  rot  in  the 
streets.'      She    reasons,    he    storms  ;    she    changes    her   tactics   to 


FIELDING.  153 

obedience  and  prayer,  he  is  conquered,  but  would  conceal  his 
subnnission  by  blustering  : 

'I  am  determined  upon  tliis  matcli,  and  ha  him  you  shall,  damn  me,  if  shat  tint.' 

Now  he  cannot  rest  till  they  are  married: 

'To  her,  boy,  to  her,  go  to  her.  That's  it,  little  honeys,  that's  it.  Well,  what,  is  it 
all  over  ?  Hath  she  appointed  the  day,  boy  ?  What,  -ihall  it  be  to-morrow,  or  next  day  ? 
1  shan't  be  put  off  a  minute  longer  than  next  day,  I  am  resolved.  .  .  .  Zoodikers!  she'd 
have  the  wedding  to-night  with  all  her  heart.     Would'st  not,  So|)liy  't ' 

The  novel  abounds  in  incidents  and  situations  that  are  used 
onlv  to  bring-  out  character.  Thus,  when  Tom's  arm  is  broken, 
Square,  the  philosopher,  tries  to  console  liim  with  the  stoical  doc- 
trine that  'pain  was  the  most  contemptible  thing  in  tin-  world,' 
but,  in  doing-  so,  bites  his  tongue,  and  lets  slip  an  oath.  Again, 
the  profound  Square  becoines  the  lover  of  Molly  Seagrim,  discov- 
ers that  he  was  preceded  by  Tom  Jones,  who  finds  that  he  himself 
had  succeeded  to  the  accomplished  Will  Barnes,  who  still  holds 
the  first  claim  on  her  affections.  The  elder  Blifil  is  grateful  to  his 
brother  for  assisting  him  to  obtain  the  fortune  of  Miss  Alworthy 
by  marriage.  A  highwayman  robs  Western's  sister  of  her  jewels, 
while  he  compliments  her  beauty.  That  lady  appeals  to  her  niece 
in  pride  of  remembered  charms,  that  have  glided  into  the  abyss 
and  rearward  of  Tinu>: 

'I  was  never  so  liaiulsome  :is  you,  Soi)hy;  yet  I  had  something  of  you  formerly.  I 
was  called  the  cruel  PMrtlicuissii.  Kingdoms  and  states,  as  Tully  Cicero  says,  undergo 
alteration,  and  so  must  the  human  form!" 

Partridge,  of  pt-()verl)ial  humor,  engages  in  Latin  tlialogutis 
with  his  maid,  and  during  one  of  these  is  assaulted  by  his  wife. 
He  is  Tom's  faithful  attendant,  half  barl)er,  half  schoolmaster, 
shrewd,  vet  simplf  as  a  cliild.  He  goes  to  the  theatre  for  the 
first  time,  to  witness  the  repi-esentation  of  Hanil(»t.  In  the 
account  of  his  impressions,  mark  the  accurate  observer  of  hunum 
nature,  and  see  the  ilesh  and  blood  of  other  days: 

-In  the  first  row,  then,  of  Ilic  (iist  gallery,  did  Mr.  Jones,  Mrs.  Miller,  her  youngest 
daughter,  ami  Partrid^'e,  take  Ilieir  places.  Partridge  immediately  declared  it  was  the 
finest  plai-e  Iw  l\ad  cvrr  Ihth  in.  When  tlic  lirst  music  was  played,  he  said:  '"It  was  a 
wonder  how  so  many  liiidlcrs  could  play  at  one  time  without  putting  one  anotlier  out." 
While  tile  fellow  was  lighting  the  upper  candles,  he  cried  out  to  Mrs.  Miller:  "  liOok, 
look,  madam:  the  very  ()ictui-c  of  the  man  in  llu>  end  of  the  common  i)rayer  hook,  before 
the  gunpowder  treason  service."  Xor  could  lie  liel|)  observing,  with  a  siL'li,  when  all 
the  caiiillcs  were  liLchted:  --'riiat  liere  were  canilles  enough  burnt  in  one  night  to  keep 
an  lionot  poor  family  for  a  whole  t\\  elvemouth." 

.\s  soon  as  the  |il<iy,  \vliieh  \\.a-  llniiilft,  I'rUu-e  of  Denmark;  bciran,  P,irtri(li;i'  was  all 
attt'lltiou.  nor  did  he  l)reak  >ilence  till  the  entrance  of  the  trhost:  upon  which  he  asked 
Jones;    ••Wluit  niaii  that  was  In  the  -Iraicie  dress;  something,"   he  >ald,  '-like  wh.-it  I 


154  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

have  seen  in  a  pictnre.  Sure  it  is  not  armour,  is  it*"'  Jones  answered:  "That  is  the- 
ghost."  To  which  Partridge  replied,  with  a  smile:  "  Persuade  me  to  that,  sir,  if  yon  can. 
Though  I  can"t  .-ay  I  ever  exactly  saw  a  ghost  in  my  life,  yet  I  am  certain  I  should  know 
one,  if  I  saw  him,  better  than  that  comes  to.  No,  no,  sir;  ghosts  don't  appear  in  such 
dresses  as  that  neither."  In  this  mistake,  which  caused  much  laughter  in  the  neigh- 
l)ourhood  of  Partridge,  he  was  suffered  to  continue  till  the  scene  between  the  ghost  and 
Hamlet,  when  Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr.  Garrick  which  he  had  denied  to  Jones, 
and  fell  into  so  violent  a  trembling  that  his  knees  knocked  against  each  other.  Jones 
asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  and  whether  he  was  afraid  of  the  warrior  upon  the 
stage.  "O  la!  sir,"  said  he,  "I  perceive  now  it  is  what  you  told  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
anything,  for  1  know  it  is  but  a  play,  and  if  it  was  really  a  ghost,  it  could  do  one  no  harm 
at  such  a  distance,  and  in  so  much  company:  and  yet  if  I  was  frightened,  I  am  not  the 
only  person."'  "Why,  who,""  cried  Jones,  "dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a  coward  here 
beside  thyself?"'  "Nay,  you  may  call  me  a  coward  if  you  will;  but  if  that  little  man 
there  upon  the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I  never  saw  any  man  frightened  in  my  life.  Ay, 
ay :  go  along  with  you  :  Ay,  to  be  sure  I  Who"s  fool,  then  ?  Will  you  ?  Lud  have  mercy 
upon  such  foolh.irdiness '.  Whatever  happens,  it  is  good  enough  for  you.  Follow  you  I  Pd 
follow  the  devil  as  soon.  Nay,  perhaps  it  is  the  devil  — for  they  say  he  can  put  on  what 
likeness  he  pleases.  Oh  I  here  he  is  again.  No  further  I  No,  you  have  gone  far  enough 
already;  further  than  Pd  have  gone  for  all  the  king"s  dominions."'  Jones  offered  to 
speak,  but  Partridge  cried:  "  Hush,  hush,  dear  sir;  don't  you  hear  him?"  And  during 
the  whole  speech  of  the  ghost,  he  sat  with  his  eyes  fi-xed  jiartly  on  Hamlet,  and  with  his 
mouth  open;  the  same  passions  which  succeeded  each  other  in  Hamlet,  succeeded  like- 
wise in  him.  .  .  . 

The  grave- digging  scene  next  engaged  the  attention  of  Partridge,  who  expressed 
much  surprise  at  the  number  of  skulls  thrown  upon  the  stage.  To  which  Jones  answered, 
that  it  was  one  of  the  most  famous  burial-places  about  town.  "No  wonder,  then," 
cried  Partridge,  "that  the  place  is  haunted.  But  I  never  saw  in  my  life  a  worse  grave- 
digger.  I  had  a  sexton  when  I  was  clerk  that  should  have  dug  three  graves  while  he  is 
digging  one.  The  fellow  handles  a  spade  as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  one  in  his 
hand.  Ay,  ay,  you  may  sing.  Yon  had  rather  sing  than  work,  I  believe.""  Tpon  Hamlefs 
taking  up  the  skull,  he  cried  out:  "Well  1  it  is  strange  to  see  how  fearless  some  men  are: 
I  never  could  bring  myself  to  touch  anything  belonging  to  a  dead  man  on  any  account. 
He  seemed  frightened  enough  too  at  the  ghost,  I  thought.     Nemo  omnibus  fioris  sapit."' 

Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  during  the  play;  at  the  end  of  which  Jones 
asked  him  which  of  the  players  he  had  liked  best.  To  this  he  answered,  with  some 
appearance  of  indignation  at  the  question:  "The  king  without  doubt."  "Indeed,  Mr. 
Partridge,""  said  Mrs.  Miller,  "you  are  not  of  the  same  opinion  with  the  town:  for  they 
are  all  agreed  that  Hamh't  is  acted  by  the  best  player  who  ever  was  on  the  stage.""  "  He 
the  best  player! ""  cried  Partridge,  with  a  contemptuous  sneer;  "  why,  I  could  act  as  well 
as  he  myself.  I  am  sure  if  I  had  seen  a  ghost  I  should  have  looked  in  the  very  same 
manner,  and  done  just  as  he  did.  .Viul  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that  scene,  as  you  called  it, 
between  him  and  his  mother,  where  you  told  me  he  acted  so  fine,  why.  Lord  help  ine  !  any 
niiin — thai  is,  any  good  man— that  had  such  a  mother,  would  have  done  exactly  the  same. 
I  know  you  are  only  jokint;  with  luc;  but.  indeed,  madam,  though  I  was  never  at  a  play 
in  London,  yet  I  have  -(cm  attinu'  before  in  tlie  country;  and  the  king  for  my  money:  he 
speaks  all  his  word-  ilistimtly.  Ii^ilf  as  loud  airain  as  the  other,  .\nyhody  may  see  he  is 
an  actor." 

Thus  ended  the  adventure  at  the  i)layhouse,  where  Partridge  had  afforded  great  mirtli, 
not  only  to  Jones  aiul  .Mrs.  Miller,  but  to  all  who  sat  within  hearing,  who  were  more  atten- 
tive to  what  h"  said  than  to  anything  that  passed  on  the  sta^'e.  Hi-  durst  not  lto  to  bed  all 
that  niL'ht  for  fear  of  tlieu'lio-l:  and  for  many  niirhts  after,  sweated  two  or  three  hours 
liefiire  he  Went  to  sleep  with  the  -.uiie  apprehensions,  and  waked  several  times  in  ^reat 
horror-,  cryini:  out:   "  I.oril  have  uiercy  upon  us!  there  it  is."'  ' 

AiikH'i  (lT-">I),a  cliarjicti'i"  skctclic*!  from  his  own  wife.  Cap- 
tain   Booth,   Aiiiclia'.s   hn.sbaiid,   is   irrc<ruhir,    extravagant,  a    had 


FIELDING.  155 

manager,  a  victim  to  temptation,  but  a  sincere  penitent;  is  in- 
stinctively generous,  as  a  dog  is  instinctively  affectionate;  has  a 
woman's  heart  in  his  soldier's  body;  is  devoted  to  his  wife,  weeps 
at  thought  of  her,  treasures  her  words,  loves  her  supremely,  with 
a  perennial  warmth: 

'If  I  had  the  world,  I  was  ready  to  h»y  it  at  my  Amelia's  feet;  and  so  Heaven  knowi?, 
I  would  ten' thousand  worlds.' 

Amelia  is,  according  to  Fielding's  idea,  the  assembly  of  domestic 
virtues.  She  is  tender,  forgiving,  and  excessively  modest;  says: 
'Dear  Billy,  though  my  understanding  be  much  inferior  to  yours'; 
receives  a  love-letter,  throws  it  away,  and  says: 

'I  would  not  have  such  a  letter  in  my  ix)ssession  for  tlie  universe;  I  thought  my  eyes 
contaminated  with  reading  it.' 

Style. — Fresh,  vigorous,  easy,  idiomatic,  exhibiting  a  care  and 
refinement  altogether  unknown  to  that  of  Richardson, 

Hank. — A  masterly  observer  and  painter  of  human  nature  as 
he  witnessed  it.  What  he  has  given  us  is  for  the  most  part  his 
actual  experience,  illuminated,  of  course,  by  his  own  genius.  He 
declares  that  if  he  imagines  a  feature,  it  is  because  he  has  seen 
it.  He  lived  through  the  scenes  and  characters  he  has  described; 
saw  the  world  in  its  hilarity,  coarseness,  and  brutality;  saw  nat- 
ural impulse  unveiled;  saw  the  turmoil  of  vanities,  follies,  lusts, 
and  rancors,  naked  and  uncloaked;  saw  men  of  nerve  and  nmscle, 
full  of  warmth  and  force,  with  overflowing  instincts,  jostling 
and  violent,  yet  liberal,  loyal,  and  joj-ous.  Of  what  he  satr,  he 
drexo  Ihuit;/  jtlcf  tires.  Here  lies  his  preeminence.  He  announced 
that  his  object  was  faithfully  to  paint  real  life.  But  in  doing  so, 
he  gathered  the  harvest  and  forgot  the  flowers.  Life  lias  its 
poetry,  as  well  as  its  })rose;  its  moral  heroism,  as  well  as  its 
])hysi('al  valor;  its  visions,  as  well  as  its  bread.  Of  these  less 
solid  and  loftier  constituents,  he  had  l)ut  slight  ap])r(H'iati()ii. 
Hence  his  characters  are  strongly  built  rathcM-  than  refined.  As  a 
mere  observer,  he  was  superior  to  Richardson  and  little  inferior 
to  Shakes])eare,  tliough  without  any  of  the  ])oeticai  (|ualiti('s  of 
either.  ^^Mdth  of  sympathy,  delicacy  of  perception,  high  cast  of 
thought,  are  wanting.  He  is  the  novelist  of  the  lower  million; 
Riclianlson,  of  the  njiper  ten  thousand.  He  teaches  morality 
indirectly,  in  the  comic  style,  which,  he  maintained,  disposes  men 
to  be  'more  full  of  good   humor  and   benevolence';    Richardson, 


156  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

directly,  in  the  serious,  tragic  style,  for  by  the  sadness  of  the 
countenance  the  heart  is  made  better. 

If  the  novel  be  held  to  include  love,  satire,  humour,  obser- 
vation, genuine  portrayal  of  facts,  of  living,  veritable  persons, 
and  skill  in  the  arrangement  of  plot  and  incident,  he  surpasses 
Richardson,  and  perhaps  is  unsurpassed  by  any  other;  if,  more 
justly,  the  ethical  tendency,  the  predominance  of  character,  is 
the  leading  index  of  power  in  the  novelist,  to  Richardson  must  be 
assigned  the  seat  of  honor. 

Character.  —  Sanguine,  affectionate,  extravagant,  careless, 
jolly;  a  drinker,  a  roisterer,  acquainted  with  the  lower  orders  of 
all  classes,  and  familiar  with  the  ups  and  downs  of  life.  His 
views  were  those  which  commend  themselves  to  a  man  who  sees 
the  world  as  it  is,  who  has  no  visionary  dreams  or  passionate 
aspirations,  and  who  has  a  thoroughly  generous  nature.  Moral- 
ity, with  him,  was  not  a  law;  yet  in  his  way,  he  was  a  moralist. 
He  satirizes  vice,  excuses,  condemns,  suggests  moral  conclusions. 
His  hero  is  neither  a  libertine  nor  an  ascetic;  he  is  a  full-blooded 
healthy  animal,  with  respect  for  the  Church  so  long  as  it  does 
not  break  with  common  sense,  but  without  exaltation  or  poetic 
rapture.  The  novelist,  preeminently  of  authors,  records  himself 
in  his  writings.  Not  more  decisively  does  a  Chinese  drawing 
reveal  its  nationality  than  do  the  works  of  his  imagination  reveal 
the  experience  and  observation  out  of  which  that  imagination 
has  grown.  His  heroes  and  heroines  are  his  ideals,  and  these 
must  be  built  of  the  idealized  materials  of  his  actual  life  and 
history.  Perhaps  he  had  all  the  best  parts  of  a  man,  except 
delicacy  and  moderation. 

Influence. — Probably  his  only  legacy  to  mankind,  certainly 
his  chief  one,  is  the  jjicture  he  has  set  before  us  of  English 
society  in  his  generation.  We  see  pretty  much  what  we  should 
have  seen  as  lookers-on.  In  vindicating  the  novel  against  the 
loftier  ])retensi()ns  of  jirofessed  historians,  he  asserted' that  'in 
tlu'ir  productions  ncjthing  is  true  but  the  names  and  dates, 
whereas  in  mine  evervthing  is  true  l)ut  the  names  and  dntes.' 
Without  going  so  far,  still,  jis  tin-  novel  embcxlies  substantially 
the  remarks  of  the  ablest  observers  upon  their  contemporaries, 
we    may  admit    his    claim   to  be   a  writer  of   history,  who,  more 


THE   SCEPTICAL    PHILOSOPHER.  157 

faithfully  than   many   historians   proper,  has  given  us  the  very 
form  and  presence  of  the  times. 

In  his  own  age,  when  coarseness  was  less  offensive,  he  did,  as 
a  humorist,  the  good  that  mere  pleasure  can  do.  His  humor, 
however,  is  in  this  age  situated  where  those  who  are  refined  or 
well-dressed  will  not  care  to  enter.  In  this  direction,  as  in 
others,  his  influence  has  ceased  to  be  felt.  This  is  the  criterion 
of  a  truly  great  man, —  that  his  life  has  been  deepened  and 
chastened  by  sorrow,  enabling  him  to  discern  the  inner  heart  of 
things,  so  that  there  rises  out  of  him  a  kind  of  universal  Psalm; 
his  thought  is  in  our  thoughts,  and  the  fruit  of  his  genius  scatters 
its  seed  across  continents  and  centuries. 


HUME, 


Upon  the  whole,  I  have  always  considered  him,  both  in  his  lifetime  and  since  his 
death,  as  approaching  as  nearly  to  the  idea  of  a  perfectly  wise  and  virtuous  man  as 
perhaps  tlie  nature  of  human  frailty  will  permit.— .4 rfam  Smith. 

Biography. — Born  in  Edinburgh,  in  1711,  and  educated  at 
Edinburgh  University;  was  designed  for  the  law,  studied,  but 
never  practised.  He  had  an  insurmountable  aversion  to  every- 
thing but  literature: 

'While  tliey  (tlu'  fuuiily)  fancied  I  was  porin;^  upon  Voct  and  Vinnius,  Cicero  and 
Virgil  were  the  authors  whicli  I  was  secretly  devouring." 

His  slender  fortune  and  impaired  health  —  the  result  of  a  too 
ardent  application  —  forced  liini  to  try  mercantile  life,  but  in  a 
few  months  he  found  this  employment  equally  uncongenial.  He 
then  went  to  France,  studied  three  years  in  retirement,  living 
with  the  utmost  frugality,  and  returned  in  1T37.  His  patrimony 
hardly  sunicieiit  for  his  sup})ort,  he  l)ecame  tutor  one  year  to  a 
young  nobleman  of  deranged  mind;  next  became  a  candidate  for 
the  professorship)  of  moral  pliil()S(){>hy  in  tiie  university  of  his 
native  town,  but  was  unsuccessful: 

'I  am  iufdrnicd  (iiat  sucli  a  pc)i)nhir  clauior  has  been  raised  against  nie  in  Kdiuburgh, 
on  account  of  sceiiticisui,  hcterodo.KV,  and  other  hard  names,  whicli  confotnul  the  igno- 
rant, tliiit  uiy  friends  fuul  some  dilhculty  in  working  out  the  point  of  my  professorshii), 
which  once  appeared  so  easy." 

He  then  acted  as  secretary,  two  years,  to  General   St.  Clair, 


158  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

attending  him  first  in  an  expedition  against  Canada,  afterwards 
in  an  embassy  to  the  courts  of  Vienna  and  Turin: 

'These  two  years  were  almost  the  only  interniptions  which  iny  studies  have  received 
during  the  course  of  my  life:  I  passed  them  agreeably,  and  in  good  company:  and  my 
appointments,  with  my  frugality,  had  made  me  reach  a  fortune  which  I  called  independ- 
ent, though  most  of  my  friends  were  inclined  to  smile  when  I  said  so:  in  short,  I  was 
now  master  of  near  a  thousand  pounds.' 

Wrote  industriously,  as  had  been  his  liabit;  published,  was 
neglected,  but  pressed  on: 

'On  my  return  from  Italy  (1749),  I  had  the  mortification  to  lind  all  England  in  a 
ferment  on  account  of  Dr.  Middlelon's  Free  Inquiry,  while  my  performance  was  entirely 
overlooked  and  neglected.  A  new  edition  which  had  been  published  in  London,  of  my 
Essays,  moral  and  j)olitical,  met  not  with  a  much  better  reception. 

Such  i^^  the  force  of  natural  temper,  that  these  disappointments  made  little  or  no 
impression  on  me." 

In  1752,  he  was  chosen  lil)rarian  to  the  Faculty  of  Advocates, 
and,  placed  in  command  of  a  large  library,  struck  into  the  path 
of  historical  writing.  In  1703,  he  attended  Lord  Hertford  on  his 
embassy  to  Paris,  where  he  was  received  with  marked  distinction. 
Three  years  later,  he  returned  to  his  native  city,  with  the  view 
of  burying  himself  in  a  philosophical  retreat,  but  was  induced  to 
accept  the  ollice  of  Under  Secretary  of  State,  which  he  held  for 
two  years: 

'I  returned  to  Edinburgli  in  ]''69,  very  opulent  (for  1  possessed  a  revenue  of  one 
thousand  i)()unds  a  year),  healthy,  and,  though  somewhat  stricken  in  years,  with  the 
prospect  of  enjoying  long  my  ease,  and  of  seeing  the  increase  of  my  reputation.' 

Here  he  lived  in  the  tranquil  enjoyment  of  his  fame,  and  in 
the  affection  of  his  ])(M-soiial  friends.  In  the  .spring  of  177."),  he 
was  struck  witli  what  lie  knew  to  be  a  mortal  disease,  and,  with 
the  utmost  composure,  awaited  his  speedy  dissolution.  Wliih^ 
his  person  declined,  his  s])irits  were  unabated.  He  possessed  the 
same  assiduity  in  study,  and  the  same  gayety  in  company: 

"1  considrr,  brsidi-,  lluu  a  man  of  sixty-five,  by  dying,  cuts  ofT  only  a  few  year~  of 
infirmitie.- ;  ami  th()ii:_'li  I  >ci'  nuiiiy  >yinpt()nis  of  my  lilcrary  rcpulatidii's  liri'iikiiii.'  out 
at  last  with  additional  lii-frr,  I  know  tliat  I  could  have  but  few  years  to  enjoy  it.  Il  is 
dilTicult  to  be  more  drtacbed  Iroin  life  than  I  am  at  present.' 

Sensible  that  lie  w;is  sinking,  lie  diverted  himself  with  the  revi- 
sion of  his  works,  witli  l)ooks  of  amusement,  with  an  occasional 
game  of  wliist  in  the  evening.  Ilis  cheerfidness  was  so  great, 
that  many  could  not  l)eliev(>  he  was  dying.  lie  was  ])erfectly 
resigned,  free  from  anxietv  or  impatience.  Reading,  shortly 
before    liis    deatli,    Liician's     hhib^mo^    of   t/it    Di:(i<f,    he    said 


HUME.  159 

that,  of  all  the  excuses  alleged  to  Charon'  for  not  entering  readily 
into  his  boat,  he  could  find  none  that  fitted  himself:  he  had  no 
liouso  to  complete,  no  daughter  to  provide  for,  no  enemies  to  be 
revenged  upon: 

'I  could  not  well  imagine  what  excuse  I  conhl  make  to  Charon  in  order  to  obtain  a 
little  delay.  I  have  done  every  thing  of  consequence  which  1  ever  meant  to  do:  and  I 
could  at  no  time  expect  to  leave  my  relations  and  friends  in  a  better  situation  than  that 
in  which  I  am  now  likely  to  leave  them:  I,  therefore,  have  all  reason  to  die  contented.' 

He  invents  jocular  excuses,  which  he  supposes  may  be  made 
to  Charon,  and  imagines  the  very  surly  answers  which  it  may  suit 
the  character  of  the  grim  ferryman  to  return : 

'Upon  further  consideration,  I  thought  I  might  say  to  him,  "good  Charon,  I  have 
been  correcting  my  works  for  a  new  edition.  Allow  me  a  little  time,  that  I  may  see  how 
the  public  receives  the  alterations."  "There  will  be  no  end  of  such  excuses;  so,  honest 
friend,  please  step  into  the  boat.'"  But  I  might  still  urge,  "Have  a  little  patience,  good 
Charon:  I  have  been  endeavoring  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  public.  If  I  live  a  few  years 
longer,  I  may  have  ihe  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  downfall  of  some  of  the  prevailing 
systems  of  superstition."  But  Charonwoukl  then  lose  all  temper  and  decency.  "You 
loitering  rogue,  that  will  not  happen  these  many  hundred  years.  Do  you  fancy  I  will 
grant  you  a  lease  for  so  long  a  term  ?  Get  into  the  boat  this  instant,  you  lazy,  loitering 
rogue."  ■ 

On  tlie  2Gth  of  August,  ITTu,  his  physician  wrote  to  Adam  Smitli: 

^Ihar  iSir.'— Yesterday  about  four  o'clock,  afternoon,  Mr.  Hume  exjjired.  The  near 
approach  of  his  death  became  evident  in  the  night  between  Thursday  and  Friday,  when 
his  disease  l)ecanie  excessive,  and  soon  weakened  him  so  much  that  he  could  no  longer 
rise  out  of  his  Ijed.  lie  continued  to  the  last  perfectly  sensible,  and  free  from  much 
pain  or  feelings  of  distress.  He  never  drojiped  the  smallest  expression  of  imi)atienee; 
but  when  he  had  occasion  to  speak  to  the  p('oi)le  about  him,  always  did  it  with  atfection 
and  tenderness.  I  tliouglu  it  improper  to  write  to  bring  you  over,  especially  as  I  lu'iird 
Ihat  he  had  dictated  a  kttir  to  you,  desirinu  you  not  to  come.  When  he  bicaine  very 
Weak,  it  cost  him  an  ctloit  to  speak;  and  he  died  in  such  a  liappy  composure  of  mind, 
that  nothing  could  exceed  it.' 

Men  who  liave  formed  a  high  conception  of  duty,  who  have 
bridled  tlie  tuinult  of  pas.sioii,  who  j^a.ss  tlieir  lives  in  a  calm  sense 
of  virtue  and  of  dignity,  ai'c  little  likely  to  be  assailed  by  the 
superstitious  fears  tliat  arc  the  nightmare  of  weaker  mimls. 
'Ask,'  said  Seneca,  'for  a  brave  soul  unscared  by  death.'  ( )n  the! 
last  night  in  wliicli  Antoninus  Pius  lived,  the  tril)une  came  to  ask 

'  The  renviuan  in  (ireek  mvthology,  wlio  for  a  luilfpeiiny  carries  across  the  Stygian 
lake  the  souls  of  the  ileiid  iliat  flock  to  its  shores: 

'Tliere  Charon  stands,  who  rules  the  dreary  coasts; 
A  ^()r(li<l  god:    down  from  his  hoary  chin 
A  leiiixth  of  l)eard  descends.  unc()nii)'d,  unclean; 
His  eyes  like  hollow  fun. aces  on  (ire; 
A  ginlle  foul  with  grease  binds  his  ()l)scene  attire. 
He  >prea(ls  his  e.'iMvas,  with  his  i)ole  he  steers; 
The  freiirlits  of  Hitting'  ghosts  in  his  thin  bottom  bears. 
He  look'd  in  years,  yet  in  his  years  were  seen 
.\  youthful  vilror,  an  autumnal  green." 


160  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

for  the  pass-word  of  the  night.  '^Equanimitas,'  answered  the 
dying  emperor.  A  wise  man,  who  has  studied  how  to  live,  has 
learned  how  to  die. 

"Writings. — Liquiry  Concerning  the  Human  Under standinrj 
(1 748).  In  this  he  recast  the  first  part  of  an  earlier  work.  Treatise 
on  Human  Nature  (1737),  which,  he  says,  'fell  dead-born  from 
the  press.'  Nor  did  his  speculations  now  attract  much  more 
attention,  though  they  proved  eventually  to  be  the  most  exciting 
and  productive  that  have  been  promulgated  in  modern  times.  To 
derive  an}-  profit  from  the  consideration  of  his  metaphysical  views, 
the  student  should  remind  himself, — 

1.  That  the  aim  of  Philosophy  is  to  ascertain  the  nature  and 
essence  of  things. 

2.  Locke  was  allowed  to  have  established, — 

(1)  That  we  could  have  no  knowledge  not  derived  from  expe- 
rience. 

(2)  That  experience  was  of  two  kinds,  namely,  of  external 
objects  and  of  internal  operations;  therefore,  it  had  two  distinct 
sources, —  sensation  and  reflection. 

(3)  That  all  knowledge  could  consist  only  in  the  agreement  or 
disagreement  of  ideas. 

(4)  Finally,  that  we  could  never  know  things  in  themselves, 
but  only  as  they  affect  us;  that  is,  we  could  know  only  our  ideas. 

He  supposes  the  mind  to  begin  its  acts  of  intelligence  with 
impresfiions ^  by  which  is  meant  the  lively  sensations  we  have 
when  we  hear,  see,  feel,  love,  hate,  desire,  will.  When  we  reflect 
on  any  impression,  as  in  acts  of  memory  or  imagination,  the 
result  is  an  idea.  An  idea  is,  then,  the  faint  image  or  copy  of  an 
impression.  Thus,  when  I  see  a  picture,  there  is  an  impression; 
when  I  think  about  this  picture  in  its  absence,  there  is  an  idea. 
The  difference  between  impressions  and  ideas  is  one  of  degree 
merely  —  the  former  are  stronger,  the  latter  weaker;  the  first  are 
the  originals,  the  second  are  the  vestiges.  When,  in  reasoning, 
a  thing  is  said  to  exist,  we  are  to  search  for  an  impression  (new 
or  old)  corresponding  to  tiie  word  used.  If  no  such  impression  is 
found,  the  word,  so  far  as  our  human  faculties  are  concerned,  has 
no  meaning  at  all.  Whether  there  is  any  existence  corresponding 
to  its  meaning,  no  one  can  tell — there  may  or  may  not  be. 
Hence,  whether  there  be  an  infinite  mind  behind  the  veil  of  phe- 


HUME.  161 

nomena,  no  mortal  may  presume  to  say.  That  idea  is  reached  by 
magnifying  the  human  attributes  of  wisdom  and  goodness.  If  it 
be  asked  what  knowledge  we  have  of  an  external  world,  the 
answer  is,  that  there  are  certain  impressions  and  ideas  which  we 
suppose  to  relate  to  it;  further  we  know  not.  If  we  look  into 
ourselves,  and,  watching  the  figures  as  they  come  and  go,  seek  for 
assurance  of  our  identity  and  continuity,  we  find  but  a  string  of 
separate  entities,  a  procession  of  shadows,  called  in  one  view 
impressions,  in  another  ideas;  not  something  self-existent,  which 
was,  is,  and  shall  continue: 

'Pain  and  pleasure,  grief  and  joy,  passions  and  sensations,  succeed  each  other,  and 
never  exist  at  the  same  time.  It  cannot,  therefore,  be  from  any  of  those  impressions,  or 
from  any  other,  that  the  idea  of  self  is  derived;  and  consequently  there  is  no  sucli  idea. 
.  .  .  For  my  part,  when  I  enter  most  intimately  into  what  I  call  myself,  I  always 
stumble  on  some  perception  or  other,  of  heat  or  cold,  light  or  shade,  love  or  hatred,  pain 
or  pleasure.  I  never  can  catch  myself  at  any  time  without  perception,  and  can  never 
observe  anything  but  the  perception." 

Hume's  philosophical  significance  is  connected  chiefly  with  his 
speculations  concerning  causality.  No  sooner  is  an  event  per- 
ceived than  we  conclude  at  once  that  it  is  an  effect,  and  begin  to 
inquire  the  cause.  Between  these  two  terms  he  could  see  no 
other  connection,  than  that  the  former  immediately  follows  the 
latter,  as  in  the  melting  of  wax  before  the  flame  of  a  taper. 
When  they  are  .seen  to  be  conjoined  repeatedly,  we  learn  to 
expect  that,  when  the  one  accustomed  to  precede  makes  its 
appearance,  the  other  will  follow;  and  this  expectation  strength- 
ens as  repetitions  multiply.  If  now  the  unsatisfied  investigator 
demands  a  povur  in  the  one,  which  enables  it  to  produce  the 
other,  the  answer  is,  such  a  thing  may  be;  we  have  no  clue  to  it — 
no  Impression  of  it  —  by  which  its  existence  or  non-exi.stence 
may  be  argued.  Our  belief  in  the  maxim  that  like  causes  pro- 
duce like  effects  is  based  not  on  any  knowledge  of  the  hidden 
force  through  which  the  one  thing  brings  the  other  into  being, 
but  on  habit: 

'When  we  look  about  us  towards  external  ot)jects,  and  consider  the  o])eration  of 
causes,  we  are  never  alile  in  a  single  instance  to  discover  any  jiower  or  necessary  con- 
nection, any  quality,  which  binds  the  etTect  to  the  cause,  and  renders  the  one  an  infallible 
consequence  of  tlie  other.  The  imi)ulse  of  one  billiard-ball  is  attended  with  motion  in 
the  second.  This  is  tlie  whole  that  appears  to  the  outward  senses.  The  mind  feel-;  no 
sentiment  or  inward  impression  from  this  succession  of  objects;  consetiuently  there  is 
not,  in  any  single  instance  of  cause  and  effect,  any  thing  which  can  sugL'est  tlie  i(le:i  of 
power  or  necessary  connection.' 

The    mind    cannot    perceive    any    necessary    connection    l)etwt'en 
11 


162  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

events,  but  only  an  invariabloness  of  antecedence  and  sequence. 
The  <!^round  of  our  belief  that  some  power  is  involved  in  every 
causal  act  is  custom.  If  I  believe  that  the  sun  will  rise  to- 
morrow, it  is  merely  because  it  has  always  risen.  If  I  believe 
that  fire  will  burn,  it  is  merely  because  it  has  always  burned: 

'When  many  uniform  instances  appear  and  the  same  object  is  always  followed  by 
the  same  event,  wc  then  begin  to  entertain  the  notion  of  cause  and  connection.  We  then 
feel  a  new  sentiment,  to  wit,  a  customary  connection  in  the  thought  between  one  object 
and  its  usual  attendant:  and  this  sentiment  is  the  original  of  that  idea  which  we  seek  for.' 

Hence,  the  causal  idea,  owing  to  its  origin  in  habit,  admits  of  use 
only  within  the  field  of  experience;  and  our  pains  are  vain,  if  we 
attempt  to  ascend  from  data  given  empirically,  to  that  which  lies 
beyond  the  whole  range  of  experience, —  God  and  immortality. 
Again,  if  we  cannot  infer  the  exercise  of  power  in  a  material 
cause,  neither  can  we  in  an  immaterial  one.  As  in  the  world  of 
matter,  so  in  the  world  of  spirit,  events  are  merely  conjoined. 
Impulses  and  motives,  which  date  their  origin  from  sensation 
only,  impressed  l)y  matter  and  material  law,  chase  each  other 
through  the  corridors  of  the  unresisting  mind  like  boulders  and 
])el)bles  in  a  river  bed.  Man,  receptive  to  the  ever-shifting  train 
of  'impressions,'  is  bound  fast  in  fate.  Once  more,  where  expe- 
rience teaches  tliat  two  things  are  related  by  an  invariable 
sequence,  if  we  hear  of  an  in'stance  in  which  this  has  not  been 
the  case,  we  ought  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  narrative.  Which 
is  the  more  probable, —  that  men  should  make  false  statements, 
(lt'sign(Mlly  or  otherwise,  or  tliat  an  event  should  have  occur.red 
which  contnidicts  all  previous  authenticated  experience?  Tliere- 
forc,  to  prove  a  miracle  is  impossible,  if  by  miracle  is  meant  an 
interference  with  the  usual  order  of  nature;  for  it  is  simpler  to 
l)elieve  that  the  cnidence  is  mistaken  than  that  the  course  of 
nature  is  not  uuifoiin. 

It  is  not  hf>r(>  ]iro])osed  to  inquire  whether  these  views,  with 
their  (juict  and  indifl'erent,  yet  momentous,  ap]-)lications,  will  bear 
close  serutinv.  The  ])rescnt  business  is  neither  to  inqjugn  nor 
to  (h'fend,  but  to  describe. 

Itiijtnnj  <  'oiK-i  riiiinj  f/ir:  Pr!  Hcij)I>.-<  of  Month  (1T51),  'which, 
in  my  own  opinion  (wlio  ought  not  to  judge  on  tliat  subject),  is 
of  all  my  writings,  historical,  )/niloso])hical,  or  literary,  incompara- 
bly tlie  liest.'  The  woi'k  is  a  full  development,  so  far  as  made  by 
llnine,  of   the    utilitarian   svstem.      Actions   are   virtuous,  if   they 


HUME.  163 

tend  to  increase  the  pleasures  or  diminish  the  pains  of  mankind; 
vicious,  if  tliey  have,  or  tend  to  have,  the  opposite  effect.  The 
motive  to  virtue  is  an  enlightened  self-interest.  Temperance  and 
chastity  sliould  be  encouraged,  not  because  they  are  right  and 
obligatory  in  themselves,  but  for  the  mutual  benefit  of  the  indi- 
vidual and  the  public.  The  leading  principle  of  his  system  was 
very  explicitly  given  ten  years  earlier,  in  a  letter  to  Hutcheson: 

'  Now,  I  desire  you  to  consider  if  tliere  be  any  quality  that  is  virtuous  without  having 
a  tendency  either  to  llie  public  good  or  to  the  good  of  the  person  who  possesses  it.  If 
there  be  none  without  these  tendencies,  we  may  conclude  that  their  merit  is  derived  from 
sympathy."  I  desire  yon  would  consider  only  the  tendencies  of  qualities,  not  their  actual 
operations,  which  depend  on  chance.  Brutus  riveted  the  chains  of  Rome  faster  by  his 
opposition;  but  the  natural  tendency  of  his  noble  dispositions — his  public  spirit  and  mag- 
nanimity—was to  establish  her  liberty.' 

But  what  reveals  to  us  the  beauty  and  obligation  of  benevolence? 
A  special  sense.  Why  do  we  approve  an  action  performed  in  the 
interest  of  the  common  welfare?     Because  w'e  are  so  constituted: 

'The  final  sentence,  it  is  probable,  which  pronounces  characters  and  actions  amiable 
or  odious,  praiseworthy  or  blamable,  .  .  .  depends  on  some  internal  sense  or  feeling 
which  nature  has  made  universal  in  the  whole  species.  As  virtue  is  an  end,  and  is 
desirable  on  its  own  account  without  fee  or  reward,  merely  for  the  immediate  satisfac- 
tion it  conveys,  it  is  requisite  that  there  should  be  some  sentiment  wliich  it  touches, 
some  internal  feeling,  or  whatever  you  please  to  call  it,  wliich  distinguishes  moral  good 
and  evil,  and  which  embraces  one  and  rejects  the  other." 

Moral  decisions,  consequently,  are  complex,  involving  a  judgment 
of  the  reason  and  an  emotion  of  the  heart  —  an  intuition: 

'  Reason  instructs  us  in  ttie  several  tendencies  of  actions,  and  humanity  inatces  a  dis- 
tinction in  favor  nf  !ho>c  wliich  are  u^eful  and  benelicial.' 

It  inav  be  qiicstioucd  whether  lii.s  a(lmi.s.sion  of  a  moral  sense  can 
be  reconciled  with  his  inetapliysical  tiieory  of  imj)ressi(jns  and 
ideas,  though  with  iimch  ingenuity  he  endeavors  to  rank  it  among 
the  impressioii.s.  So  icr('rr(Ml,  morality  b(»conies  a  floating  fancy. 
Yiftuc  and  vice,  like  color  and  taste,  bitter  and  sweet,  lie  merely 
in  our  sensations. 

\(iti(r(il  Illstnri/  of  lldiii'tDii  (11,").")),  wliich  drew  upon  him 
the  einnitv  of  inaiiv.  Its  f)l)j('ct  is  to  ascertain  the  origin  and 
process  of  religious  ideas.  The  conclusion  is,  that  the  worship  of 
many  Gods  must,  everywhere,  have  ])receded  the  worship  of  one 
God.  Man,  in  his  earliest  state,  is  a  savage.  As  such,  he  feels 
no  interest  in  ordinary  events  of  nature,  no  desire  to  study  the 
principles   whicli    govern    them;     and    therefore    liis    attention    is 

' 'I'liat  i^.  I'tiiin  onr  iiatiUMl  >ynip;ithy  with  Ihr  per-on  hoiirtitiMl. 


164  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

confined  to  those  which  are  extraordinary,  startling,  terrible,  or 
deadly, —  famine  and  pestilence,  the  blast  of  the  gathered  light- 
ning, the  blaze  of  the  comet,  the  solemn  gloom  of  the  eclipse,  the 
wild  echoes  of  the  mountain  gorge.  Powerless  to  control  the 
causes,  he  reckons  them  superior  to  himself.  Cowering  before 
what  he  cannot  measure  nor  comprehend,  he  turns  them  into 
deities,  and  propitiates  them  with  gifts.  Terror,  issuing  in  poly- 
theism, is  thus  the  beginning  of  religion: 

'The  primary  religion  of  mankind  arises  chiefly  from  an  anxious  fear  of  future 
events-.  By  degrees,  llie  active  imagination  of  men,  uneasy  in  tins  abstract  conception 
of  objects,  about  which  it  is  incessantly  employed,  begins  to  render  them  more  particu- 
lar, and  to  clothe  them  in  shapes  more  suitable  to  its  natural  comprehension.  It  rejirc- 
sents  them  to  be  sensible,  intelligent  beings,  like  mankind;  actuated  l)y  love  and  hatred, 
and  flexible  by  gifts  and  entreaties,  by  prayers  and  sacrillces.  Hence  the  origin  of 
religion.  And  hence  the  origiii  of  idolatry,  or  polytheism.  It  seems  certain,  that, 
according  to  the  natural  progress  of  human  thought,  the  ignorant  multitude  must  first 
entertain  some  grovelling  and  familiar  notion  of  sui)erior  powers,  before  they  stretch 
their  conception  to  that  perfect  Being  who  bestowed  order  on  the  whole  frame  of  nature. 
We  may  as  reasonably  imagine,  that  men  inhabited  palaces  before  huts  and  cottages,  or 
studied  geometry  before  agriculture,  as  assert  that  the  Deity  appeared  to  them  a  pure 
spirit,  omniscient,  omnipotent,  and  omnipresent,  before  he  was  apprehended  to  be  a 
powerful  though  limited  being,  with  humtin  passions  and  appetites,  limbs  and  organs. 
The  mind  rises  gradually  from  inferior  to  superior.  By  abstracting  from  what  is  imper- 
fect. It  forms  an  idea  of  iicrfection :  and  slowly  distinguishing  the  nobler  parts  of  its  own 
frame  from  the  grosser,  it  learns  to  transform  only  the  former,  much  elevated  and 
refined,  to  its  divinity." 

It  may  bo  observed,  in  passing,  tliat  Hume  has  only  wrought 
into  more  ]ilausible  form  a  theory  pro})ounded  by  Lucretius  nine- 
teen hundred  years  ago: 

'Whate'er  in  heaven, 
In  earth,  man  sees  mysterious,  shakes  his  mind, 
With  sacred  awe  o'erwhelms  him,  and  his  soul 
Bows  to  the  dust:   the  cause  of  things  concealed 
Once  from  his  vision,  instant  to  the  gods 
-Ml  em])ire  he  transfers,  all  rule  sui)reme, 
.\nd  doubtful  whence  they  spring,  with  headlong'  haste 
Calls  them  tlie  workmanship  of  power  divine.' 

irisfoi'i/  of  KiiijUind  (1  T.")4-1703),  an  ex(iuisite  production  of 
art,  that  will  nover  cease  to  be  arlmired  as  long  as  taste  remains. 
It  procured  for  its  author  what  the  genius  and  originality  of  his 
philosopliical  works  could  lU'vcr  have  done, —  a  ])opular  reputa- 
tion. The  g<'n('ral  reader  found  in  it  elegant  and  animated  nar- 
rati\e:  the  statesman  and  tliinker.  prf)found  and  original  views, 
Tlie  doctrine  of  necessitv,  a])j)lied  to  historical  observation,  now 
bore  its  practical  Iruits, —  a  ])roj)ensitv  to  dislx'lieve  narratives  of 
great    and  remarkable   deeds;   a   dis])osition  \u  find  all  men  pretty 


HUME.  165 

much  upon  a  level,  none  in  a  marked  manner  better  or  worse  than 
their  neighbors;  an  inclination  to  regard  human  society  as  a  cor- 
porate part  of  the  mechanism  of  the  universe,  whose  movement 
is  regulated  by  eternal  and  irresistible  law. 

Style.  —  Remarkably  clear  and  flowing,  simple,  graceful,  and 
vivacious,  often  impregnated  with  a  vein  of  the  quietest  yet  truest 
and  richest  humor.  A  finished  expression  was  his  studious  care. 
Content  to  take  his  authorities  at  second  hand,  he  was  constantly 
subjecting  the  History  to  revision  in  point  of  style.  Defending 
himself  against  the  charge  of  coldness  in  the  cause  of  virtue,  he 
says,  with  the  evident  anxiety  to  be  thought  innocent: 

'Though  I  am  much  more  ambitious  of  being  esteemed  a  friend  to  virtue  than  a 
writer  of  taste,  yet  I  must  always  carry  the  latter  in  my  eye,  otherwise  I  must  despair  of 
ever  being  serviceable  to  virtue." 

Character.  —  From  his  earliest  years  he  had  a  genuine  love 
of  letters  and  pliilosophy,  and  consecrated  himself  to  their  pursuit: 

'I  resolved  to  make  a  very  rigid  frugality  suiiply  my  dettcicncy  of  fortune,  to  main- 
tain unimpaired  my  independency,  and  to  regard  every  object  as  conteiniHible,  except 
the  improvement  of  my  talents  in  literature.' 

Hi.s  supreme  motive  was  the  desire  of  greatness  —  not  the 
greatness  of  circumstance  or  the  blazonry  of  power,  but  the 
higher  and  more  lasting  distinction  of  mental  empire: 

.'Such  a  superiority  do  the  pursuits  of  literature  possess  over  every  other  occupation, 
that  even  lie  who  attains  but  a  mediocrity  in  them,  merits  the  iiroeinini'nce  ab(i\  e  tliose 
that  excel  the  most  in  the  common  and  vulgar  professions." 

Ho  was  generous,  yet  frugal;  gentle,  yet  firm;  modt.st,  yet 
self-respectful.  Pleasantry  was  tempered  with  delicacy.  Rail- 
lery was  without  the  asperity  of  wit, —  tlio  effusion  of  good 
nature,  light,  and  sometimes  elegant  as  that  of  Addison.  Its 
peculiar  type  is  most  finely  illustrated  in  hi.s  correspondence,  as 
in  the  reference,  in  a  letter  of  IT-")!,  to  his  brother's  marriage: 

^Dear  Muctam:— Our  friend  at  last  plucked  up  a  resolution,  and  has  veninred  on  that 
dangerous  encounter.  He  went  off  on  Monday  morning;  and  this  is  tlie  lir-l  acliou  of 
his  life  wlierein  he  has  engaged  himself,  without  being  able  to  compute  cxnclly  tlu-  cun- 
sequences.  Hut  wliat  arithmetic  will  ^erve  to  fix  the  projiortion  between  ■^ikhI  and  bad 
wives,  and  rate  the  different  classes  of  each':'  Sir  Isaac  Newton  himself,  who  could 
measure  the  course  of  planets,  and  weigh  the  I'arlh  as  in  a  pair  of  scalc-^,— e\  eii  lie  liad 
not  algebra  enough  to  reduce  that  amiable  part  of  our  species  to  a  ju-t  eciiiaticui :  :iiid 
they  are  tlie  only  heavenly  bodies  whose  ()rl)ils  are  yet  uncerlaiu.' 

Possibly  this  will  explain  why  he  never  ventured  upon  'that 
untried  state,'  preferring  rather  to  bear  tlie  ills  lie  had  tliau  fly  to 
others  that  he  knew  not  of.      Wliether  a   <rreat   man  has  loxcd.  is 


16(5  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

no  iiniiiiportaiit  feature  of  his  history  ;  but  unhappily,  in  the 
present  instance,  little  or  no  light  can  be  shed  upon  the  question. 
He  frequently  discusses  the  passion  of  love,  divides  it  into  its 
elements  as  systematically  as  if  he  were  subjecting  it  to  a  chemi- 
cal analysis;  lays  down  rules  regarding  it  as  if  it  were  a  system 
of  logic:  but  the  mood  of  mind  in  which  passions  are  analyzed 
is  not  that  in  which  they  are  strongly  felt.  We  suspect  that, 
while  he  had  a  superficial  admiration  of  women  in  general,  he 
had  not  the  depth  of  emotional  power  to  be  profoundly  influenced 
by  any  in  particular;  and  the  suspicion  is  strengthened  by  his 
own  declaration  on  hearing  of  the  infatuation  of  a  nobleman, 
whose  eyes,  withdrawn  from  severe  study,  had  opened  in  a  fatal 
moment  upon  the  charms  of  a  merchant's  daughter  of  sixteen: 

'They  say  many  (iinall  fever?  prevent  a  great  one.  Heaven  bo  praised  that  I  have 
always  liked  the  persons  and  company  of  the  fair  sex.'  for  by  that  means  I  hope  to 
escape  such  ri(iiculou.«  passions." 

Gayety  of  temper,  which  is  usually  accompanied  with  frivolous 
(|ualities  of  mind,  was  in  him  coupled  with  extensive  learning, 
])rofound  thought,  severe  application,  and  a  general  earnestness 
of  spirit.  In  his  last  illness,  a  spectator  of  the  past,  facing  the 
infinite  Silence,  he  communed  with  himself: 

'  I  am,  or  ratlier  was,  ...  a  man  of  mild  disposition,  of  command  of  tenii)er,  of  an 
open,  social,  and  clieerfiil  liiimor,  capable  of  attachment,  but  little  Misceptible  of  enmity, 
ynd  of  j^reat  moderation  in  all  my  passions.  Even  my  love  of  literary  fame,  my  ruling 
j)as~i()n,  never  soured  my  temper,  notwithstanding  my  frequent  disappointments.  My 
com))any  was  not  iinacceptable  to  the  young  and  careless,  as  well  as  to  tlie  studious  and 
literary:  and  as  I  took  a  i)articular  pleasure  in  the  company  of  mode>t  women,  I  had  no 
reason  to  be  dis])l</ased  with  the  reception  I  met  with  from  them.  In  a  word,  though 
nio-t  men,  anywise  emini;nt,  have  found  reason  to  complain  of  Calumny,  I  never  was 
touched,  or  even  attacked,  by  her  baleful  tootli:  and  though  I  wantonly  exjiosed  myself 
to  tlic-  ratri^  of  both  civil  and  reliLrious  factions,  they  seemed  to  be  disarmed  in  my  behalf 
i)f  tli.ir  wonti-il  fury.' 

Rank. — An  accomplished  reasoner,  an  original,  profound,  and 
foarlt'.s.s  thiuk(.'r,  more  remarkable  for  depth  than  for  erudition. 
;\.s  a  phiiosophtT,  the  greatest  in  the  school  of  materialism;  as  a 
historian,  the  first  to  treat  the  sequence  of  historical  events  in  a 
jihilosoplijcal  niaiiiicr:   as  a  man,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  race. 

Locke  had  shown  th;it  all  kiKJwledge  is  the  product  of  exj^eri- 
ciicc.  Bfrkcl''y,  admitting  the  truth  of  the  statement,  had  shown 
that  since  we  can  know  nothing  but  our  own  ideas,  matt(;r,  as 
unknown  and  nnknowal)|e,  nmst  be  jirononnced  a  figment.  Hume, 
taking  up  the  line  wlieri'  I'eikejey  had  cast  it.  fhmg  it  once  more 


HUME.  167 

into  the  deep  sea,  aiul  found  that  mind  was  a  figment  also.  If 
the  'substratum'  in  which  material  phenomena  are  supposed  to 
inhere  could  be  denied,  because  not  founded  on  experience,  so, 
for  the  same  reason,  the  substratum  (mind)  which  supports  the 
'impressions'  might  be  denied.  Substance  is  an  aggregate  of 
impressions  and  ideas.  Belief  is  nothing  but  a  strong  and  lively 
idea  derived  from  a  present  impression  related  to  it.  Nothing  is 
a  subject  of  belief,  that  is  not  at  the  moment  vividly  impressed, 
and  everything  that  chances  to  be  so  impressed  is  worthy  of 
acceptance. 

Hume,  then,  concluding  from  admitted  premises,  logically 
reduced  philosophy  to  the  singular  dilemma  of  either  refuting 
the  sceptical  arguments  or  of  declaring  itself  to  be  vain  and 
baseless.  He  tried  the  strength  of  human  reason,  and  exposed 
its  feebleness: 

'The  observation  of  human  blindness  and  weakness  is  the  result  of  all  i)liilo>oi)liy, 
and  meets  us  at  every  turn,  in  spite  of  our  endeavors  to  elude  or  avoid  it." 

Do  not  essay  the  incomprehensible.  You  know  all  that  directly 
concerns  you,  with  a  certainty  sufficient  for  all  your  wants;  l)ut 
if  you  push  your  speculations  farther,  and  attempt  to  fathom  the 
mysteries  of  being,  you  end  in  that  soundless  and  shoreless  gulf 
which  yawns  as  the  terminal  road  of  all  consistent  metaphysics, — 
Scepticism,  belief  in  nothing,  doubt  in  all.  With  how  wise  a 
sadness  does  Plato  say  of  such  ambitions:  '  In  these  things,  we 
must  reach  one  of  two  results:  either  learn  and  discover  how  tin* 
fact  really  stands;  or  else,  should  this  be  impossible,  at  least  take 
up  with  the  best  and  most  incontrovertible  belief  respecting  it; 
and  then,  borne  ujioii  this  as  in  a  skilf,  ventun;  the  voyage  of 
life, —  unless  w(!  can  liiitl  a  securer  antl  'less  hazardous  passage 
on  the  lirni   support  of  some   Divine  Word.' 

^Vhat,  it  iiiav  still  be  asked,  was  Hume's  real  beliefy  He 
explicitly  declares  that  we  do  believe,  and  caiuiot  Iiel{»  l)elitviiig, 
though  in  the  last  analysis  we  can  giv<'  no  reason  for  our  l^'licf: 

'Tlie  sceptic,  still  continues  to  reason  and  Ijclicvc,  even  ttionirli  lie  as-irl<  that  lie 
cannot  defend  liis  reason  by  reason." 

Ikit  what  points  of  su[)p()rt  had  this  traveller  with  his  f.iiiil 
unrest?  Did  he  carry  his  theoretical  scepticism  into  his  inner 
life?  It  must  be  confesscnl  that  while  seeking  an  answer  to  tiiis 
(juestion,  we  hav(>  more  than  once  been   reminded   of   the   t'iiiiious 


168  CRITICAL    I'ERIOI)  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

saying  attributed  to  Humboldt:  'What  is  your  religion? — The 
religion  of  all  sensible  men.  And  what  is  the  religion  of  all 
sensible  men? — Sensible  men  never  tell.'  Hume  has  been  talked 
at,  shrieked  at,  and  vanquished  'with  a  grin.'  Let  us  hear  him 
as  now  and  then  he  gives  us  admission  into  the  audience-chamber 
of  his  thoughts: 

'I  havL'  long  entertained  a  Biigpicion  with  regard  to  the  decisions  of  philosophers 
upon  all  subjects,  and  found  in  myself  a  greater  inclination  to  dispute  than  assent  to 
their  conclusions.' 

See  the  solitary  student,  who  has  to  combat  the  feelings  and 
sympathies  of  his  fellow  creatures,  cannot  wholly  ignore  his 
moods,  wavers,  but  immures  himself,  and  faces  the  great  Dark- 
ness: 

•Bel'oic  1  launch  out  into  those  immense  depths  of  philosophy  which  lie  before  me,  I 
find  myself  inclined  lo  stop  a  moment  in  my  present  station,  and  to  ponder  that  voyage 
which  I  have  undertaken,  and  which  undoubtedly  requires  the  utmost  art  and  industry 
to  be  brouglit  to  a  happy  conclusion.  Methinks  I  am  like  a  man  who,  having  struck  on 
many  shoals,  and  having  narrowly  escaped  shipwreck  in  passing  a  small  frith,  has  yet 
the  temerity  to  put  out  to  sea  in  the  same  leaky,  weather-beaten  vessel,  and  even  carries 
his  ambition  so  far  as  to  think  of  compassing  the  globe  under  these  disadvantageous 
circumstances.  My  memory  of  past  errors  and  perple.xities  makes  me  diffident  for  the 
future.  The  wretched  condition,  weakness,  and  disorder  of  the  faculties  I  must  employ 
in  my  inquiries,  increase  my  apprehensions.  .  .  .  The  intense  view  of  these  manifold 
contradictions  and  imperfections  in  human  reason  has  so  wrought  nyyon  me,  and  heated 
my  brain,  that  I  am  ready  to  reject  all  belief  and  reasoning,  and  can  look  upon  no 
opinion  even  as  more  probable  or  likely  than  another.  Where  am  I,  or  what?  From 
what  causes  do  I  derive  my  existence,  and  to  what  condition  shall  I  return?  Whose 
favour  shall  I  court,  and  whose  anger  must  I  dread  ?  What  beings  surround  me  ?  and 
on  whom  have  I  any  influence,  or  who  have  any  influence  on  me  ?  I  am  confounded  with 
all  these  questions,  and  begin  to  fancy  myself  in  the  most  deplorable  condition  imagin- 
able, environed  with  the  deepest  darkness,  and  utterly  deprived  of  the  use  of  every 
member  and  faculty.  .  .  .  I  cannot  forbear  having  a  curiosity  lo  be  acquainted  with  the 
principles  of  moral  good  and  evil,  the  nature  and  foundation  of  government,  and  the 
cause  of  those  several  passions  and  inclinations  which  actuate  and  govern  me.  I  am 
uneasy  to  tliink  1  approve  of  one  object,  and  disapjirove  of  another;  call  one  thing  beau- 
tiful, and  another  deformed;  decide  concerning  truth  and  falsehood,  reason  and  folly, 
without  knowing  upon  what  principles  I  proceed.  I  am  concerned  for  the  condition  of 
the  learned  world,  which  lies  under  such  a  de])lorable  ignorance  in  all  these  particulars. 
I  feel  an  ambition  to  arise  in  me  of  contributing  to  the  instruction  of  mankind,  and  of 
acquiring  a  name  by  my  inventions  and  discoveries.  These  sentiments  spring  ui)  natu- 
rally in  my  present  disiiosition :  and  should  I  endeavor  to  banish  them,  by  attaching 
myself  to  any  otlier  )>usiness  or  diversion,  I  feel  I  should  be  a  loser  in  point  of  pleasure; 
and  this  is  the  origin  of  luy  philosoiihy.' 

Was  ho  a  scejitic,  and  a  sceptic  only, —  an  uncertain,  troubled 
vovager  on  a  liiiiitlos.s  sea  of  doubt? — 

'Should  it  be  here  asked  me  whether  I  sincerely  assent  to  this  argument  which  I 
serin  to  take  surli  pains  to  inculcate,  and  whether  I  be  really  one  of  those  skeptics  who 
is  not  in  (iinj  thing  possessed  of  atnj  measures  of  truth  and  falsehood,  I  should  reply  that 
this  question  is  entirely  superfluous,  and  that  neither  1  nor  any  other  person  was  ever 
-iiifcnly  and  constantly  of  that  oi)inion.     Nature,  by  an  absolute  and  uncontrollable 


HUME.  169 

necessity,  has  determined  us  to  judge  as  well  as  to  breathe  and  feel;  nor  can  we  any 
more  forbear  viewing  certain  objects  in  a  stronger  and  fuller  light  upon  account  of  their 
customary  connection  with  a  present  impression,  than  we  can  hinder  ourselves  from 
thinking  as  long  as  we  are  awake,  or  seeing  the  surrounding  bodies  when  we  turn  our 
eyes  towards  them  in  broad  sunshine.  Whoever  has  taken  the  pains  to  refute  the  cavils 
of  this  total  skepticism,  has  really  disputed  without  an  antagonist,  and  endeavored  by 
arguments  to  establish  a  faculty  which  Nature  has  antecedently  implanted  in  the  nund 
and  rendered  unavoidable.  But  as  experience  will  surtlcicntly  convince  any  one  that, 
although  he  finds  no  error  in  my  arguments,  yet  he  still  coutinues  to  believe  and  think 
and  reason  as  usual,  he  may  safely  conclude  that  his  reasoning  and  belief  is  some 
sensation  or  peculiar  manner  of  conception,  which  "tis  impossible  for  mere  ideas  and 
reflections  to  destroy.' 

Was  he  an  Atheist?  Is  there  a  God?  Is  there,  behind  the 
veil,  some  power  analogous  to  human  intelligence? — 

'Tiiough  the  stupidity  of  men,  barbarous  and  nninstnicted,  be  so  great  that  they 
may  not  see  a  Sovereign  Author  in  the  more  obvious  works  of  nature  to  which  they  are 
familiarized;  yet  it  scarcely  seems  possible  that  any  one  of  good  understanding  should 
reject  that  idea  when  once  it  is  suggested  to  him.  A  purpose,  an  intimation,  a  design,  is 
evident  in  everything,  and  when  our  comprehension  is  so  far  enlarged  as  to  contemplate 
the  first  rise  of  this  visible  system,  we  must  adopt  with  the  strongest  conviction  the  idea 
of  some  intelligent  cause  or  author.' 

Yes,  we  must  believe,  though  our  belief  cannot  be  imprisoned 
in  formuhe  or  condensed  into  demonstrations.  At  the  end  of  all 
discussions  we  come  to  the  inscrutable: 

'The  whole  is  a  riddle,  an  enigmii,  an  inexplicable  mystery.  Doubt,  uncertainty, 
suspense  of  judgment,  appear  the  only  result  of  our  most  accurate  scrutiny  concerning 
this  subject.' 

We  must  liave  a  standard  of  achievement,  too;  one  great 
object  to  be  kept  forever  in  view.  Domitian  may  chase  flies, 
Rufus  mav  hunt  wild  beasts,  Alexander  may  conquer  kingdoms, 
but  the  student  is  inspired  by  another  ideal,  not  a  dream  of  con- 
quest nor  the  palling  pleasures  of  sense,  but  a  reality  of  charac- 
ter; stoical,  severe,  reaching  above  the  storm-line  into  the  heaven 
of  calm  dominion: 

'In  vain  do  you  seek  repose  from  beds  of  roses.  In  vain  do  you  hope  for  enjoyment 
from  the  most  delicious  wines  and  fruits.  Your  indolence  itself  becomes  a  fatigue. 
Your  pleasure  itst'lf  creati's  disgust.  Tlie  mind,  unexercised,  finds  every  delight  insipid 
and  loathsome;  and  ere  yet  tlie  body,  full  of  noxious  humours,  feels  the  torment  of  its 
multiplied  disL-asfs,  your  nobler  part  is  sensible  of  tlie  invading  poison,  and  seeks  in  vain 
to  relieve  its  anxiety  by  new  jjleasures,  wliich  still  auginent  the  fatal  malady.'  '.\s  much 
as  the  wildest  savage  is  inferior  to  the  polislied  citizen,  who,  under  the  |)rotectii)i)  of  laws, 
enjoys  every  coiivinience  wluch  industry  lias  invonted;  so  much  is  this  citizen  himself 
inferior  to  the  man  of  virtue  and  the  true  iiliiiosoplier,  wlio  governs  Ins  appetites,  sub- 
ordinates his  passions,  and  lias  leariiecl  from  riMsoii  to  set  a  just  value  on  every  pursuit 
and  enjoyment.' 

One  ca])ital  defect  narrowed  Hume's  field  of  vision, —  a  cold, 
unimaginative    teinperumeiit.      It   appears   in    his   sent iiiients;    in 


170  CRITICAL    PKRIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

the  mechanism  of  his  language,  polished  as  marble,  cold  as 
marble,  too;  in  Philosophy,  where  he  works  with  human  nature 
as  an  anatomist,  who  feels  that  his  minute  examinations  might 
be  injured  by  any  burst  of  feeling  or  eloquence;  in  History, 
where,  naturally  opposed  to  turbulence  and  enthusiasm,  he  as 
naturally  leans  toward  despotism,  intolerant  of  liberty  among 
actors,  though  he  wished  it  to  be  fearless  and  unrestrained  among 
thinkers.  No  hatred  of  oppression  burns  in  his  pages,  no  yearn- 
ing love  of  man  glows  there,  no  stirring  sympathy  with  the  rest- 
less human  soul,  no  just  appreciation  of  the  religious  instinct  in 
directing  the  course  of  public  events.  A  second  defect  was  his 
disregard  of  facts,  a  negligence  which  proceeded  not  from  an 
indifference  to  truth,  for  he  was  an  ardent  lover  of  it,  nor  from  a 
'  constitutional  indolence,'  which  is  the  usual  account,  but  from 
his  devotioii  to  ideas. 

Influence. —  He  was  a  nettle,  and  aroused  thinkers  to  un- 
wonted activity. 

In  Philosophy,  before  submitting  to  be  gored  by  either  horn 
of  the  dilemma  to  which  Hume  had  reduced  it,  men  looked  about 
to  see  if  there  were  any  possible  avenue  of  escape.  The  result 
was  the  birth  of  two  great  schools  of  thought, —  the  Common 
Sense,  and  the  Transcendental:  the  first  an  appeal,  for  guidance, 
to  the  consciousness  of  mankind;  the  second,  an  attempt  to 
ascertain  whether  we  have  any  ideas  inde])endent  of  experience, 
ideas  which  may  be  called  universal,  necessary,  and  certain. 

In  Theology,  he  produced  expansion.  The  Foundations  of 
Christianitv  were  deepened  and  broadened.  Its  s])irit  Ijecame 
more  lil)eral  and  enlightened. 

In  Ktliics,  lie  was  tlie  first  to  give  to  the  utilities  the  aspect  of 
a  theoretical  system  which  to-day  is  so  extensively  applied  to  the 
successful  guidanc(>  of  daily  life,  though  it  discovers  not  the  far- 
reaching  light  of  eternity. 

In  Political  Econoiny,  he  was  the  first  to  declare  the  principles 
of  Free  Trade.  lie  told — what  the  politicians  of  his  time  de- 
spised, but  what  tlioso  (A  our  time  are  teaching' — that  all 
lomnioditic-s  are  bought  i)y  labor,  that  the  question  for  inter- 
national legislation  was  one,  not  of  rivalry,  but  of  co()j)eration. 

'  Mr.  IIiiiiii'  is,  hcyoiul  all  (imibt,  the  aiulior  nf  the  iiKidcru  doctrines  which  now  rule 
111-  world  nf  -ciciici-. —  /,'//•'/  Ilroiifjh'iiii. 


HUME.  171 

In  History,  he  was  the  first  to  divert  attention  from  the  pomp 
of  historic  events  to  the  deep  under-currents  which  float  them 
and  reveal  the  living  progress  of  the  people.  Moreover,  the 
History  of  England,  by  provoking  a  host  of  controversial 
attacks,  was  the  means  of  throwing  new  and  important  light  on 
portions  of  British  history. 

Thus  has  Hume,  by  forcing  men  to  doubt  and  inquire,  ren- 
dered inestimable  service  to  the  cause  of  truth.  The  movement 
of  civilization  describes  the  spiral  of  the  calculus  —  progressive 
but  revolutionary.  The  disturbance  at  the  outset  is  uncomfort- 
able; but  as  the  frame-work  of  affairs  adjusts  itself  to  the  new 
truth,  the  good  effects  become  apparent,  and  at  length  prevail* 

'For  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  arc  widened  by  the  process  of  the  suns." 

After  all,  his  greatest  service  may  be  the  incidental  one  of 
teaching  human  reason  its  weakness,  of  showing  how  the  noblest 
fabric  may  be  undermined  by  a  destructive  force  not  greater  than 
the  constructive  one  which  has  raised  it.  'Man,'  says  Goethe, 
*  is  not  born  to  solve  tlie  mystery  of  Existence;  but  he  must 
nevertheless  attempt  it,  in  order  that  he  may  learn  how  to  keep 
within  the  limits  of  the  knowable.' 

And  now,  Mr.  Hume,  we  cannot  refrain  from  wishing  that, 
along  with  your  incisiv^e  intellect,  you  possessed  more  heart  and 
soul;  along  with  your  self-reliant  majesty,  more  reverence  and 
trust.  Tlie  noblest  natures  among  men  have  been  devout  ones, 
whose  hearts  have  been  centrally  dedicated,  whose  sympathies 
have  gone  out  to  the  struggling  and  the  sorrowing.  Sometimes 
the  sadness  of  the  universe  bows  you;  sometimes  a  sense  of  God 
conies  to  vov\,  and  changes  the  hue  and  expression  of  things 
before  you;  once  in  a  while,  the  cloud  of  scepticism  breaks,  and 
vou  know  in  tliat  vision  wliat  it  is  to  believe  in  innuortality :  but 
we  rea'ii't  tliat  vou  Ii;ive  not  sensil>ilit ies  strong  enough  to  see 
the  heights,  nor  fine  enough  to  feel  the  depths,  of  this  world  nivs- 
terv  and  grandeur.  ^  ou  cajry  in  your  ])osom  no  sln^aves  of  sun- 
beams, no  carols  of  birds,  nor  ])laintive  cadence  of  .lv)li;in  iiarp. 
Vou  l)ring  no  rcil  joy  to  the  troubled,  no  inspiration  to  the  indil- 
ferent,  nothing  to  consol,'  liie  sulTering  or  to  drv  the  niouriier's 
tear.  But  we  do  not  forget  that  yf)u  are  a  iii(»tapliysieian.  living 
in  an  age  lu'ithei'  aglow  with  coiivietioii  nor  alive  to  the  hopes 
and  fears  of  life. 


172  CRITICAL    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON. 

The  characterif^tic  peculiarity  of  his  intellect  was  the  union  of  great  powerg  with  low 
prejudices.— .Vffca»/(7y. 

Biography. — Born  in  Litchfield,  in  1T09.  Entered  Oxford  in 
1728.  At  tiie  expiration  of  three  years,  the  financial  distress  of 
his  father  obliged  him  to  quit  the  University  without  his  degree. 
Tried  to  support' himself  by  teaching  in  a  grammar-school,  but 
failed.  At  twenty-five,  married  a  widow,  fat  and  fifty,  who  had 
children  as  old  as  himself.  As  a  means  of  subsistence,  opened  a 
boarding-school,  and  failed.  Went  to  London  in  1737,  to  earn 
his  bread,  resolved,  against  want,  disease,  and  the  world,  to  live 
by  his  pen  without  patronage  or  party;  climbing,  by  toilsome 
stairs,  slowly  but  manfully  up  to  eminence  and  command.  Placed 
above  want  by  a  royal  pension  in  1702.  Died  in  1784,  having 
struggled  from  childhood  against  scrofula,  melancholy,  indolence, 
an'd  tlie  fear  of  insanity,  and,  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life, 
having  passed  the  morning  in  doubt  that  he  should  have  food  for 
the  afternoon. 

Appearance. — Large,  robust,  corpulent,  shabby,  and  slovenly, 
with  tlie  outward  signs  of  a  voracious  appetite. 

Manners. — Precentric  and  boorish.  Tn  company  he  would 
retire  to  a  window  or  corner,  and  mutter  a  Latin  verse  or  a 
prayer.  Again,  he  would  roll  his  head,  sway  his  body  to  and 
fro,  stretch  out,  and  then  convulsively  draw  back  liis  leg.  It  was 
his  constant  anxiety  to  go  in  and  out  of  a  door  in  a  ]->articular 
way.  ^^'hen  he  had  gone  wrong,  he  would  go  back,  put  himself 
in  the  proix-r  posture,  and  start  anew.  At  table,  he  stoops  sud- 
denly, seizes  the  foot  of  a  lady,  and  draws  off  her  shoe.  Dinner 
served,  he  darts  at  the  food,  with  eyes  riveted  to  his  plate,  n^fus- 
ing  to  speak,  and  fating  till  he  persjiires,  and  the  veins  of  his 
fon^head  stand  out.  Having  gorged  himself,  he  is  ready  for  a 
sparring-match  at  (Icbate.  'Why,  sir  I'  'What  then,  sir?'  '  Xo, 
sii' I  '  'You  don't  scv.  yf)ur  wav  through  tlie  question,  sir  ! '  'Sir, 
I  ]>f'reeive  you  <in^  a  vile  Whig  I'  'My  dear  lady,  talk  no  more  of 
this;  nonsense  can  be  di^fended  but  bv  nonsense.'  'One  thing  I 
know,  wliich  vou  don't   seem  to  know,  that  vou  are  verv  uncivil.' 


JOHNSON.  173 

At  the  end  of  a  period,  in  dispute,  he  would  blow  out  his  breath 
like  a  whale,  and  swallow  several  cups  of  tea.  He  had  a  trick  of 
touching  the  posts  as  he  walked,  and  a  practice  of  treasuring  up 
scraps  of  orange-peel.  Pensioned  by  the  king,  he  indulged  his 
natural  indolence,  lying  in  bed  often  till  mid-day  and  later.  In  a 
pretty  drawing-room,  among  elegant  philosophers,  he  would  be 
regarded  as  a  strange  animal,  into  whose  history  people  would 
inquire  with  wondering  caution. 

Writings.— Tiie  Rambler  (1750-1 7.52),  and  the  I<Jl>r  (1758- 
1760), —  attempts  to  revive  the  periodical  miscellany,  sunk  into 
disrepute  at  the  death  of  Addison.  Sage,  sensible,  moral,  and 
pious,  they  wanted  the  ease,  grace,  pleasantry,  and  variety,  to 
make  them  popular.  The  happy  sketches  of  prevailing  manners, 
which  contrilnited  so  much  to  the  popularity  of  former  essayists, 
found  no  place  in  his  serious  pages.  His  essays  have  rather  the 
character  of  sermons,  teaching  solid  and  profitable  truths  in  an 
earnest  and  impressive  way.  Here  is  an  example  which  will  give 
some  idea  of  their  dignified  strain: 

'To  lessen  that  disdain  with  which  schohirs  arc  inclined  to  look  on  the  common  busi- 
Tiess  of  the  world,  and  tlie  unwillingness  with  which  they  condescend  to  learn  what  is 
not  to  be  found  in  any  system  of  philosopliy,  it  may  be  necessary  to  consider,  that  though 
admiration  is  excited  by  abstruse  researches  and  remote  discoveries,  yet  pleasure  i.s  not 
given,  nor  affection  conciliateil,  but  by  softer  accomplishments,  and  qualitii's  more  easily 
communicable  to  th(i<e  al)ont  us.  He  that  can  only  converse  u]H)n  questions  about  which 
only  a  small  part  of  uiaiikiud  lia<  knowledge  sufticient  to  make  them  curious,  must  lose 
his  days  in  unsocial  silence,  and  live  in  the  crowd  of  life  without  a  companion.  He 
that  can  only  be  u>eful  on  great  occasions  may  die  without  exercising  his  abilities,  and 
stand  a  heli)less  spectator  of  a  thousand  vexatious  which  fret  away  happiness,  and 
which  nothing  is  required  to  remove  but  a  little  dexterity  of  conduct  and  readiness  of 
expedients. 

No  detrree  of  knowledge  attainable  by  man  is  al)le  to  set  him  al)ove  the  want  of 
hourly  assistance,  or  to  extinguish  tlie  desire  of  fond  endearments  and  tender  ollicious- 
ness;  and,  therefore,  no  one  should  think  it  unnecessary  to  learn  tliose  arts  by  wliitli 
friendship  may  be  trained.  Kindness  is  preserved  by  a  constant  reciprocation  of  benetits 
or  interchauLTe  of  iilc.i-uns:  but  sucli  benetits  only  can  be  bestowed  as  otliers  arc  capal)!e 
to  receive,  and  such  i)lra<uris  only  imparted  as  others  are  qualified  to  enjoy." 

A  J)i('tloii'(r>/  of  tlut  Knijlhli  Ij<iiii/i(ai/e  (1755);  the  first  of 
the  kind  in  Kiiiilish  literature,  and  eminently  sticcessl'ul;  imper- 
fect in  its  etviiiol()o-ies,  l)ut  aceiii-;itc  in  it.s  deliiiitions,  ami  li;i])py 
in  its  illustrative  (uotatioiis.  He  was  never  able  to  divi-.st  him- 
self entirelv  of  prejudice,  and  a  few  of  the  deliiiitions,  wtiich 
betray  his  ixM'soiial  feeliim's  and  peculiarities,  art"  somewjiat 
amusiiif.  As  a  Torv,  hating  ^\  alpole  and  the  ^Vilig  l^xcisc  Act, 
he  defines  ('.''c/n'    ;-.s'a   liatel'ul   ta.\   levied   uj)oii   commodities,  ami 


174  CRITICAL   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

adjudged,  not  by  the  common  judges  of  property,  but  by  wretches 
hired  by  those  to  whom  excise  is  paid.'  Pension  is  'an  allow- 
ance made  to  any  one  without  an  equivalent.  In  England,  it  is 
generally  understood  to  mean  pay  given  to  a  state  hireling  for 
treason  to  his  country.'  Johnson,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  not 
yet  been  pensioned,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  sliould  have 
had  some  'compunctious  visitings'  at  his  subsequent  acceptance 
of  one.  He  mortally  offended  the  Scotch  by  defining  oats  to  be 
'a  grain  which,  in  England,  is  generally  given  to  horses,  but  in 
Scotland  supports  the  people.'  Lord  Chesterfield,  hoping  to 
secure  its  dedication  to  himself,  extolled  it;  but  his  favor,  once 
sought  and  refused,  now  so  tardily  bestowed,  was  disdained,  and 
Johnson  addressed  him  a  letter  whose  keen  sarcasm,  condensed 
vigor,  and  chiselled  diction  are  admirably  typical  of  the  writer 
and  his  style: 

'My  Lord:— I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the  proprietor  of  TTie  World,  that  two 
papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to  the  public,  were  written  by  your 
lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished,  is  an  honor  which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to 
favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When  upon  some  slight  encouragement  I  first  visited  your  lordship,  1  was  over- 
powered, like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the  enchantment  of  your  address;  and  could  not 
forbear  to  wish  that  1  might  boast  myself  Xe  vairxjutur  du  vainqueur  de  In  lerre;  that  I 
might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  contending;  but  I  found  my  attend- 
ance so  little  encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it. 
When  1  had  once  addressed  your  lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleas- 
ing which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess.  1  had  done  all  that  I  could;  and 
no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in  your  outward  rooms,  or  was 
repulsed  from  your  door;  during  which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through 
difticulties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  coni|)lain,  and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of 
publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of 
favor.     Siicli  treatment  I  did  not  ex|)ect,  for  I  never  had  a  i>atron  before. 

The  slieplierd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love,  and  found  him  a  native  of 
the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for  life 
in  the  water,  antl  when  he  has  reached  the  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help? 

The  notice  whicli  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  lalwrs,  had  it  Deen  early,  had 
been  kind;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am 
solitary,  and  cannot  inipart  it;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  i;o  very 
cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obliL'ations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be 
unwilling  that  tlie  public  sliould  consider  me  as  owing  Iliat  to  a  patron  which  Providence 
has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation  to  any  favorer  of  learn- 
iuL',  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  1  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less; 
for  I  have  been  liiir_'  wakened  from  llial  dream  of  liope  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself 
witli  ^o  much  exultation." 

Iiass(^l'(s  (1750),  a  novel  written  in  eight  nights  to  pay  for  his 
motlii-r's    funeral;    a   series  of   dialogues    and    reflections  on  art. 


JOHNSON.  175 

literature,  society,  philosophy,  the  state  of  departed  souls,  the 
probability  of  the  reappearance  of  the  dead,  etc.  The  scene  is 
laid  in  the  East,  but  the  characters  talk  exactly  as  Johnson  had 
talked  in  the  club  for  twenty  years.  Its  gloomy  eloquence,  born 
of  a  saddening  experience  and  a  sombre  imagination,  sometimes 
rises  to  the  height  of  poetry,  as  in  the  apostrophe  to  the  river 
Nile: 

•Answer,  thou  great  Father  of  waters!  thou  that  rollest  thy  flood*  through  eighty 
nations,  to  the  invocations  of  the  daughter  of  thy  native  king.  Tell  me  if  thou  waterest 
through  all  thy  course  a  single  habitation  from  which  thou  dost  not  hear  the  murmurs  of 
complaint.' 

Lives  of  the  Poets  (1T81),  his  greatest  work;  pronounced  by 
Byron  to  be  'the  finest  critical  work  extant,'  and  by  Macaulay  to 
be  'as  entertaining  as  any  fairy  tale.'  A  serious  defect  is  the 
injustice  done  to  some  of  our  greatest  masters.  He  accepted 
blank  verse  under  protest;  the  drum-and-fife  music  of  rhyme  was 
his  delight.  The  higher  order  of  imaginative  poetry,  moreover, 
was  too  ethereal  for  his  rugged,  ponderous  grasp. 

Style. — Heavy,  antithetical,  rolling,  and  pompous.  He  was 
classical  in  prose,  as  Pope  in  poetry;  and  gave  to  all  subjects  the 
same  balanced,  artificial  tone.  Its  peculiar  character  is  derived, 
not  so  much  from  the  use  of  unfamiliar  words,  as  from  the  pon- 
derous quality  of  his  mind.  'Dr.  Johnson,'  said  Goldsmith,  'if 
you  could  make  little  fishes  talk,  they  would  talk  like  whales.' 
Weighty  thoughts,  he  maintained,  required  weighty  words.  He 
was  a  whale.      Here  is  a  portrait  of  'Squire  Bluster: 

'lie  is  weiizhty  witlioiit  followers:  he  is  magnificent  without  witnesses;  he  has  hirth 
without  alliance,  and  inlliience  without  dignity.  His  neighbors  scorn  him  as  a  brute; 
his  dependants  dread  him  as  an  oi)pressor;  and  lie  has  the  gloomy  comfort  of  reflecting 
that  if  lie  is  haled,  he  is  likewise  feared." 

This  is  the  manner  in  which  he  attenq)ts  to  destroy  that 
immortal  enigma, — Junius.  Mark  the  exact  i)oise  of  ideas,  and 
the  correspondence  of  considerations: 

'Junius  burst  into  notice  with  a  l)laxe  of  impudence  which  has  rarely  glared  upon  the 
world  before,  and  drew  tlu'  rabble  after  him  as  a  monster  makes  a  show.  When  lie  had 
once  iirovided  for  bis  safety  by  iiniienetrable  >eerecy,  he  had  nothing  to  combat  lint 
truth  and  justice,  enemies  whom  be  knows  to  be  feebk'  in  the  dark.  I'.eimr  then  at 
liberty  to  indnliie  himself  in  all  the  imninnities  of  im  isil)ility, —  out  of  the  reach  of 
danger,  be  has  been  l)olil:  out  of  tbe  reaeli  of  shame,  he  has  been  eontident.  .\>  a 
rhetorician,  he  has  had  the  art  of  persuadinir  wlien  be  seconded  desire:  as  ,i  rivi^oner,  lie 
has  convinced  those  who  had  no  doubt  before:  as  a  moralist,  he  has  tauLrbt  lliat\irtiie 
may  disirrace:  and  as  a  patriot,  he  has  gratitied  the  mean  by  insults  on  the  bi'_'h.  Find- 
ing sedition  ascendant,  lie  lias  been  able  to  advance  it:  lindiuir  llie  nation  combustible, 


176  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

he  has  been  able  to  inflame  it.  .  .  .  Junius  is  an  unusual  phenomenon,  on  which  some 
have  gazed  with  wonder  and  some  with  terror;  but  wonder  and  terror  arc  transi{ory 
passions.  He  will  soon  be  more  closely  viewed,  or  more  attentively  examined;  and  what 
folly  has  taken  for  a  comet,  that  from  his  flaming  hair  shook  pestilence  and  war,  inquiry 
will  find  to  be  only  a  meteor  formed  by  the  vapors  of  putrefying  democracy,  and  kindled 
into  flames  by  the  effervescence  of  interest  struggling  witli  conviction;  which,  after 
having  plunged  its  followers  into  a  bog,  will  leave  us  imitiiriug  why  we  regard  it." 

Rank. —  By  the  weight  of  his  thoughts,  the  immense  stores 
of  his  reading  and  observation,  the  power  and  brilliancy  of  his 
conversation, —  the  central  figure  in  the  second  half  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  Chesterfield  proposed  to  assign  him,  on  every 
word  in  the  language,  the  authority  of  dictator.  He  was  the 
law  of  criticism,  and  the  arbiter  of  style. 

Character. —  Conservative  in  politics  and  religion.  He  was 
called  the  Hercules  of  Tor\'ism,  and  declared  that  the  first  Whig 
was  the  devil.  He  thought  Rousseau  to  be  the  prince  of  felons, 
and  could  hardly  settle  the  proportion  of  iniquity  between  him 
and  Voltaire.  He  was  not  afraid  to  be  thought  antiquated,  could 
give  respectful  audience  to  the  peeping  and  chatter  of  ghosts, 
and  went  to  a  church,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  interro- 
gate a  tormented  spirit  that  had  promised  to  give  a  token  of  her 
presence  there  by  a  knock  upon  her  coffin. 

For  severe  distress,  he  had  pity;  but  for  the  suffering  which  a 
harsh  word  inflicts,  he  had  none.  He  could  carry  home  on  his 
shoulders  a  sick  and  starving  girl  from  the  streets,  turn  his  house 
into  a  refuge  for  homeless  ingrates;  but  all  that  could  l^e  expected 
of  him  in  the  presence  of  wounded  sensibilities  was,  as  a  rule,  not 
to  laugh.  'Poll,  ma'am,'  he  exclaimed  to  Mrs.  Carter,  'who  is 
the  worse  for  IxMng  talked  of  uncharitably?'  But  we  do  not 
forget  how  he  had  lived. 

A  Christian  from  conviction,  the  service  of  God  was  th« 
actuating  ]>rinciple  of  his  life.  If  he  was  intolerant  in  matters 
of  opinion,  it  was  l)ecause  spiritual  interests  were  his  supreme 
concern. 

A  strangor  to  artifice,  he  could  neither  personate  another  nor 
disguisi'  liimsclf.  His  <'haracters  alwavs  move  with  an  <>lephant 
tread.  Garrick  remarked  cjf  the  females  that  they  were  only 
.Johnsons  in  jx'ttieoats.  A  deliberate,  cautious  manner  was  the 
normal  movement  of  his  mind.  He  will  not  marry  till  he  has 
weighed  the  virtues  and  vices  in  antithesis,  recluced  them  to  an 
(•(juation,  ami  f'duiid  the  value  of  the  unknown  rjuantity: 


JOHNSON.  177 

'I  lived  ill  a  slate  of  celibacy  beyond  the  usual  time.  In  the  hurry,  firfit  of  pleasure 
and  afterward  of  bii^iiie*^,  1  felt  no  want  of  a  domestic  companion;  but  becoming  weary 
of  labor,  I  soon  grew  weary  of  idleness,  and  thought  it  reasonable  to  follow  the  custom 
of  life,  and  to  seek  some  solace  of  my  cares  in  female  tenderness,  and  some  amusement 
of  my  leisure  in  female  cheerfulness. 

The  choice  which  is  long  delayed  is  commonly  made  at  last  with  great  caution.  My 
resolution  was  to  keep  my  i)assions  neutral,  and  to  marry  only  in  compliance  with  my 
reason.  I  drew  upon  a  page  of  my  pocket-book  a  scheme  of  all  female  virtues  and  vices, 
with  the  vices  which  border  on  every  virtue,  and  the  virtues  which  are  allied  to  every 
vice.  I  considered  that  wit  was  sarcastic,  and  magnanimity  imperious;  that  avarice  was 
economical,  and  ignorance  obsequious,  and  having  estimated  the  good  and  evil  of  every 
quality,  employed  my  own  diligence  and  that  of  my  friends  to  And  the  lady  in  whom 
nature  and  reason  had  reached  that  happy  mediocrity  which  is  equally  remote  from 
exuberance  and  deliciency.' 

As  an  author,  he  loved  strong  moral  painting.  He  saw  more 
knowledge  of  the  heart  in  a  page  of  Richardson  than  in  all 
Fielding.  'The  end  of  writing,'  he  says,  Ms  to  instruct.'  The 
end  of  poetry  is  to  instruct  by  pleasing  ;  hence  his  criticism  of 
Shakespeare: 

'He  sacrifices  virtue  to  convenience,  and  is  so  much  more  careful  to  jjlease  than  to 
instruct,  thai  lie  seems  to  writ«  without  any  moral  puri)ose.  .  .  .  His  precepts  and 
axioms  drop  casually  from  him;  he  makes  no  just  distribution  of  good  or  evil,  nor  is 
always  careful  to  sliow  in  the  virtuous  a  disapprobation  of  the  wicked.' 

His  mind  was  analytic  rather  than  comprehensive.  His 
thoughts  on  national  maimers  are  the  thoughts  of  one  who  saw 
little  —  onlv  London.  Eveiybody  who  lives  in  the  country  is 
either  stupid  or  miserable.  When  he  judged  compositions  fash- 
ioned on  his  own  principles,  the  canons  of  the  artificial  school, 
he  succeeded  splendidly;  when  a  dce{)er  philoso])hy  was  required, 
to  estimate  tliose  wliich  yield  'homage  oidy  to  eternal  laws,'  he 
failed  ignominiously.  His  powers  ai)peared  to  the  best  advan- 
tage in  the  free  methods  of  conversation.  When  he  talked,  his 
wit  and  sense  were  forcible,  natural;  when  he  wrote,  they  were 
fettered  and  ai'tilicial.  It  was  in  spirited,  personal  intercourse, 
that  his  arguments  were  weapons,  and  Goldsmith  could  say  of 
him,  'There's  no  getting  along  with  .Johnson;  if  his  pistol  misses 
fire  he  kmicks  vou  down  with  the  liutt  of  it.'  AVriting  to  Mis. 
Thrale  from  the  Ilclirides,  he  says:  'When  we  were  taken  up 
stairs,  a  dirtv  fellow  bounccnl  out  of  tlie  bed  on  which  one  of  us 
was  to  lie.'  Piil)lisiied,  this  incident  was  translated,  'out  of  one 
of  the  In'ds  on  which  we  were  to  repose,  started  u|),  at  our 
entrance,  a  man  black  as  a  Cyclops  from  the  forii-e.'  '  Tltc 
Il<:he<U'-<aK  he  said,  'has  not  wit  enough  to  keep  it  sweet'; 
12 


178  CRITICAL    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

then,  after  a  pause,   '  It   lias  not  vitality  enough  to  preserve  it 
from  putrefaction.' 

In  a  word,  a  man  of  powerful  mind,  of  surly  independence,  of 
stern  integrity,  of  deep  piety,  of  offensive  manners,  and  eccentric 
habits;  generous,  reverent,  and  sincere, —  an  illustrious  blending 
of  narrowness  and  strength,  of  noble  and  of  boorish  traits. 

Influence. —  In  morals  and  criticism,  it  will  ever  be  to  his 
praise  that  he  has  assailed  all  sentimentalism  and  licentiousness. 
His  wit,  eloquence,  and  logic  were  always  enlisted  on  the  side  of 
revealed  religion,  to  deepen  and  extend,  in  heart  and  practice, 
the  human  faith  in  God.  In  the  fields  of  literature,  which  were 
now  beginning  to  l)e  cultivated  on  all  sides,  he  did  more  than 
any  of  his  contemporaries  to  create  a  pure  and  invigorating 
atmosphere. 

His  balanced  pomp  of  antithetic  clauses  soon  had  for  others, 
as  it  had  for  him,  an  irresistible  charm,  and  caused  a  complete 
revolution,  for  a  time,  in  English  style.  Unhappily,  it  was  too 
often  imitated  by  inferior  writers,  who  had  not  the  glow  to  kindle 
the  massive  structure  —  little  fishes  talking  like  whales.  There 
has  been  no  English  prose  writer,  onward  to  the  present  day, 
whose  style  has  not  been  influenced  by  that  of  Johnson. 

The  reputation  of  his  writings  is  every  day  fading,  but  his 
peculiarities  are  immortal. 

Let  us  remember  that  .Johnson  came  to  London  in  what  was 
for  authors  a  period  of  famine;  that,  all  unknown,  ill-dressed, 
and  ungainly,  he  began  his  long,  toilsome  ascent  in  squalor  and 
misery  ;  tliat  he  pressed  forward  amid  calamities,  and  hopes 
deferred,  eating  behind  a  screen  because  he  was  ashamed  to  show 
his  ragged  clothes;  that  he  emerged  at  length  from  garrets  and 
cellars  into  tlie  society  of  tlie  polished  and  the  opulent — the  last 
survivor  of  a  race  of  hacks;  that  in  his  old  age,  sucii  men  as 
IJurke,  (jiibl)on,  Vox,  Goldsmith,  and  others,  vielded  to  him,  in 
literature,  a  (juict  siij)rcinacv.  Surelv  here  was  a  man  who,  in 
one  sense  the  jiroduct  of  his  'environment,'  was  yet  a  final  law 
to  mucii  that  was  around  him. 


SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

FEATURES. 

The  rescniblimce  between  fashion*  in  literature,  and  heresies  in  religion,  holds  good 
in  several  points;  most  of  them,  as  tliey  passed  away,  left  something  behind  them.  But 
there  is  this  difference,  that  in  literatnre  nothing  was  ever  retained  except  the  little  that 
was  good. — 'iouUietj. 

Politics. — The  death  of  George  II  terminated  the  ministerial 
ascendancy  of  Pitt,  as  well  as  the  undisputed  supremacy  of  the 
Whig-  party.  After  about  ten  years  of  feeble  government  and 
party  anarchy,  there  was  formed  a  Tory  ministry  of  commanding 
strengtli,  whose  dominion,  with  an  unimportant  interval,  became 
as  absolute  as  that  of  the  Whigs  had  ever  been,  and  lasted  with- 
out break  to  the  end  of  the  century.  In  1783  the  younger  Pitt, 
second  son  of  Lord  Chatham,  bei^an  his  lono-  and  eventful  career 
as  Prime  Minister. 

The  reaction  was  aided  by  the  personal  character  of  the  king, 
who,  without  taste  or  education,  was  narrow  and  ignorant.  Des- 
potic, as  well  as  suj)erstitious,  he  steadily  resisted  the  spirit  of 
reform.  But  no  man  can  stop  the  march  of  destiny.  The  result, 
in  a  few  years,  was  a  nation  convtdsed  by  faction,  a  throne 
assailed  by  the  fiercest  invective,  a  House  of  Commons  hated  and 
despised.  So  complete  had  been  the  change  in  jiolitical  affairs, 
that,  when  a  l)il]  was  iiitnxhiced  to  tax  the  Americans  without 
even  the  form  of  asking  their  consent,  not  the  least  ditficulty  was 
found  in  passing  a  measure  which  no  ministc^r  of  the  ]->receding 
reign  had  b(MMi  l)()]d  (Miough  to  propose.  The  policy  of  the  gov- 
ernment bon»  its  legitimate*  fruit  —  the  American  Kevolution, 
which  emphasized  the  qu(\stions  of  right,  and  (Mnl)odied  the  spirit 
of  the  ag<',  in  the  uicmoral)!**  sciit(Mice: 

'  Goveriiini'iit<  arr  iiistiliiteil  anioiii,'  men,  deriving  tlieir  just  powers  from  the  consent 
of  the  governed.' 

The  lire  stalled  in  the  CoK^nics  kindled  those  latent  tendencies 

IT'.) 


180  SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

which  wildly  flamed  out  first  in  France,  then  in  Ireland,  spread- 
ing commotion  everywhere.  Questions  of  government  and  social 
organization  became  the  topics  of  most  urgent  and  varied  consid- 
eration. The  leading  minds  were  roused  to  fresh  activity,  and 
literature,  reflecting  the  ardent  desire  for  freedom,  was  influenced 
profoundly. 

Society.  —  Literature  began  to  be  addressed  to  the  common 
miscellaneous  public,  and  became  in  consequence  more  simple 
and  independent.  Authors,  relying  upon  the  patronage  of  the 
people,  advocated  the  claims  of  their  new  allies  with  unusual 
boldness.  Having  previously  assailed  public  men  by  their  itiitials 
only,  they  now  attacked  them  by  name.  The  demand  for  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  was  increasing,  and  democratic  principles 
were  spreading.  The  year  17G9  witnessed  the  first  public  meeting 
ever  assembled  in  England  to  enlighten  Englishmen  respecting 
their  political  rights.  Nothing  more  clearly  indicates  the  preva- 
lence of  the  spirit  of  inquiry  than  the  bitter  war  which  the  gov- 
ernment carried  on  against  every  kind  of  free  discussion.  Men 
were  fined,  imprisoned,  transported,  for  the  use  of  language  such 
as  in  our  time  is  employed  with  perfect  impunity.  In  1T05,  a 
law  vvas  passed  conferring  upon  any  common  magistrate  the 
power  to  dissolve  a  public  gathering.  If  the  meeting  should 
consist  of  twelve  persons,  or  upwards,  a  refusal  to  disperse  one 
hour  after  lieing  ordered  to  do  so  was  punishable  with  death. 
But  liberal  oi)inions  had  taken  root  in  the  popular  mind,  and  it 
was  impossible  either  to  stifle  them  or  to  prevent  their  increase. 
While  the  political  movement  went  back,  the  intellectual  move- 
ment went  on,  and  eventually  produced  those  legislative  reforms 
which  signalize  the  present  century. 

Mf)re  effective  police  measures  were  adopted  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  order.  Wliile  the  country  highways  were  still  infested 
with  robbers.  Browne,  writing  in  l','u,  was  able  to  say  that  'the 
reiirniuif  evil  of  street  robberies  has  been  almost  wholly  sup- 
pressed.' 

The  law  which  condemned  a  })risoner,  who  refused  to  ]ilead  on 
a  capital  cliarge,  to  be  slowly  jiresscd  to  death,  was  repealed  in 
ITTl:  and  in  ll^Hi.  that  which  condennied  women  to  be  publicly 
burned  for  the  murder  of  their  husbands. 


RELIGION  —  POETRY  —  DRAMA.  181 

The  improvement  in  the  moral  tone  of  society  at  the  end  of 
the  century,  is  happily  illustrated  by  a  well-known  anecdote  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  His  grand-aunt  assured  him  that,  when  led 
by  curiosity  to  turn  over  the  forgotten  pages  of  a  novel  in  which 
she  had  delighted  in  her  youth,  she  was  astonished  to  find  that, 
sitting  alone  at  the  age  of  eighty,  she  was  unable  to  read  without 
shame  a  book  which  sixty  years  before  she  had  heard  read  out  for 
amusement  in  large  circles  consisting  of  the  best  society  in 
London. 

Religion. — Methodism  created  a  higher  regard  for  spiritual 
matters.  The  movement  begun  by  Wesley  and  Whitefield  was 
essentially  a  popular  one,  exercising  its  deepest  influence  over  the 
lower  and  middle  classes.  But  the  seed  cast  here  germinated 
largely  among  tiie  upper.  It  produced  many  forms  of  charity, 
many  holy  lives,  many  triumphant  deaths.  It  implanted  a  fervid 
and  enduring  religious  sentiment  amid  brutality  and  neglect;  it 
imparted  a  warmer  and  more  energetic  tone  to  the  devotion  and 
philantlu'opy  of  every  denomination. 

Poetry.— In  Burns  and  Cowper,  poetry  returned  to  the 
paths  she  liatl  lung  deserted,  to  — 

'Thoiight-i  that  volinitaiy  move 
Hannonious  miiubcrs," — 

and  to  some  it  had  never  traversed.      After  many  years,  a  man 

speaks  as  men  speak,  witliout   juvmeditation,  whose  voice  is  the 

echo  of  nature,  whose  verse  is  full  of  ])ersoual  emotions  genuinely 

felt.      Stars  and  clouds,  streams  and   forests,  blossoming  vine  and 

mantling    green,   joy    aiul    sorrow,    hope    and    (lesj)air,    love    and 

kindness,  higher  beauty  and  ideal  happiness, —  these  become  the 

inspiration   of   the   poet.      We   no   longer   listen,  but   sympathize. 

Poetrv,  from  being  artificial,  has  become  natural. 

Drama. — Only  here  and  there  do  we  meet  with  a  name,  emi- 
nent in  literary  art,  that  is  at  all  associated  witli  the  stage.  The 
dramatic  literature  consists  chiefly  of  comedies  and  farces  of 
modern  life,  all  in  ]U'ose.  Much  was  written,  but  tin-  only  addi- 
tion to  the  classic  comedy  of  Congreve  was  Sheridail's  Srl,,,nl 
for  ScatuJdl  (ITTT).  It  is  a  cr)ntinual  dischaige  of  malice  ami 
Avitticism,  a  l)riHiant  fire-work,  skilfully  constructed  t)f  society 
materials.      Hear  Mrs.  Candour: 


182  SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'Yesterday  Mir<s  Prim  assured  me  thai  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Honeymoon  are  now  become 
mere  man  and  wifo,  like  the  rest  of  their  acquaintance.  She  likewise  hinted  tliat  a 
certain  widow  in  the  next  street  had  got  rid  of  her  dropsy,  and  recovered  her  shape  in  a 
most  surprising  manner." 

Again: 

'J/r.«.  Candour.  Well,  I  will  never  join  in  the  ridicule  of  a  friend;  so  I  tell  my  cousin 
Ogle,  and  ye  all  know  what  pretensions  she  has  to  beauty. 

Crub.  She  lias  the  oddest  countenance  — a  collection  of  features  from  all  the  corners 
of  the  globe. 

Sir  Benjamin.    She  has,  indeed,  an  Irish  front. 

Crab.    Caledonian  locks. 

Sir  B.    Dutch  nose. 

Crab.    Austrian  lips. 

Sir  B.    The  complexion  of  a  Spaniard. 

Crab.    And  teeth  a  la  Chmoise. 

Sir  B.  In  short,  her  face  resembles  a  table  d'hote  at  Spa,  where  no  two  guests  are  of 
a  nation. 

Crab.  Or  a  congress  at  the  close  of  a  general  war,  where  every  member  seems  to 
have  a  different  interest,  and  the  nose  and  chin  are  the  only  parties  likely  to  join  issue.' 

Sheridan  himself  was  a  lucky  adventurer,  clever,  amiable, 
irregular,  seductive,  brilliant.  He  rose  and  descended  like  a 
rocket.  At  one  time  in  the  House  of  Commons  opposing  Pitt, 
at  another  he  was  picked  up  in  the  street  by  the  watch.  Bailiffs 
were  at  his  death-bed,  and  lords  at  his  funeral. 

Periodical. — The  manufacture  of  news])apers  was  beyond 
all  former  example.  This,  with  the  increase  of  magazines  and 
reviews,  proves  the  large  increase  of  readers,  and  the  miscellane- 
ous activity  of  writei's.  The  lii'itisJt  Critic,  thus  far  the  chief 
periodical  devoted  to  criticism,  appeared  in  1?!)3. 

Novel. — It  is  doubtful  whether  the  best  novels  of  the  pre- 
ceding reign  could  be  read  aloud  in  any  family  circle,  they 
contain  .so  many  passages  of  needless  and  offensive  coarseness. 
The  heroes  are  often  ]irofane  and  gross.  The  heroines  take  part 
in  ct)nversations  wliich  no  modest  woman  would  consent  to  liear. 
Yet  those  novels  w(Me  the  delight  of  their  generation,  not  so 
much  because  that  generation  was  less  chaste,  as  because  it  was 
less  delicate  and  rdiiied.  \\'ords  now  considered  indecent  were 
then  in  conmiDii  and  dailv  use.  But  the  moment  approaclies 
when  the  novel  Ix'comes  natural  without  l)eing  indelicate.  Puri- 
fied iiiaiHiers  give  to  it  its  final  im})ress  and  character.  In  the 
n()l)le  hands  of  (Joldsmith.  it  becomes  in  everv  respect  moral. 

History. — The  ai)le,st  representative  in  this  dei)artment  is  the 


PROSE — NATURAL   THEOLOGY.  183 

illustrious  Qibbon.     His  work,  by  its  critical  spirit  and  finished 
style,  evinces  the  upward  progress. 

It  should  be  observed,  also,  that  this  period  witnessed  the 
first  approach  to  histories  of  literature;  as  in  Percy's  lldiqiits 
of  Ancient  Poetry  (17G5),  destined  to  exert  an  important  influ- 
ence upon  youthful  genius,  and  in  Warton's  Ilistoi'y  of  English 
Poetry  (1774),  valuable  for  research  and  appreciative  criticism. 

Theology. — The  religious  revival  created  a  demand  for  devo- 
tional literature;  and  the  sermons  of  the  period  exemplify  the 
increasing  inclination  of  men's  minds  to  serious  thought  and  sen- 
timent. 

'Who  born  within  the  last  forty  years,'  asked  Burke  in  1700, 
'  has  read  one  word  of  Collins,  and  Toland,  and  Tindal,  and  Chubb, 
and  Morgan,  and  that  whole  race  who  called  themselves  freethink- 
ers? Who  now  reads  Bolingbroke?  Who  ever  read  him  through?' 
Oblivion  had  settled  upon  the  Deists;  and  Deism,  though  not 
dead,  slept. 

Controversies  about  the  Trinity  preceded  and  accompanied  the 
controversy  witli  the  Deists;  and,  in  the  latter  half  of  the  cen- 
tury, Unitarianism  was  the  prevailing  creed  of  the  most  intelli- 
gent Dissenters.  It  regards  the  Bible  as  tiie  reccjrd  of  God's 
successive  revelations,  but  interpreting  that  record  in  a  special 
sense,  denies  the  divinity  of  Christ.  Where  the  Trinitarian  says 
there  are  three  distinct  and  equal  persons  in  the  (iodhead, —  the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost, —  the  Unitarian  says  there 
is  but  one. 

The  scepticism  of  Hume,  Gibbon,  and  Voltaire,  produced  a 
multitude  of  answers  in  defence  of  religion  both  natural  and 
revealed.  The  metliod  of  discussion  was  twofold  —  internal  and 
external.  The  internal  evidence  (jf  Christianity  was  its  spiritual 
excellence;  the  external  evidence  was  its  history.  The  historical 
view,  mainly  corroborating  the  New  Ti'stanuMit  from  indejHMident 
sources,  was  now  the  dominant  one.  Most  of  these  performances 
survive  onlv  in  tiieii-  wisdom,  in  their  e(Tect.  The  woiks  tliem- 
selves,  having  s<>rve(l  earli  its  tenii)orarv  purpose,  are  eitlier 
forii-otteii  or  are  fast  jiassing  into  forget  fulness, —  seed  returned 
to  the  soil  as  the  condition  of  further  incn>ase. 

Not  so,  howcner,  with  Paley's  X<it>(r<il  Tli<<>l<,<iy  (lSO-2);  or, 
appearances   of    nature    applied    to    tiie    proof    of    an    intelligent 


184  SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

» 

Creator.  So  wonderful  for  its  beauty,  for  its  skilful  statement, 
for  its  common  sense,  so  valuable  as  a  logical  basis  for  the 
Christian  faith,  that  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  it  die. 

If  we  do  not  believe  in  a  God,  it  is  utterly  impossible  to 
believe  in  a  Revelation.  There  must  be  somebody  to  speak 
before  a  message  can  come.  Hence  the  question,  whether  there 
be  a  God,  is  not  only  the  sublimest  that  can  employ  the  mind,  but 
is  one  of  transcendent  import,  to  Christians  as  well  as  to  others. 

What  evidence  have  we  of  the  being  of  God  as  a  real  exist- 
ence essentially  distinct  from  other  beings?  Evidence,  says 
Paley,  of  tlie  same  kind  and  degree  as  that  by  which  we  conclude 
that  a  given  piece  of  machinery  must  have  had  an  intelligent 
maker.  AVe  must  infer  a  designing  mind  wherever,  in  any  object, 
we  see  fitness  and  use: ' 

'In  crosiiing  a  heath,  suppose  I  pitched  my  foot  against  a  stone,  and  were  asked  how 
the  stone  came  to  l)e  tliere;  I  might  possibly  answer,  that,  for  anything  I  l<new  to  the 
contrary,  it  liad  lain  there  forever;  nor  would  it  perhaps  be  very  easy  to  show  the 
absurdity  of  this  answer.  But  suppose  I  had  found  a  natch  \\\)(n\  the  ground,  and  it 
should  be  inquired  how  the  watch  happened  to  be  in  that  place:  I  should  hardly  think 
of  the  answer  which  I  had  before  given,  that,  for  anything  I  knew,  the  watch  might  have 
always  been  tliere.  Yet  why  should  not  this  answer  serve  for  the  watch  as  well  as  for 
the  stone''  Why  is  it  not  as  admissible  in  the  second  case,  as  in  the  first?  For  this 
reason,  and  for  no  other,  viz:  that,  when  we  come  to  inspect  the  watch,  we  perceive 
(what  we  could  not  discover  in  the  stone)  that  its  several  parts  are  framed  and  put 
tor,'eiher  for  a  purpose,  e.  (j.  that  they  are  so  formed  and  adjur-ted  as  to  jiroduce  motion, 
and  that  motion  so  regulated  as  to  point  out  the  hour  of  the  day:  that  if  the  different 
parts  had  been  differently  sha|>ed  from  what  they  are,  or  placed  after  any  other  manner, 
or  in  any  other  order  than  that  in  which  they  are  placed,  either  no  motion  at  all  would 
have  been  carried  on  in  the  machine,  or  none  which  would  have  answered  the  use  that 
is  now  served  l>y  it.  .  .  .  This  mechanism  being  observed,  .  .  .  the  inference,  we  think 
i-  iiie\  it;il)le:  Iliat  the  watch  must  have  had  a  maker;  that  there  must  have  existed,  at 
!^oiiie  time,  and  at  some  i)hice  or  other,  an  artificer  or  artificers,  who  formed  it  for  the 
liurpo-i-  which  we  find  it  actually  to  answer,  who  comprehended  its  construction,  and 
de-igned  its  use.' 

Now,  to  a])ply  tlie  argument: 

'Every  iiidic:ition  of  contrivance,  every  manifestation  of  dci^n,  which  existed  in  the 
watch,  exists  in  the  work^  of  nature:  with  the  difference,  on  the  side  of  nature,  of  being 
greater  or  more,  and  that  in  a  decree  which  exceeds  all  computation.  .  .  . 

I  know  no  hctler  method  of  introducing.'  so  lartie  a  subject,  than  that  of  comparing 
a  -in'/le  tiiin:,'  witti  a  -iiiLrl''  tliiiitr:  an  (  y<',  for  example,  with  a  telescope.  As  far  as  the 
exaiiiiiiiilion  of  the  jii-truiiunt  L'oes,  tliere  i-  precisidy  the  same  proof  that  the  eye  was 
made  for  \  i<ioii,  a-  Ilnre  i-  tli.it  Ihi;  teIesco|ie  was  made  for  assisting  it.  They  are  made 
u[)<in  the  -aiiic  priiuiplc- ;  both  beini;  adjii-ted  to  the  laws  by  which  the  transmission 
and  ri-frartioM  of  ra>  -  of  lii'lit  are  regulated.  .   .  . 

1  diui'  more  we  Mr>'  ninindi-d  of  the  ever  recurriiiL'  circle  of  human  science.  In  the 
MfrruiTahiViH.  Xi'iiophon  lia-  )iri -erved  a  coiiver-atioii  of  Socratc-  with  .Arir-todemus,  in 
whicli  lie  (ievelop-i  this  pro<,f  :it  iireal  len<.'tli: 

•(':in<i  thou  doubt.  Ari-tod.'uiu-.  whether  ;i  di-ijo-iition  f)f  part"  like  this  (in  the 
human  hoilvi  -hould  he  ttie  uork  of  cliaiice,  or  of  wi-dom  and  contrivance?' 


PROSE  —  NATURAL  THEOLOGY.  185 

The  roseniblance  hetwefii  thf  two  cases  is  still  more  accurate,  and  obtains  in  more 
points  than  we  have  yet  represented,  or  than  we  are,  on  the  tlrst  view  of  the  subject, 
aware  of.  In  dioptric  ielescojH;s  there  is  an  imperfection  of  this  nature.  Pencils  of 
light,  in  passing  through  glass  lenses,  are  se|)anited  into  different  colors,  thereby  tingeing 
the  object,  especially  the  edges  of  it,  as  if  it  were  viewed  through  a  prism.  To  correct 
this  inconvenience  had  been  long  a  desideratum  in  the  art.  At  last  it  came  Into  the 
mind  of  a  sagacious  optician,  to  inquire  how  this  matter  was  managed  in  the  eye:  in 
which  there  was  exactly  the  same  difficulty  to  contend  with  us  in  the  telescope.  His 
observation  taught  hiiu  that,  in  the  eye,  the  evil  was  cured  by  coniblniug  len^es  com- 
posed of  different  substances,  i.  e.  of  substances  which  possessed  different  refracting 
powers.  Our  artist  borrowed  thence  his  hint,  and  produced  a  correction  of  the  defect 
by  imitating,  in  glasses  made  from  different  materials,  the  effects  of  the  different 
humours  through  which  the  rays  of  light  might  pass  before  they  reach  the  bottom  of 
the  eye.  Could  this  be  in  the  eye  without  purixjse,  which  suggested  to  the  optician  the 
only  effectual  means  of  attaining  that  purpose?" 

But  animal  anatomy  is  an  accumulation  of  such  instances. 
Indeed,  they  may  be  seen  on  every  hand;  in  the  structutal  plan 
of  the  whole  solar  system, —  for  every  orb  moves  forever  in  its 
calculated  track,  which  is  shaped  by  tlie  joint  action  of  the  sun 
and  each  planet,  all  of  which  act  constantly  by  their  law  of 
motion;  in  the  formation  of  crystals,  in  the  growth  of  plants. 
What  wisdom  in  the  structure  of  a  leaf,  how  admirable  its  archi- 
tecture, how  nice  its  frame-work,  how  exquisite  its  finish,  how 
wonderful  the  chemistry  by  which  it  assimilates  the  particles  of 
earth,  air,  and  water, —  a  little  mason,  building  up  the  stem  of 
the  tree,  and  preparing  the  substance  of  its  llower  and  fruit  ! 
No  city  government  could  get  a  steam-engine  to  pump  water 
with  such  economy  I  Vet,  if  there  were  but  one  watch  in  the 
■world,  we  must  infer  a  human  artisan.  So  from  natural  contri- 
vances, singly  or  jointly  considered,  we  must  by  the  same 
reasoning  infer  a  divine  one.  The  proofs  of  divine  agency  are 
separatelv  su})plied  l)y  <nery  separate  example.  This,  then,  is 
the  argument: 

Whatever  is  by  its  constitution  adapted  to  a  particular  tMid 
supposes  contrivance,  and  hence  a  contriver. 

Natural  olijtH^ts,  and  especially  organized  creatun\-<,  are  adapted 
to  ci'rtaiu  ends;  and  must,  therefore,  t)e  thf  |>roduct  of  a  Being 
who  contrived  thtMU  for  tht>  ends  to  which  their  adaptation  jioiiits. 

Fui'thermore,  as  the  means  by  which  those  tMids  are  elTeeted 
far  surpass  all  human  ])ow(M'  and  skill.  tlitMr  contriver  is  a  Being 
whose  power  and  skill  art^  inlinite.  Tli<>  cause  must  l>e  ade(juate 
to  the  elfeet. 

If  now  tlie  se(»ptie  tells  me  that  the  order  of  n.iture  is  fixed,  I 
am   able   to   ask    him,   Bv   whom   or   l)v  what    is   it    tixed?      15\-  an 


186  SECOND   TBANSITION    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

iron  fate  ? — by  an  inflexible  necessity  ?  Turning  against  you  your 
own  weapon  —  induction  —  and  ascending  from  particulars,  have 
we  not  seen  that  nature  bears  the  signature  of  an  intelligent 
Cause  ?  Does  not  the  universe,  the  more  it  is  explored,  bear 
increasing  testimony  to  a  Being  superior  to  itself?  Then  the 
order  of  nature  is  fixed  by  a  Will  which  can  reverse  it.  Then  a 
power  equal  to  miracles  exists.  Then  miracles  are  not  incredible. 
It  may  be  replied,  God  indeed  can  work  miracles,  but  He  xoill  not. 
Will  not?  How  have  you  ascertained  this?  Has  God  so  told 
you?  Does  it  become  you,  who  have  exposed  to  poor  human 
reason  its  impotence,  to  make  laws  for  the  Creator,  and  to 
restrict  His  agency  to  particular  modes? 

If,  finally,  the  believer  should  say,  after  considering  the  proofs 
of  a  divine  existence,  that  he  leaves  off  only  where  he  began,  that 
he  was  not  ignorant  of  this  truth,  never  doubted  it,  that  therefore 
he  has  gained  nothing  by  his  researches,  the  answer  is.  You  have 
at  least  illuminated  your  instinct;  you  have  confirmed  and  justi- 
fied your  God-idea;  more,  you  have  converted  it  into  a  living, 
available  power: 

'By  invegtigafion,  the  following  points  are  always  gained,  .  .  .  viz:  stability  and 
impression.  Occasions  will  arise  to  try  the  firmness  of  our  most  habitual  oi)inions.  And 
tipon  these  occasions,  it  is  a  matter  of  incalculable  use  to  feel  our  foundation;  to  find  a 
support  in  argument  for  what  we  have  taken  up  upon  authority.  .  .  . 

Secondly,  what  is  gained  by  research  in  the  stability  of  our  conclusion,  is  also  gained 
from  it  in  iniprenmon.  Physicians  tell  ns  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  difference  between 
taking  a  medicine,  and  the  medicine  getting  into  the  constitution.  A  difference,  not 
unlike  w-hich,  obtains  with  respect  to  those  great  moral  propositions  which  ought  to  form 
the  directiuE:  principles  of  human  conduct.  It  is  one  thing  to  assent  to  a  jiroposition  of 
this  sort;  and  another,  and  very  different  thing,  to  have  i)roperly  imbibed  its  iulluence. 
I  lake  the  <ase  to  be  this:  Perhaps  almost  every  man  living  lias  a  particular  train  of 
thought.  i!ilo  which  his  mind  glides  and  falls,  when  at  leisure  from  the  impressions  and 
ideas  that  occasionally  <'xcite  it:  perliaiis,  also,  the  train  of  thought  here  sjioken  of, 
more  than  any  otlier  thing,  determines  tlic  character.  It  is  of  the  utmost  consequence, 
therefore,  that  this  property  of  our  constitution  be  well  regulated.  Now  it  is  by  frequent 
or  coiitiinu-d  meilitation  ui)on  a  subject,  by  placing  a  subject  in  different  points  of  view, 
by  induction  of  particulars,  by  variety  of  examples,  by  ai)plyiug  principles  to  solution  of 
])henomena,  by  dwelling  ujjon  proofs  and  consequences,  that  mental  exercise  is  drawn 
into  any  particular  channel.  It  is  by  these  means,  at  least,  that  we  have  any  power  over 
it.  Till'  train  of  siMnitancoiis  tliouglit,  and  the  choice  of  that  train,  may  he  directed  to 
different  ends,  and  may  ai)i(i'ar  I<>  be  more  or  less  judiciously  fixed,  according  to  the  pur- 
pose iti  ropect  of  which  we  (nu-idcr  it:  l)ut,  in  ;i  niornl  vifiir,  I  shall  not,  I  believe,  be 
(  cmtradicled  when  I  s.iy  tluit,  if  <>nc  train  of  tliinking  be  mori'  desirable  than  another,  it 
is  that  which  n-L'ard-  itie  plirn<iiiuMi:i  of  nature  witli  a  constant  reference  to  a  supreme 
intelliireut  aulhor.  To  have  uiitdr  this  tile  ruling,  the  habitual  sentiment  of  our  minds, 
i~  If>  liave  laid  the  foundation  of  eM'rylliini:  which  is  religious.  The  world  thenceforth 
becomes  a  temple,  and  life  itself  one  eonlinued  act  of  adoration.  The  change  is  no  less 
than  thi-:  that  whereas  formerly  (Jod  «:i'^  seldom  in  our  tliouLdil,  we  can  now  scarcely 
lool<  ujioii  MiiythiiiL'  without  jierceix  iiig  it~  iclalion  to  Iliiii." 


PROSE  —  SCIENCE.  187 

A  piece  of  triangular  glass  is  utterly  valueless  in  itself,  but 
becomes  a  precious  treasure  to  the  reverent  student,  when  he 
finds  that  with  it  he  can  paint  his  walls  with  rainbow  hues,  and 
untwist  the  charming  tints  that  are  braided  into  a  beam  of  light. 
A  loadstone  is  no  other  than  a  fragment  of  conmion  rock,  till  it 
is  discovered  to  be  alive  with  magnetic  qualities  that  girdle  the 
globe.  A  piece  of  common  quartz  Js  worth  nothing  by  market 
estimates,  but,  by  the  philosopher,  is  more  prized  than  a  lump  of 
gold,  when  it  is  seen  to  hold  the  secret  of  the  force  of  crystalliza- 
tion. So  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  the  world  are  not  apparent, 
till  we  understand  the  principles  with  which  the  Infinite  Mind  has 
intrusted  its  material  forms.  God  is  not  truly  manifest  in  His 
works,  till  we  read  His  thought,  which  they  enshrine,  and  see 
the  great  uses  in  the  power  of  things,  the  great  wisdom  in  the 
meaning  of  things.  Then  is  He  revealed  in  every  fibre  of  the 
human  body,  in  every  lichen  that  scars  the  rock,  in  every  rose 
that  flings  out  its  loveliness;  in  the  blade  of  grass  as  in  the  star, 
in  the  single  wild  flower  of  the  woods  as  in  the  arch  flower  of 
creation.      Look  up,  and  revere;  bow  down,  and  trust. 

Science. —  Medical  science  owes  much  to  John  Hunter, 

who,  by  his  researches  in  animal  and  vegetable  Physiology,  made 
a  vast  number  of  discoveries,  which,  considered  singly,  are  curious, 
but  which,  folloctively,  constitute  an  invaluable  body  of  new 
truths.  His  museum,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  contained  up- 
wards of  ten  thousand  preparations  illustrative  of  tlie  phenom- 
ena of  nature.  His  great  object  was  to  show  that  nature  is 
a  vast  and  united  wliole,  that  nothing  is  irregular,  that  nothing 
is  perturbed,  that  in  every  change  there  is  order,  that  all  things 
are  done  according  to  never-failing  law. 

Astronomy  was  enriched,  and   its  field  was  greatlv  enlarged, 

by  the  lal)ors  of  Sir  William  Herschel. 

^Vatt's  iliscoverv  that  water,  instead  of  being  an  element,  is 
a  compound  of  two  gases,  was  a  considerable  step  in  th(»  history 
of  chemical  analysis. 

Geoloo-v  was  coming  to  life.  Geologists  were  conducting  their 
investiirations  without  regard  to  the  doctrines  hitherto  received. 
Sir  William  Jones,  writing  in  1784,  says  with  regret  that  he 
lived  in  'an  age  when  some  intelligent  and  virtuous  ])ersons  arc 
inclined  to  doubt  the  authenticity  of  the  accounts  delivered   by 


188  SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Moses  concerning  the.  primitive  world.'  For  the  first  time,  the 
earth's  crust  was  represented  as  divided  into  strata,  and  Hutton's 
Theory  of  the  Earth  (1795)  was  the  first  attempt  to  explain  its 
formation  by  natural  agents: 

'The  doctrine,  therefore,  of  our  Theory  is  briefly  this:  That  whatever  may  have 
been  the  operation  of  (lii<solving  waiur,  and  the  chemical  action  of  it  upon  the  materials 
accumulated  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  the  general  solidity  of  that  mass  of  earth,  and  the 
placing  of  it  in  the  atniosi)liere  abovc'the  surface  of  the  sea,  has  been  the  immediate 
operation  of  fire  and  heat  melting  and  expanding  bodies.' 

These  facts  indicate  the  spread  of  the  scientific  spirit,  the 
excitement  of  a  lively  curiosity;  and  suggest  that  the  'conflict  of 
studies'  was  beginning  to  put  on  something  of  its  modern  form. 

Btllics. — The  utilitarian  view  was  defended  by  Paley  : 

'  Virtne  is  the  doing  good  to  mankind,  in  obedience  to  the  will  of  God,  for  the  sake  of 
everlasting  happiness.' 

This  definition  characterizes  the  man,  the  age,  and  his  pro- 
fession. It  expresses  essentially  every  form  which  the  doctrine 
of  utility  has  assumed,  yet  contains  as  many  errors  as  it  contains 
clauses.  As  to  the  doing  good,  practically,  of  course,  there  can 
be  nothing  better;  but,  as  a  principle  to  define  the  essence  of 
virtue,  it  is  faulty.  For  virtue  of  various  kinds  may  be  exercised 
where  no  man  exists  to  be  the  object  of  our  benevolence.  Again, 
while  the  pursuit  of  public  interest, —  works  of  charity  and 
brotherly  kindness, —  is  undoubtedly  one  form  of  virtue,  there 
are  forms  of  virtue  which,  even  if  beneficial  to  mankind,  do  not 
become  virtuous  on  that  account,  but  have  an  intrinsic  excellence 
in  no  way  dependent  on  their  utility.  In  the  second  place,  as  to 
the  will  of  God,  that  it  could  be  the  solo  rule  of  morals  is  incon- 
ceivable. The  square  upon  the  hypothenuse  is  equal  to  the  sum 
of  the  squares  upon  the  two  remaining  sides,  and  the  will  of 
Infinite  Power  could  no  more  change  the  equation  than  the  will  of 
infinite;  in)])()tenc(\  As  little,  it  would  a])pear,  could  anv  decree 
change  ingratitude  into  virtue  and  gratitude  into  vice.  They 
subsist  l)v  their  own  inherent  natures,  being  what  thev  are,  eter- 
nallv,  as  a  triangle  or  a  circle  is  what  it  is.  Moreover,  it  is 
meaningless  to  speak  of  the  Divine  attributes  as  deserving  of 
our  admiration,  unless  there  l)e  already  such  a  qualitv  as  good- 
ness, to  which  the  Divine  acts  conform.  Then,  too,  in  this  view  of 
•M'erlasting  ha])piness  lies  the  greatest  blunder  of  all.  The  pros- 
pect of  eternal  reward  is  no  ])art  of  virtue,  or  rather  it  amiihilates 


PROSE — ETHICS  —  PHILOSOPHY.  189 

the  very  idea  of  virtue.  To  give  away  ten  dollars  to-day  with  the 
sure  expectation  of  receiving  ten  thousand  for  it  to-morrow,  is 
hardly  an  act  of  generosity.  To  refrain  from  indulgence  here, 
only  that  a  richer  banquet  may  be  enjoyed  hereafter,  is  merely  a 
systematic  selfishness,  and  to  such  conduct  we  must  deny  the 
character  of  genuine  goodness.  Still,  the  happiness  principle, 
while  it  does  not  constitute  virtue,  may  be  appealed  to  for  the 
purpose  of  leading  men  to  virtue.  A  benevolent  course,  though 
pursued  with  an  interested  motive,  is  better  than  an  indifferent 
or  malevolent  one.  A  moral  code  denotes"  the  height  of  the 
collective  life  in  its  hour;  and  the  moral  teacher,  for  the  enforce- 
ment of  the  moral  law,  yet  finds  it  expedient  or  necessary  to 
appeal,  by  the  joys  and  sufferings  of  another  life,  to  the  vivid 
and  mobile  passions  of  hope  and  fear.  Only  the  stoics,  the  sages, 
the  self-poised  and  self-collected, —  the  'heights  and  pinnacles  of 
the  human  mind,' — can  immolate  the  desire  of  happiness,  the 
hope  of  all  reward,  human  or  divine,  to  the  abstract  idea  of 
good;  only  they  can  do  right  for  the  sake  of  right,  in  'scorn 
of  consequence';  but  that  they  can  do  so,  is  the  highest  proof  of 
the  divine  within  us,  and  the  highest  augury  of  the  future  before 
us.  We  regret,  therefore,  that  Paloy,  instead  of  treating  ethics 
practically,  in  its  application  to  the  duties  of  daily  life,  sought  to 
lay  its  foundations. 

Philosophy. —  If  the  idealist  or  sceptic  denies  the  ex- 
istence of  matter,  or  allirms  that  we  have  no  grounds  for  our 
belief  in  its  existciK'(>,  let  him  walk  over  a  precipice  or  run  his 
head  against  a  post.  If  ideas  are  nothing  but  inipressions,  the 
idea  of  an  inch  must  itself  be  an  inch  long.  If,  therefore,  I  am 
in  a  room  of  one  thousand  cubic  feet,  I  may  inti'o(hu'(>  into  it  an 
idea  of  St.  Paul's,  sav,  whicli  may  contain  a  million  cul)i('  feet,  or 
I  can  transport  a  mountain  as  big  as  the  Peak  of  TenerifTe  in  a 
p<)st-(;-hais(>  I  Such  was  a  popular  method  of  confuting  IJcrkeley 
and  Hume, —  the  argument  from  c()nse(|uences,  a  kind  of  r<  (Juctio 
(id  fih.<<irr<fn)n.  It  proceeded  upon  a  crude  interpretation  of  th(^ 
systems  it  professed  to  eonfut<\  but  clearlv  enough  indieatt's  that 
the  reaction  against  scepticism  in  s])('culat ivc  truth  was  assumitig 
the  form  of  an  a])p(>al  to  common  seiis(!.  The  Ix'licf  of  the  mass 
is  more  reliable  than  the  judgment  of  the  philosojiher  who  loses 
his    head    anion"-   the    clouds.      This    reaction    found    its    hiji'hest 


190  SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

expression  in  ThomaS  Reid,  whose  aim,  as  he  frequently 
asserts,  was  to  justify  the  ordinary  beliefs  of  mankind.  Alarmed 
by  the  conclusions  at  wiiich  philosophy  had  arrived,  he  took  his 
appeal  to  the  common  consciousness  of  the  race,  and  asserted 
anew  the  intuitive  power  of  the  mind.  The  ideas  of  beauty,  of 
right  and  wrong  ;  belief  in  our  personal  identity,  in  the  exist- 
ence of  the  material  world,  that  design  implies  a  designer,  that 
every  effect  must  have  an  efficient  cause, —  these,  and  others  like 
them,  are  not  derived  from  observation  or  experience,  but  are 
prior  and  necessary  to  such  experience.  They  do  not  ndmit  of 
proof,  there  being  nothing  more  certain  which  can  be  brought 
in  evidence  of  them;  and  the  denial  of  them  involves  us  in 
absurdity  : 

'All  reasoning  must  be  from  first  principles:  and  for  first  principles  no  other  reason 
can  be  given  but  this,  that,  by  the  constitntion  of  our  nature,  we  are  under  a  necessity  of 
assenting  to  them.' 

To  attempt  an  account  of  them  is  foolish,  for  all  reasoning  is 
grounded  on  them,  as  the  science  of  Geometry  is  built  upon 
axioms  and  postulates.  If  the  sceptic  will  call  an  inexplicable 
belief  a  fiction,  because  he  cannot  give  a  reason  for  it, —  why, 
even  so  he  must,  at  least  we  must  let  him;  we,  says  Reid,  will 
call  it  a  divine  instinct.  Said  blunt  old  Johnson,  'We  know  that 
we  are  free,  and  there's  an  end  on't.' 

Political  Science. — The  Greek  philosophers  had  regarded 
money-getting  with  contempt;  later  philosophers  had  looked 
upon  luxury  as  the  foe  of  morals,  and  so  were  little  disposed  to 
inquire  into  tiie  sources  of  that  material  prosperity  which  made 
luxury  pf)ssible.  The  clergy  of  the  middle  ages  were  the  sole 
educators  of  society,  and  were  not  likely  to  engage  in  studies 
which  lay  so  entirely  out  of  their  sphere  of  thought  and  action. 
To  these  causes  may  be  ascribed  the  late  rise  of  political  science. 
A  more  general  intelligence  and  active  curiosity,  however,  now 
furnished  the  conditions  of  its  appearance;  and  now  it  was  that 
the  first  successful  att(mipt  was  made  to  raise  Political  Econoiny 
into  a  science,  by  fliscovering  the  law^s  which  regulate  the  crea- 
tion and  distribution  of  w(^alth. 

The  principles  of  trade,  it  is  true,  had  received  scattering 
attention  in  the  preceding  century;  and  Hume,  as  we  have  seen, 
had    given    the    lights    of    which    economists    to-day    are    largely 


PKOSE — POLITICAL   SCIENCE.  191 

reflective;  but  the  scieiiee  was  first  comprehensively  treated  and 
organized  by  Adam  Smith  in  his  celebrated  Inquiry  into  the 
Nature  and  Causes  of  the  Wealth  of  Nations.  At  the  begin- 
ning, he  lays  down  two  propositions:  first,  that  all  wealth  is 
derived,  not  from  land,  but  from  labor;  and,  second,  that  the 
amount  of  wealth  dej)ends,  partly  on  the  skill  of  the  laborer,  and 
partly  on  the  proportion  between  the  number  of  those  who  labor 
and  the  number  of  those  wiio  do  not  labor.  These  two  principles 
are  applied,  in  the  rest  of  the  work,  to  explain  the  growth  and 
mechanism  of  society.  In  applying  them,  he  assumes  that  the 
great  moving  power  of  all  men,  in  all  ages  and  in  all  countries,  is 
selfishness.  Yet,  considering  society  as  a  whole,  it  usually  hap- 
pens that  men  in  promoting  their  own  interest,  will  unintention- 
ally promote  the  interest  of  others.  Selfishness,  therefore,  should 
not  be  suppressed,  but  enlightened: 

'Parsimony,  and  not  industry,  is  the  immediate  cause  of  the  increase  of  capital. 
Industry,  indeed,  provides  the  subject  wiiich  parsimony  accumulates;  but  wliatever 
industry  might  acquire,  if  parsimony  did  not  save  and  store  up,  the  capital  would  never 
be  the  greater.  .  .  .  But  the  principle  which  prompts  to  save,  is  the  desire  of  bettering 
our  condition;  a  desire  which,  though  generally  calm  and  dispassionate,  comes  with  us 
from  the  womb,  and  never  leaves  us  till  we  go  into  the  grave.' 

As  long  as  the  wealth  of  a  country  was  supposed  to  consist  of 
its  gold,  the  sole  object  of  trade  was  to  increase  the  influx  of  the 
precious  metals.  This,  however,  could  be  done,  only  by  draining 
other  countries,  repressing  trade  in  one  direction  and  encouraging 
it  in  another.  Ilonce,  every  commercial  treaty  was  an  attempt  by 
one  nation  to  outwit  another,  a  reciprocal  desire  of  injuring  and 
impoverisliiiig;  and  thus  what  should  be  the  most  peacealjle  of 
pursuits  became  the  frct|iient  ctiuse  of  war.  But  the  commercial 
spirit  became  invarial)ly  jiaciflc,  as  soon  as  it  was  clearly  under- 
stood that  gold  and  silver  are  not  wealth,  but  merely  the  repre- 
sentatives of  wi'alth:  tiiat  wealth  itself  consists  in  the  value 
which  skill  and  labor  can  add  to  the  raw  material;  that  in  the 
absence  of  mono))()lv,  the  IxMiciits  of  trade  must  be  reci])rocal; 
that  these  Ix'iiolits  arise  siiii})ly  from  the  facility  with  which  a 
nation  exports  those  coniiiiodities  which  it  can  produce  most 
cheaply,  and  imports  those  which  it  can  produce  only  at  great 
expense,  but  which  the  other,  from  tlie  bounty  of  nature  or  supe- 
rior skill  in  production,  can  alTord  to  supply  at  a  lower  rate. 

This   result,   among  others,   making  its   way  year  by  ycav,  is 


192  SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

mainly  due  to  the  researches  of  Adam  Smith.  So  has  the  solitary 
thinker  contributed  more  to  the  happiness  of  man  than  all  the 
statesmen  and  legislators  of  whom  history  gives  us  record.  He 
persuaded  his  own  generation  and  governs  ours,  as  he  will  govern 
those  unborn.  All  men  revolve  about  the  thinker,  albeit  they 
know  it  not.  He  makes  no  noise,  his  voice  is  not  heard  in  the 
stir  of  the  street,  perhaps  nobody  knows  him,  and  there  is  no 
looker-on;  but  sitting  in  his  little  room,  he  constructs  institutions 
which  are  to  mould  the  destinies  of  coming  millions,  and  endure 
when  politicians,  merchants,  ships,  and  factories  have  vanished 
into  silence  and  night.  The  traflfic  of  Athens  is  hushed,  its  pride 
is  faded,  its  rich  men  all  forgotten;  but  Socrates  still  sways  the 
counsels  of  the  thoughtful  all  around  the  world.  When  he  left  off 
stone-cutting,  to  teach  philosophy,  his  townsmen,  if  they  noticed 
him  at  all,  pitied  him;  but  he  set  up  great  statues  of  thought  to 
inspire  the  ages.  When  Archimedes  spent  his  days  drawing 
figures  in  the  sand,  circles  and  spheres,  sines  and  cosines,  the 
fishermen  in  the  bay  thought  him  an  idler,  but  when  Syracuse 
was  besieged,  that  man  was  the  hero-king  of  the  nation.  When 
Galvani  hung  up  the  leg  of  a  frog  on  an  iron  fence,  his  servants 
considered  him  a  dreamer  and  a  fool;  but  that  was  the  first  step 
in  the  discovery  which  now  flashes  thought  from  Scotia  to  Orleans. 
The  pomp  of  Herod's  glory,  the  High  Priest's  solemn  grandeur, 
have  passed  away;  only  the  beatitudes  of  the  Nazareiie  peasant 
live,  larger  and  brighter  through  the  mists  of  eighteen  hundred 
years.     The  invisible  mind  is  the  great  workshop  of  the  race. 

Oratory. — This  was  the  age  of  English  Eloquence.  Perhaps 
the  world  lias  never  seen  such  a  galaxy  of  orators.  Chatham, 
Fox,  Burke,  Erskine,  Pitt,  Sheridan  and  Grattan  form  a  group 
unequjilled  before  or  since.  To  this  developnu'ut,  the  conditions 
were  peculiarly  favorable;  for  the  period  was  one  of  aroused 
thought,  of  exacting  style,  of  new  political  principles,  of  pressing-, 
practical,  yet  natif)nal  interests.  Additional  stimulus  was  g-iven 
by  the  increased  facility  of  circulating  speeches.  For  the  first 
time,  the  peoj)le  were  studying  the  proceedings  of  the  national 
legislature,  the  right  of  publishing  parliamentary  debates  having 
been  substantially  estal)lislied  in  1772.  The  winged  words  had 
henceforth  for  their  audience  the  great  public  beyond  the  walls. 
Parliamentary  reporting  was  beneficial  to  oratory  in  two  ways, — 


PROSE  —  ORATORY.  198 

it  immeasurably  extended  the  influence  of  parliamentary  speak- 
ing, and  did  much  to  purify  it  from  extravagance  and  bombast, 
thus  promoting  its  literary  excellence.  The  orator  knew  that 
language  may  exercise  a  thrilling  effect  in  delivery,  which  would 
be  insufferable  if  submitted  the  next  day  to  the  cold  criticism  of 
unimpassioned  readers. 

The  principal  figure  of  this  group  was  Burke.  Born  in 
Dublin,  in  1730,  he  came  to  London  in  1750,  a  poor  and  unknown 
adventurer ;  rose  by  dint  of  work  and  merits,  and  entered  Par- 
liament at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  trained  in  law,  history,  philoso- 
phy, and  literature;  lifted  himself  into  fame  by  his  speeches  on 
the  Stamp  Act  and  the  American  War,  and  won  the  crown  of  his 
glory  as  an  orator  when  in  the  great  Hall  of  Westminster,  in  the 
presence  of  the  fairest  and  most  gifted  of  the  land,  he  voiced 
the  thunders  of  his  eloquence  in  the  impeachment  of  Warren 
Hastings.  His  reading  was  extensive  and  varied,  his  intellect 
broad,  his  imagination  fertile  and  precise,  his  emotions  warm  and 
abundant.  '  I  have  learned  more  from  him,'  exclaimed  Fox, 
'than  from  all  the  books  I  ever  read.'  His  style  is  the  outj>our- 
ing  of  a  great  heart  and  a  deep  mind,  rolling  and  impetuous, 
broad  as  the  sea,  brilliant  with  color.     Take  an  example: 

'It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw  the  queen  of  France,  then  tlie 
dauphiness,  at  VersaiUes;  and  surely  never  ligtited  on  tliis  orb,  wliich  slie  hardly  seemed 
to  touch,  a  more  (lelii,'htful  vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decoralin-^'  and 
cheerin;^  tlie  elevated  sphere  she  just  beg;an  to  move  in, —  -ilitlerinu  like  the  morning 
star,  full  of  life,  and  si)lendor,  and  joy.  Olil  what  a  revolution!  and  what  an  heart  must 
I  have  to  contemplate  without  emotion  that  cle\ation  and  that  fall  I  I.iltle  did  I  dream, 
when  she  added  titles  of  veneration  to  that  enthusiastic,  distinct,  respectful  love,  that 
she  should  ever  be  obliijed  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace  concealed  in  that 
bosom;  little  did  I  dream  tliat  I  should  have  lived  to  see  such  disasters  fallen  uix)n  her 
in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation  of  men  of  honour  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought 
ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leapt^d  from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look  that 
threatened  her  with  insult.  lint  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters,  econo- 
mists, and  calculators  has  siiccec^ded,  and  Ilie  glory  of  Kurope  is  e.xtinL'uished  fon'ver. 
Never,  never  more  shall  we  behold  that  generous  hiyalty  to  rank  and  sex,  that  |)roud 
submission,  that  dignified  obedience,  that  subordination  of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive, 
even  in  ser\  itude  itself,  ihe  sjiirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The  unbought  irrace  of  life, 
the  cheap  defence  of  iKitions,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise  is 
gone!  It  is  ltoiu',  that  sen>ibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of  lionour,  wliirli  fell  a 
stain  like  a  wound,  wliirh  inspired  couraire  wliiNt  it  mititrated  ferocity,  which  ennobled 
whatever  it  touclied,  and  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil  by  losinu'  all  it"" 
grossn(-ss."' 

In  advanced  vcars,  he  Iiad  reluctantly  acce})tcd  ii  jMMision.  and 
was  rcpfoacluMl   hv  the  Duke  of   Bedford,  to  whom  he  answered  : 

^  /,'<  tterfionn  on  fhf  Ufi-itbtt'ion  in  Francf. 


194  SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'The  grants  to  the  house  of  Russell  were  so  enormous,  as  not  only  to  outrage 
ec'ouoniy,  but  even  to  stagger  credibility.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  is  the  leviathan  among 
all  the  creatures  of  the  crown.  He  tumbles  about  in  his  unwieldy  bulk:  he  plays  and 
frolicks  in  the  ocean  of  the  royal  bounty.  Huge  as  he  is,  and  whilst  "he  lies  floating 
many  a  rood,"  he  is  still  a  creature.  His  ribs,  his  tins,  his  whalebone,  his  l)lubbcr,  the 
very  spiracles  through  which  he  spouts  a  torrent  of  briue  against  his  origin,  and  covers 
me  all  over  with  the  spray,— everything  of  him  and  about  him  is  from  the  throne."' 

In  the  September  election  of  1780,  he  was  i-ejeeted  for  the  part 
he  had  taken  in  a  recent  mitigation  of  the  penal  laws  against  the 
Romanists.  His  address  to  the  electors  of  Bristol  has  this  noble 
conclusion  : 

'Gentlemen,  I  have  had  my  day.  1  can  never  sufficiently  express  my  gratitude  to 
you  for  having  set  me  in  a  place  wherein  I  could  lend  the  slightest  help  to  great  and 
laudable  designs.  If  I  have  had  my  share  in  any  measure  giving  quiet  to  private  prop- 
erty, and  private  (onscience;  if  by  my  vote  I  have  aided  in  securing  to  families  the  best 
possession,  peace;  if  I  have  joined  in  reconciling  kings  to  their  subjects,  and  subjects 
to  their  prince;  if  I  have  assisted  to  loosen  the  foreign  holdings  of  the  citizen,  and 
taught  him  to  look  for  his  protection  to  the  laws  of  his  country,  and  for  his  comfort  to 
the  good-will  of  his  countrymen;  if  I  have  thus  taken  my  part  with  the  best  of  men  in 
the  best  of  their  actions;  I  can  shut  the  book:  1  might  wish  to  read  a  page  or  two  more, 
but  this  18  enough  for  my  measure.    I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

.\nd  now,  gentlemen,  on  this  serious  day,  when  I  come,  as  it  were,  to  make  ui)  my 
account  with  you,  let  me  take  to  myself  some  degree  of  honest  pride  on  the  nature  of 
the  charges  that  are  l)rought  against  ine.  I  do  not  here  stand  before  you  accused  of 
venality  or  of  neglect  of  duty.  It  is  not  said,  tliat,  in  the  long  period  of  my  service,  I 
have  in  a  single  instance  sacrificed  the  slightest  of  your  interests  to  my  ambition,  or  to 
my  fortune.  It  is  not  alleged  that,  to  gratify  any  anger  or  revenge  of  my  own,  or  of  my 
party,  I  have  had  a  share  in  wronging  or  oi)i)ressing  any  description  of  men,  or  any  one 
man  of  any  description.  No!  the  charges  against  me  are  all  of  one  kind;— that  I  have 
pushed  the  principles  of  general  justice  and  benevolence  too  fur;  further  than  a  cautions 
policy  would  warrant,  ami  further  than  the  opinions  of  many  would  go  along  with  me. 
In  every  accidt'ut  which  may  happen  tliroiigh  life,  in  i)ain,  in  sorrow,  in  depression,  and 
distress  —  I  will  call  to  mind  this  accusation,  and  be  comforted." 

Long  before  he  retired  from  the  House,  he  stood  almost  alone; 

for  the  length  of  his  speeches,  the  profundity  of  his  argument,  the 

profusion    of    his    imagery,   his   want   of   temper  and   discretion, 

wearied   and   ])erplexed   the  squires  and   merchants   about    him. 

Too  iihilosoi)]iical,  he  — 

'Still  went  on  refining, 
.\n(l  tlioMu'ht  of  convincing  when  they  thought  of  dining.' 

But  if  his  ('lo(|U('n('e  flew  over  the  heads  of  those  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  it  was  to  l)e  the  admiration  of  future  ages.  Few 
speeches  can  tje  read  with  profit  when  tlie  hearer  and  speaker 
have  long  been  turned  to  dust;  but  'the  immortality  of  Burke 
is  that  which  is  common  to  (^iccro  or  to  Bacon  —  that  which  can 
never  be   interrupted  while  there  e.vists  the  beauty  of  order  or 

1.1  h'ller  to  a  Xoble  Lord. 


GIBBON.  195 

the  love  of  virtue;  and  which  can  fear  no  death  except  what  bar- 
barity may  impose  on  the  globe.' 

Through  the  trials  of  obscurity  and  the  seductions  of  splendor, 
he  preserved  a  pure  reputation  and  an  unscathed  conscience, 
fighting  nobly  for  noble  causes,  the  friend  of  the  afflicted,  the 
champion  of  principle,  and  the  persecutor  of  vice: 

'His  loyalty  he  kept,  his  love,  his  zeal; 
Xor  number  nor  example  with  him  wrought 
To  swerve  from  truth  or  change  his  constant  mind.' 

Cesume. — The  closing  years  of  the  period  were  marked  by  a 
revival  of  interest  in  early  English  poetry,  by  political  and  social 
conflicts.  Physical  science  was  rapidly  enlarging  its  acquisitions. 
The  scepticism  of  Hume  was  calling  forth  a  new  school  of  meta- 
physicians, who  emphasized  the  intuitive  nature  of  man,  and  thus 
helped  to  deepen  its  spiritual  impulses.  Political  Economy  formed 
a  new  intellectual  movement  of  vast  importance  to  the  interests 
of  peace,  and  therefore  of  civilization.  Able  and  devout  men 
were  giving  proof  of  the  practical  control  of  Christian  truth,  as 
well  as  of  its  theoretical  force.  Cowper  and  Burns  ushered  in  a 
new  school  of  poetry,  natural,  spontaneous,  and  sincere.  It  was 
preeminently  an  age  of  historical  inquiries  and  historical  methods 
of  investigation;  wakeful,  speculative,  germinant. 

The  century  developed,  in  prose,  two  distinct  modes  of  literary 
expression, —  the  colloquial  elegance  of  Addison,  and  the  im- 
pressive pomp  of  Johnson.  The  first  is  English,  the  second  is 
Latinistic.  Both  contribute  to  the  formation  of  modern  style,  in 
which  poetry  combines  polish  with  nature  and  feeling,  and  ]^rose 
becomes  at  once  vii>-orous  and  easv. 


(;  T 1^  no  X. 

Pardon  me,  sir,  hut,  as  niucli  as  I  admire  your  abilities,  I  cannot  bear  without 
indignation  your  sarcastic  slyness  upon  Christianity,  and  cannot  sot-  without  pity  your 
deterniini'd  hcxtility  to  the  Go!i\n-\.  -M/iita/.rr. 

BiOgrapliy.— Born  in  tilt'  village  of  Putney,  in  tlic  couniy 
of  Surrey,  in  1  To7. 

'Xor  c;ui  1  rcllict  witliout  pleasure  on  tlie  bounty  of  Nature,  wliiili  cii-^t  my  birth  in 
a  free  and  civilized  country,  in  an  age  of  science  and  philosophy,  in  a  f  uuily  of  lionor- 
able  rank,  and  decently  endowed  with  the  gifts  of  fortune.' 


196     SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

He  was  succeeded  by  .five  brothers  and  one  sister,  all  of  whom 
died  in  infancy.  He  was  himself  so  frail  that  the  most  tender 
assiduity  was  scarcely  sufficient  to  rear  him: 

'As  soon  as  the  use  of  speech  had  prepared  my  infant  reason  for  the  admission  of 
knowledge,  1  was  taught  the  arts  of  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic' 

In  his  ninth  year  he  was  sent  to  Kingston,  whence  he  was  recalled, 
after  a  residence  of  two  years,  by  the  death  of  his  mother: 

'I  was  too  young  to  feel  tlic  importance  of  my  loss;  and  the  image  of  her  person  and 
conversation  is  faintly  imprinted  in  my  memory.  My  poor  father  was  inconsolable.  I 
can  never  forget  the  scene  of  our  first  interview,  some  weeks  after  the  fatal  event;  the 
awful  silence,  the  room  hung  with  black,  the  mid-day  tapers,  his  sighs  and  tears;  his 
praises  of  my  mother,  a  saint  in  heaven;  his  solemn  adjuration  that  1  would  cherish  her 
memory,  and  imitate  her  virtues ;  and  the  fervor  with  which  he  kissed  and  blessed  me  as 
the  sole  surviving  pledge  of  their  loves.' 

At  fifteen  he  was  sent  to  Oxford,  carrying  there  a  stock  of 
erudition  that  would  have  puzzled  a  doctor,  and  a  degree  of 
ignorance  of  which  a  school-boy  would  have  been  ashamed.  His 
reading  was  extensive,  but  desultory;  and  his  education  without 
direction  or  discipline.  Hence,  as  he  himself  states,  he  spent 
fourteen  months  at  college  idly  and  unprofitably.  While  here, 
he  read  himself  into  Romanism. 

'  Youth  is  sincere  and  impetuous,  and  a  momentary  glow  of  enthusiasm  had  raised 
me  above  all  temporal  considerations.' 

To  reclaim  him,  he  was  immediately  sent  to  Lausanne,  to  bo 
under  the  care  of  a  Calvinist  minister,  whose  prudent  manage- 
ment, in  the  absence  of  opposing  influences,  effected  his  return 
to  Protestantism.  It  is  more  than  probable,  however,  that  he  was 
now  indifferent  to  either  faith,  and  the  change  was  a  mere  matter 
oT  form;  since  we  are  told  tliat  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  was  a 
'philosopher,'  as  the  eighteenth  century  understood  the  term;  in 
other  words,  a  disbeliever  in  revealed  religion.  His  disorders 
had  wonderfully  vanished,  and  he  was  able  to  pursue,  with  aston- 
ishing success,  a  regular  and  severe  .system  of  study  in  the  Latin 
and  French  languages,  and  in  general  literature.  During  his 
residence  here,  hi^  became  the  devoted  admirer  of  a  charming 
girl,  refined  l)y  education  and  exalted  by  piety.  It  is  curious  to 
speculate  on  the  effect  of  such  a  union  upon  his  character  and 
opinions,  but  he  was  to  b(»  one  of  the  illustrious  men  who  have 
felt  keenly  the  disap[)oiiitnu'iit  of  their  affection. 

'I  need  not  bliwh  at  rccollcctiiiir  the  object  of  my  choice;  and  though  my  love  was 
(lis;i]ip(iintc(l  of  success,  I  am  rather  proud  that  I  was  once  capable  of  feeling  sucli  a  pure 


GIBBON.  197 

and  exalted  sentiment.  .  .  The  wit,  the  l)eauty,  and  erudition  of  Mademoi««lle  Curchod 
were  the  theme  of  universal  applaii!<e.  The  report  of  such  a  prodigy  awakenetl  my 
curiosity;  1  saw  and  loved.  I  found  her  learned  without  pedantry,  lively  in  conversation, 
pure  in  sentiment,  and  elegant  in  manners;  and  the  first  sudden  emotion  was  fortified 
by  the  habits  and  knowledge  of  a  more  familiar  acquaintance.  She  permitted  me  to 
make  her  two  or  three  visits  at  her  father's  house.  I  passed  some  happy  days  there,  in 
the  mountains  of  Burgundy;  her  parents  honorably  encouraged  the  connection.  In  calm 
retirement  the  gay  vanity  of  youth  no  longer  fluttered  in  her  Iwsom;  she  listened  to  the 
voice  of  truth  and  passion;  and  I  might  presume  to  hope  that  I  had  made  some  impres- 
sion on  a  virtuous  heart.  At  Crassy  and  Lausanne  I  indulged  my  dream  of  felicity; 
but  on  my  return  to  England  I  soon  discovered  that  my  father  would  not  hear  of  this 
strange  alliance,  and  that  without  his  consent  I  was  myself  destitute  and  helpless.  .Vfter 
a  painful  struggle,  I  yielded  to  my  fate;  I  sighed  as  a  lover,  I  obeyed  as  a  son;  my  wound 
was  insensibly  healed  by  time,  absence,  and  the  habits  of  a  new  life.  My  cure  was  accel- 
erated by  a  faithful  report  of  the  tranquillity  and  cheerfulness  of  the  lady  herself;  and 
my  love  subsided  in  friendship  and  esteem.  The  minister  of  Crassy  soon  afterward? 
died;  his  stipend  died  with  him,  his  daughter  retired  to  Geneva,  where,  by  teaching 
young  ladies,  she  earned  a  hard  subsistence  for  herself  and  her  mother;  but  in  Iter  lowest 
distress,  she  maintained  a  spotless  reputation  and  a  dignified  behavior.  A  rich  banker 
from  Paris,  a  citizen  of  Geneva,  had  the  good  fortune  and  good  sense  to  discover  and 
possess  this  inestimable  treasure;  and  in  tlie  capiUil  of  taste  and  luxury  she  resisted  the 
temptations  of  wealth,  as  she  had  sustained  the  hardships  of  indigence.  The  genius  of 
her  husband  has  exalted  him  to  the  most  conspicuous  station  in  Europe.  In  every  change 
of  prosperity  and  disgrace  he  has  reclined  on  the  bosom  of  a  faithful  friend;  and  Mad- 
emoiselle Curchod  is  now  the  wife  of  M.  Necker,  the  iniuister,  and  perhaps  the  legisla- 
tor, of  the  French  monarchy.' 

In  1758  he  returned  to  fCngland,  spent  two  years  and  a  lialf  in 
the  unpromising  occupation  of  a  militia  captain;  travelled  and 
studied  in  France  and  Italy,  his  indiscriminate  appetite  having 
subsided  by  degrees  into  the  historic  line.  While  at  Rome,  his 
long  cherished  desire  to  write  some  historical  work  took  definite 
shape  from  a  romantic  incident: 

'As  I  sat  mii>iiig  amidst  the  ruins  of  Ilie  Capitol,  while  the  banfooted  friars  were 
singing  vespers  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  the  idea  of  writing  the  decline  and  fall  of  the 
city  first  started  in  my  mind." 

Some  years  elapsed,  however,  before  he  was  seriously  engaged 
in  the  execution  of  his  scheme.  In  17TS  he  settled  in  London. 
Once  seated  in  his  library,  he  began  the  composition  of  his  his- 
tory: 

'.\t  the  outset  nil  was  dark  and  <lonbtful, —  even  the  title  of  the  work,  the  true  vm  of 
the  Declini!  and  Fall  of  tlie  Empire,  the  limits  of  the  introduction,  the  division  of  the 
chapters,  iiiid  tlie  order  of  the  narrative,— and  1  was  often  templed  to  cast  away  the  l!il)or 
of  seven  years." 

Entered  Parliament,  where,  through  eight  sessions,  he  was  'a 
mute  nKMiitier,'  for  the  great  speakers  tilled  him  witli  despair,  and 
the  bad  ones  with  terror.  Finding  it  necessary  to  retrench,  and 
disappointed  of  a  lucrative  place  for  which  he  had  liop(Ml  from 
ministerial  patronage,  he  letired  to  Lausaiuie,  the  paradise  of   his 


198      SECOND  TRAXSITION   I'KRIOD KEPKESKNTATIVK  Al  TIIORS. 

early  recollections.  Here  he  lived  happily,  devoting  his  mornings 
to  composition,  and  his  evenings  to  the  enlightened  and  polished 
society  whicii  had  gathered  in  that  city  and  neighborhood.  He 
died  tranquilly,  of  a  long-standing  complaint,  during  a  visit  to 
London,  in  1794. 

Writings. — Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  (1776- 
1788).  It  begins  with  the  reign  of  Trajan,  a.d.  98,  and  closes 
with  the  fall  of  the  Eastern  Empire,  in  145^.  These  limits  in- 
clude the  irruption  of  the  barbarians,  the  establishment  of  the 
Byzantine  power,  the  reorganization  of  Europe,  the  foundation 
of  the  Mahometan  system,  and  the  Crusades.  Much  of  the  mate- 
rial had  to  be  patiently  gathered  from  the  rubbish  of  annalists 
and  the  wild  stories  of  chroniclers.  To  reproduce  the  sequence 
and  connection  of  events  through  this  long  and  obscure  period, 
he  had  to  study,  with  laborious  diligence,  philosophy,  theology, 
science,  jurisprudence,  geograph}',  war,  manners,  and  opinions, 
in  the  principal  countries  of  Europe  and  Asia.  AH  this  done,  he 
had  to  set  it  forth  in  a  clear  and  attractive  manner.  When  we 
consider  the  vast  sweep  of  his  subject,  his  long  and  solitary  con- 
finement to  study  and  meditation,  we  can  appreciate  his  feelings 
when  the  task  was  ended: 

'It  was  on  the  clay,  or  rather  night,  of  the  27th  of  June,  1T8",  between  the  hours  of 
eleven  and  twelve,  that  I  wrote  the  last  lines  of  the  last  i)age,  in  a  summer-house  in  my 
garden.  After  laying  dr)wn  my  pen,  I  took  several  turns  in  a  berceau,  or  covered  wallc  of 
acacias,  which  commands  a  prospect  of  the  country,  the  lake,  and  the  mountains.  The 
air  was  temperate,  the  sky  was  serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  moon  was  reflected  from  the 
walers,  and  all  nature  was  silent.  I  will  not  dissemble  the  first  emotions  of  joy  on  the 
recovery  of  my  freedom,  and  perhaps  the  establishment  of  my  fame.  But  my  iiridc  was 
soon  humbled,  and  a  sol)er  melancholy  was  spread  over  my  mind  by  the  idea  iliat  I  had 
taken  an  everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and  agreeable  companion;  and  tliat.  whatsoever 
might  be  tlic  future  fate  of  my  history,  the  life  of  the  historian  must  be  short  and 
precarious.' 

Style. — In  keeping  with  the  formal  rhetorical  tendency  of 
his  time, —  stately  and  ornate,  -elaborate  and  antithetical,  clear 
and  cold,  everywhere  sup])orted  by  a  i^rofusion  of  learning  : 

'Tlie  style  of  an  nntlior  should  l)e  the  image  of  his  mind,  but  the  choice  and  com- 
mand of  language  is  the  fruit  of  exercise.  Many  experiments  were  made  before  I  could 
hit  the  middle  tone  l>etween  a  dull  tone  and  a  rhetorical  declamation:  three  times 
did  I  compose  the  first  chapter,  and  twice  the  seconil  and  third,  before  I  was  tolerably 
satisfied  witli  their  effect.  In  the  remainder  of  ttie  way  I  advanced  with  a  more  equal 
and  easy  pace." 

The  verses  oi  Pope  accustomed  his  ear  to  the  sound  of  jjoetic 
liannoiiv. 


GIBBON.  199 

Rank. — '  Few  men,'  says  Guizot,  '  have  cotnbined,  if  we  are 
not  to  say  in  so  high  a  degree,  at  least  in  a  manner  so  complete 
and  well  rogulatetl,  the  necessary  qualitlcations  for  a  writer  of 
history.'  His  chief  defect  is  coldness  of  feeling,  disqualifying 
him  for  that  dramatic  animation  which,  with  his  solid  and  bright 
acquirements,  would  entitle  him  to  be  })ronounced  the  first  of 
English  historians.  A  second  fault,  nearly  allied  to  the  first,  is  a 
sensuous  imagination,  leading  him  to  dwell  upon  material  gran- 
deur with  a  fonder  enthusiasm  than  ho  could  feel  for  spiritual 
beauty  or  the  moral  sublime.  More  accurate,  erudite,  and  com- 
prehensive than  Hume,  he  is  less  philosophical, —  fonder  of 
splendor  and  display. 

The  faults  of  the  artist  are  the  faults  of  his  art.  Its  brilliancy, 
sustained  throughout,  is  metallic;  its  splendor,  though  imposing, 
is  artificial;  its  descriptions  are  luminous  rather  than  warm.  It 
regards  all  creeds,  political  and  religious,  from  the  outside. 
Facts  are  examined  with  judicial  severity;  but  the  passions  of 
which  those  facts  are  the  outward  symbols,  are  not  appreciated. 
Hence  Christianity,  that  school  of  tranquil  heroism,  is  dis- 
paraged. The  zeal  of  the  early  Christians,  we  are  told,  was 
earthly;  their  doctrine  of  a  future  life,  subordinated  to  worldly 
ends;  their  legends  of  miracles,  so  many  proofs  of  their  credu- 
lity; their  morality,  suited  to  popular  prejudices;  their  contempt 
of  ambition,  a  mere  covering  to  ambition  of  a  dilTerent  kind; 
their  sufferings,  not  to  be  compared  to  those  which  have  been 
voluntarily  encountered  by  other  men  without  sui)eriiatural  sup- 
port. Julian  the  Apostate  is  idolized,  but  a  bishop  or  a  religious 
king  is  under  the  suspicion  of  enthusiasm,  superstition  or 
roguery.  The  successes  of  barbarous  energy  receive  more  embel- 
lishment than  tiie  triumphs  of  Christian  faith  and  benevolence. 
The  former  are  tieated  with  fervid  eloquence;  the  latter,  with 
frigid  apathy.  This  is  the  famous  nu^thod  of  attack, —  insid- 
ious, though  unc(|uivo('al.  Covert  sneers  are  substituted  for 
distinct  assertions.  Without  an  open  avowal  of  disbelief,  Heve- 
lation  is  insinuated  to  be  a  poetical  fable.  Without  an  explicit 
<lenial  of  its  Divine  origin,  w(>  an;  asked  calmly  to  consider 
whether  the  phenomenon  is  really  such  as  to  imply  the  inteiven- 
tion  of  the  Deity. 

Thus    the    fidelity    of    the    Devliite   and   Fall,   as    a    historical 


200      SECOND  TRANSITION   PEUIOD KEritESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

picture,  is  greatly  marred  ;  yet,  whatever  its  faults,  it  is  a  monu- 
mental work,  not  yet,  if  it  ever  will  be,  superseded. 

Character. — He  was  born  a  student.  His  love  of  reading 
was  early  and  invincible;  and  he  would  not  have  exchanged  it, 
he  said,  for  the  treasures  of  India: 

'  My  father  could  never  inspire  me  with  his  love  and  knowledge  of  farming.  I  never 
handled  a  gun,  I  seldom  mounted  a  horse;  and  my  philosophic  walks  were  soon  termi- 
nated by  a  shady  bench,  where  I  was  long  detained  by  the  sedentary  amusement  of 
reading  or  meditation.' 

Industry  must  be  incorporated  with  our.  treasures  to  give  them 
value, —  industry  that  occupies  itself  in  useful  dreams  by  night, 
and  when  the  morning  rises,  flies  to  its  unfinished  labors : 

'  By  the  habit  of  early  rising,  I  always  secured  a  sacred  portion  of  the  day,  and  many 
scaUered  moments  wore  stolen  and  employed  by  my  studious  industry.' 

He  was  a  historian  by  predilection: 

'After  his  oracle,  Dr.  Johnson,  my  friend  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  denies  all  original 
genius,  any  natural  propensity  of  the  mind  to  one  art  or  science  rattier  than  another. 
Without  engaging  in  a  metaphysical,  or  rather  verbal  dispute,  I  knoiv,  by  experience, 
that  from  my  early  youth  I  aspired  to  the  cliaracter  of  an  historian." 

In  religion  he  was  a  Deist.  His  attitude  is  suggested  indi- 
rectly by  his  general  estimate  of  the  religions  of  the  Roman 
F^mpire: 

'The  various  modes  of  worship  which  prevailed  in  the  Roman  world  were  all  con- 
sidered by  the  peoiile  as  equally  true,  by  the  philosopher  as  equally  false,  and  by  the 
magistrate  as  equally  useful.' 

If  he  was  an  infidel,  he  was  such  from  conviction,  from  tempera- 
ment, from  environment.  A  lover  of  order,  he  abhorred  contro- 
versy; and  those  who  aspired  to  break  a  lance  upon  his  shield 
were  treated,  as  a  rule,  with  calm  contempt.  Only  once  was  he 
vexed  into  a  defence,  and  then  by  imputations  of  bad  faith.  Let 
us  hear  the  conclusion  of  his  Vindication  : 

'It  is  not  wiilioiit  some  mixture  of  mortification  and  regret,  that  1  now  look  back  to 
the  nunilxT  of  liours  whicli  1  have  consumed,  and  the  iiiinibcr  of  pages  which  I  liave 
filled,  in  vindicatiim  my  literary  nnd  moral  character  from  the  charges  of  wilful  7nis- 
vprfKentnl'ioiin,  irro-s  ei-ror",  and  servile  plngiarinins.  I  cannot  deri\e  any  triumjih  or 
consolation  from  tlic  occasional  advantages  which  I  may  have  gained  over  those  adver- 
saries whom  it  is  impos.-iblc  for  me  to  consider  as  objects  either  of  terror  or  esteem. 
Tlie  spirit  of  rrsciitineiit,  ami  (very  otlier  lively  sensation,  have  long  since  been  extin- 
gui-lied;  and  tlie  iieii  would  long  since  have  dropjx'd  from  my  weary  hand,  had  I  not 
liccn  su])port<'d  in  the  execution  of  tliis  iiuL'ratefiil  task  by  the  consciousness,  or  at  least 
liy  ilic  opinion,  that  I  was  discliaruiriL'  a  (lel)t  of  honor  to  tlie  pui)lic  and  to  myself.  I  am 
iiiipaliiiit  to  (lisuii->,  and  to  di-niiss  foukvkis,  tliis  odious  controversy,  witli  tlie  success 
of  uliicli  I  cannot  surely  be  elated;  and  I  have  or.ly  to  rc(]ue--t  that,  as  soon  as  my 
readers  are  convinced  of  my  innocence,  they  would  forget  my  vindication." 


GIBBON.  201 

A  man  of  vast  erudition,  of  comprehensive  intellect,  of  upright 
purpose,  of  dignified  self-respect;  but  deficient  in  moral  depth 
and  elevation  of  sentiment. 

Past  his  fiftieth  year,  he  estimated  the  value  of  his  existence 
in  the  threefold  division  of  mind,  body,  and  estate: 

'The  first  and  indippensable  requisite  of  happiness  is  a  clear  conscience,  unsullied 
by  the  reproach  or  remembrance  of  an  unworthy  action.  ...  I  am  endowed  with  a 
cheerful  temper,  a  moderate  sensibility,  and  a  natural  disposition  to  repose  rather  than 
to  activity;  some  mischievous  appetites  and  habits  have  perhaps  been  corrected  by 
philosophy  or  time.  The  love  of  study,  a  passion  which  derives  fresh  vigor  from  enjoy- 
ment, supplies  each  day,  each  hour,  with  a  perpetual  source  of  independent  and  rational 
pleasure;  and  I  am  not  sensible  of  any  decay  of  the  mental  faculties. 

Since  I  have  escaped  from  the  long  perils  of  my  childhood,  the  serious  advice  of  a 
physician  has  seldam  been  requisite.  .  .  . 

I  am  indeed  rich,  since  my  income  is  superior  to  my  expense,  and  my  expense  is 
equal  to  my  wishes.  My  friend  Lord  Sheffield  has  kindly  relieved  me  from  the  cares  to 
which  my  taste  and  temper  arc  most  adverse:  shall  I  add  that,  since  the  failure  of  my 
first  wishes,  I  have  never  entertained  any  serious  thoughts  of  a  matrimonial  connection?' 

This  solitude,  however,  at  first  a  necessity,  then  a  pleasure,  seems 
not  to  have  been  borne  without  repining: 

'I  feel,  and  shall  continue  to  feel,  that  domestic  solitude,  however  if  may  be  alle- 
viated by  the  world,  by  study,  and  even  by  friendship,  is  a  comfortless  state,  which  will 
grow  more  painful  as  I  descend  in  the  vale  of  years." 

Afterwards  he  writes  to  a  friend: 

'Your  visit  has  only  served  to  remind  me  that  man,  however  amused  and  occupied  in 
his  closet,  was  not  made  to  live  alone.' 

Influence. —  Great  intellects  are  both  representative  and 
creative;  mirroring  the  tendencies  of  their  own  time,  they  also 
modify  them,  .spontaneously  evolving  events  and  ideas  which, 
passing  itito  the  life  of  the  world,  become  the  originating  cause 
of  subsequent  developments.  Designedly  or  not,  their  energies 
bear  us  on.  As  a  conspicuous  factor  in  the  sceptical  movement 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  Gibbon  has  aided  tlie  march  of  the 
English  mind.  Scepticism,  which  to  the  ignorant  is  ati  abomi- 
nation, is  yet  the  neces.sary  antecedent  of  progress.  Intellectual 
content  means  intellectual  stagnation.  Without  douljt,  there 
would  be  no  investigation;  witliout  investigation,  no  knowledge; 
without  knowledge,  no  ])rogress.  To  sce])ticisiii  i.s  due  that 
spirit  of  iiHjuiry  which,  during  the  last  two  c('nturi(\s,  has  en- 
croached on  every  possible  subject.  To  it  we  owe,  jiriniarily,  the 
correction  of  the  three  fundamental  errors  of  the  past, —  intol- 
erance in  religion,  credulity  in  science,  and  despotism  in  jiolitics. 
To  examine  the  basis  on  which  its  opiniotis  are  built,  is  the  duty 


202      SECOND  TRANSITION  PKRIOD REI'RESKNTATIVK  AUTHORS. 

of  every  thoughtful  mind.  When  the  Apostle  says  'Prove  all 
things,'  he  implicitly  commands  us  to  doubt  all  things.  'He,' 
says  Bacon,  '  who  would  be  a  philosopher,  must  commence  by 
repudiating  belief.'  Absolute  certainty  would  be  the  paralysis 
of  study.  Unless  we  feel  the  darkness,  we  do  not  seek  the  light. 
True,  scepticism  forms  temporarily  a  crisis  —  a  period  of  mental 
distress;  but  it  is  still  the  lire  by  which  the  gold  must  be  purged 
before  it  can  leave  its  dross  in  the  pot  of  the  refiner.  As  a  per- 
manent state  of  mind,  nothing  could  be  more  calamitous.  It  is 
a  mean,  not  an  end.  We  are  to  doubt,  that  we  may  rationally 
believe, —  doubt,  not  from  fancy,  or  from  the  very  wish  to  doubt, 
but  from  prudence,  and  through  penetration  of  mind, —  doubt, 
that  we  may  reach  the  divine  realities  beyond  the  Slough  of 
Despond  and  the  Valley  of  Death. 

Thus  it  is  chiefly  in  this  indirect  way,  as  if  blindly  execut- 
ing a  trust,  that  Gibbon  has  added  to  the  stature  of  humanity. 
He  has  left  no  track  of  benevolence.  He  serves  us,  not  by  holy 
thoughts,  which  invite  us  to  resist  evil  and  subdue  the  world, 
but  by  the  reflective  power  which  compels  us  to  ask  whether 
things  are  as  they  are  commonly  supposed.  Perhaps  he  has 
helped  us  also  by  his  method.  At  least  he  has  furnished  a  new 
idea  in  the  art  of  reading.  We  ought  not,  he  says,  to  attend  to 
the  order  of  our  hooks  so  much  as  of  our  thoiKjltts: 

'The  perusal  of  a  particular  work  gives  birth  perhaps  to  ideas  unconnected  witli  the 
subject  it  treats;  I  pursue  these  ideas,  and  quit  my  proposed  plan  of  reading.' 

Thus,  in  the  midst  of  Homer  he  read  Longiiuis;  a  chapter  of 
Longinus  led  to  an  ejjistle  of  Pliny;  and  he  followed  the  train 
of  his  ideas  in  Burke's  Inquiri/  Concerninf/  the  ISubUme  and 
Iltautlful.  He  offers  an  important  advice  to  a  writer  engaged 
on  a  particular  subject: 

'I  suspended  my  ))erusal  of  any  new  book  on  the  subject  till  I  had  reviewed  all  that 
I  knew,  or  belicrvcd,  or  hud  thou<,'hl  on  it,  that  I  might  be  f]ual)fied  to  discern  how  much 
the  authors  added  to  my  oriiiinal  stock." 

Of  all  our  p()})ular  writers,  he  was  the  most  experienced 
reader;  and  his  precejits,  as  well  as  example,  are  valuable  hints 
to  students: 

'  I,et  us  read  with  method,  and  propose  to  ourselves  an  end  to  which  all  our  studies 
may  point.     Detached  parcels  of  knc/wledge  cannot  form  a  whole.   .  .  . 

While  we  propose  an  end  in  our  reading,  let  not  this  end  be  too  remote;  and  when 
once  we  have  attained  it.  let  our  attention  be  directed  to  a  different  subject.  Inconstancy 
weakens  the  understanding:  a  lontr  and  exclusive  apjjlication  to  a  single  object  hardens 
and  contracts  it.  .  .  . 


THE    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND.  203 

To  read  with  attention,  exactly  to  define  the  expressions  of  our  author,  never  to 
admit  a  conclusion  without  comprehcndinj;  its  reason,  often  to  pause,  reflect,  and  inter- 
rogate ourselves;  these  are  so  many  advices  which  it  is  easy  to  ^;ive,  but  difllcult  to 
follow.' 

Yet  we  must  deplore  the  bias  of  his  mind  which  disqualified 
him  to  translate  our  human  nature.  During  fifteen  centuries  he 
has  Gibhonized  it,  denying  to  it  any  pure  and  exalted  experience 
which  could  not  be  verified  by  his  own.  That  he  was  honest  in 
his  researches  does  not  prove  that  we  can  see  in  his  pages  the 
real  truth  of  persons  and  events.  He  who  has  not  an  aspiring 
reverence  —  an  anxiety  of  conscience  —  who  does  not  realize  the 
thirst  of  men  for  the  Unknown  —  who  cannot  sympathize  with 
moral  enthusiasm  and  trembling  delicacy  —  who  feels  not  a  warm 
desire  to  be  a  free  and  helpful  man,  a  lover  and  doer  of  good, — 
can  render  life  and  character  but  partially.  Suppressing  the 
religious  instinct,  he  ties  the  right  arm  of  human  strength  and 
puts  out  the  right  eye  of  human  light.  He  is  himself  a  fraction, 
however  great  his  intellect.  Without  this  commanding  affec- 
tion, his  soul  may  breathe  this  or  that  rich  tone,  but  it  is  a  lyre 
without  its  chief  string — an  organ  with  its  central  octave  dumb. 


GOLDSMITH. 

Wliere  eminent  talent  is  united  to  si)<)ileps  virtue,  we  are  awed  and  dazzled  into 
admiration,  but  our  admiration  Is  apt  to  be  cold  and  reverential;  while  there  is  sonie- 
thinij:  in  the  harmless  infirmities  of  a  sfood  and  sjreat,  but  crrinsr  individual,  that  pleads 
toiichin<,'ly  to  our  iiatine:  and  we  turn  more  kindly  towards  the  object  of  our  idolatry, 
when  we  find  that,  like  ourselves,  he  is  mortal  and  is  frail. —  Wufthingloii  Irving. 

Biography. — Horn  in  the  sitiall  village  of  Pallas,  Ireland,  in 
172(S.  His  fatlici-  was  a  clergvinaii,  whose  whole  income  did  not 
exceed  forty  pounds: 

'And  passim.'  rich  witli  f(irty  pounds  a  year.' 

Tradition  says  that  his  hirtliphiee,  a  half  rustic  mansion  in  a 
lonely  part  of  tlie  country,  was  haunted  ground.  In  after  vears, 
when  it  had  fallen  into  decay,  fairies  held  in  it  their  midiiig-Jit 
revels.  Vain  were  the  attempts  to  repair  it.  A  huge  goblin 
bestrode  the  house  every  eviMiing,  and  with  an  iuiiiicnse  pair  of 
jack-boots  kicked  to  pieces  all  the  work  of  the  ])receding  (hiy. 


204      SECONI>  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

About  two  years  after  his  birth,  his  father  removed  to  the 
pretty  hamlet  of  Lissoy,  which  became  the  little  world  of  his 
boyhood.  It  was  the  pride  and  boast  of  a  good  old  motherly 
dame,  when  ninety  years  of  age,  that  she  taught  Goldsmith  his 
letters.  At  six,  he  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  village  school- 
master, an  old  soldier,  who,  when  he  ought  to  have  been  teaching 
his  pupils  their  lessons,  told  them  marvellous  stories  of  his  wan- 
derings in  foreign  lands,  tales  of  ghosts  and  pirates.  The  fruit 
of  this  tuition  was  an  unconquerable  passion  for  everything  that 
savored  of  romance,  fable,  and  adventure.  His  motley  preceptor 
had  also  a  disposition  to  dabble  in  poetry,  and  before  he  was 
eight  years  old.  Goldsmith  had  contracted  a  habit  of  scribbling 
verses  on  scraps  of  paper.  A  few  of  these  were  conveyed  to  his 
mother,  who  read  them  with  a  mother's  delight,  and  saw  at  once 
that  her  son  was  a  poet.  A  trifling  incident  soon  induced  a 
general  concurrence  in  this  opinion.  ,  While  executing  a  hornpipe 
at  an  evening's  social,  the  musician,  making  merry  at  his  rather 
ludicrous  figure,  dubbed  him  his  little  ^'Esop.  Nettled  by  the 
jest,  he  stopped  short,  and  exclaimed: 

'Our  herald  hath  prochiinied  this  saying, 
See  /Esop  dancing  and  his  monkey  iihiying." 

This  was  thought  wonderful  for  a  boy  of  nine  years,  and  it  was 
resolved  to  give  him  an  education  suitable  to  his  talents,  several 
of  the  relatives  agreeing  to  contribute  towards  the  expense. 

To  prepare  him  for  the  university,  he  was  transferred  to  schools 
of  a  higher  order,  where  he  was  the  leader  of  all  boyish  sports, 
and  was  foremost  in  all  mischievous  pranks.  In  his  seventeentii 
year  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  as  a  sizar;'  lodging  in 
one  of  the  top  rooms,  where  it  is  said  his  name  may  still  l)e  seen, 
scratched  l)y  himself  upon  a  pane  of  glass.  The  sense  of  his 
inferior  station  was  very  annoying,  and  he  l)ecame  at  times  moody 
and  despondent.  He  was  known,  however,  as  a  boon  comj^anion, 
a  lover  of  convivial  ])leasures.  Fond  of  classics,  he  had,  naturally, 
a  ])Ositive  aversion  to  mathematics,  ethics,  and  logic.  The  death 
of  his  father,  in  1T47,  put  him  to  great  straits.  In  the  intervals 
between  occasional  remittances  from  friends  at  home,  he  would 
borrow  from   his  college  associat<'s;   atid  when  these  supplies  had 

'A  student  of  this  class  was  tanglit  and  boarded  gratuitously;  and,  in  return  for 
tlle^|■  advantages,  was  expected  to  l)e  diliirent,  and  to  make  himself  useful  in  a  variety  of 
ways,  -everal  of  which  were  deroiratorv  and  menial. 


GOLDSMITH.  205 

failed,  he  would  pawn  liis  books.  Again  he  would  scribble  a 
street-ballad,  dispose  of  it  for  five  shillings,  then  stroll  privately 
through  the  streets  at  night  to  hear  it  sung,  listening  to  the  com- 
ments and  criticisms  of  bystanders.  His  first  distinction  was  the 
winning  of  a  minor  prize,  amounting  to  but  thirty  shillings.  This 
influx  of  success  and  wealth  proved  too  much.  He  forthwith 
gave  a  supper  and  a  dance  at  his  chamber,  in  direct  violation  of 
rules.  The  sound  of  the  unhallowed  fiddle  reached  the  ears  of  his 
tutor,  wiio  rushed  to  the  scene  of  festivity,  chastised  the  'fatiier 
of  the  feast,'  and  turned  the  astonished  guests,  male  and  female, 
out  of  doors.  Unable  to  endure  this  humiliation,  the  next  day 
he  sallied  forth  upon  life,  resolved  to  bury  his  disgrace  in  some 
foreign  land.  For  three  whole  days  he  subsisted  on  a  shilling, 
then  parted  with  some  of  the  clothes  from  his  back;  then,  starved 
into  submission,  as  well  as  soothed  by  the  gentle  counsel  of  his 
brotlier,  retraced  his  steps  to  the  university.  Nearly  two  years 
later  he  received  his  degree,  and  gladly  took  his  final  leave. 

Returning  to  Lissoy,  he  spent  two  years  idly  among  his  rela- 
tives, most  of  whom  shook  their  heads  and  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders when  they  spoke  of  him.  Ostensibly  a  period  of  probation 
for  the  clerical  olfice,  it  was  in  reality  a  period  of  miscellaneous 
reading,  of  rural  sports  and  careless  enjoyments,  on  which  he  was 
M-ont  to  look  back  as  one  of  the  few  sunny  spots  of  his  cloudv 
life.  On  the  solemn  occasion  of  ordination,  he  presented  himself 
luminously  arrayed  in  scarlet  breeches  !  The  bishop  rejected 
him, —  whether  on  account  of  deficient  preparation,  reports  of 
irregularities,  or  his  gay  colors,  is  not  determined. 

A  year's  tutoring  put  him  in  possession  of  what  seemed  a 
fabulous  sum  of  money;  and  immediately  procuring  a  good 
horse,  without  a  word  to  fiis  friends,  with  thirty  ])ounds  in  his 
pocket,  he  made;  a  second  sally  in  quest  of  adventurers,  l)ut  came 
back  to  Ills  home,  after  the  lapse  of  several  weeks,  forlorn  as 
the  ])rodigal  son,  inounted  on  a  sorry  creature,  which  he  had 
named  Fiddleljack. 

It  was  then  decided  that  he  should  l)e  sent  to  f.ondon  for  the 
studv  of  law.  The  neci^ssary  funds  were  advanced  bv  his  uncle, 
but  he  was  bco-uihMl  into  a  gambling  house,  and  lost  the  whole 
amount  before  quitting  Dublin. 

A  second  contribution  was  raised,  and  in  the  autumn  of   lT-">~ 


206      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

he  proceeded  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  spent  two  winters  in  the 
study  of  medicine.  Setting  out,  as  usual,  with  the  best  inten- 
tions, he  soon  fell  into  convivial  and  thoughtless  habits.  He  now 
prepared  to  finish  his  medical  studies  on  the  Continent,  though 
his  true  motive  was  probably  his  long-cherished  desire  to  see 
foreign  parts.  Accordingly  he  is  next  found  at  Leyden,  where 
he  was  put  to  many  a  shift  to  meet  his  expenses.  He  thence 
determined  to  go  to  Paris,  and  was  furnished  by  a  fellow-student 
with  money  for  the  journey  —  all  of  which  he  spent  for  tulips, 
having  unluckily  rambled  into  the  garden  of  a  florist  just  before 
his  departure.  Too  proud  to  recede,  too  shamefaced  to  make 
another  appeal  to  his  friend,  he  set  out  to  make  the  tour  of 
Europe  on  foot,  with  but  one  spare  shirt,  a  flute,  and  a  guinea: 

'  I  had  some  knowledge  of  music,  with  a  tolerable  voice ;  I  now  turned  what  was  once 
my  amusement  into  a  present  means  of  subsistence.  I  passed  among  the  harmless  peas- 
ants of  Flanders,  and  among  such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very  merry, 
for  1  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their  wants-.  Whenever  I  approached  a 
peasant's  house  towards  nightfall,  I  played  one  of  my  merriest  tunes,  and  that  procured 
me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  subsistence  for  the  next  day;  but  in  truth  I  must  own,  when- 
ever I  attempted  to  entertain  i)ersons  of  a  higher  ranlc,  they  always  thought  my  perform- 
ance odious,  and  never  made  me  any  return  for  my  endeavors  to  pleiise  them.'" 

His  ramblings  took  him  into  Germany,  Switzerland,  France, 
and  Italy.  At  Padua,  where  he  remained  some  months,  he  is  said 
to  have  taken  his  medical  degree.  After  two  years  of  pilgrimage, 
'pursuing  novelty,'  as  he  said,  'and  losing  content,'  he  reached 
England  in  175G,  penniless  and  without  any  definite  plan  of 
action,  yet  buoyed  up  by  visions  of  hope  and  fame.  In  the 
gloomy  month  of  February  we  find  him,  a  houseless  stranger, 
adrift  in  the  streets  of  London  at  ni^ht.  I^ono:  afterwards  he 
startled  a  polite  circle  by  humorously  dating  an  anecdote  from 
the  time  he  'lived  among  the  beggars  of  Axe  Lane.'  After 
acting  as  getH>ral  drudge  to  a  chemist,  he  commenced  the  prac- 
tice of  medicine,  in  a  small  way,  among  the  poor.  There  he 
might  have  been  seen,  at  one  time,  dressed  in  tarnished  finery  of 
green  and  gold,  laughing  and  talking  with  an  old  schoolmate 
whom  he  hail  iti(>t;  at  another,  in  seccmd-liand  velvet,  with  cant^ 
and  wig,  adroitiv  covering  a  ])atch  in  his  coat  by  j^ressing  his  old 
tlircc-cornorcd  Iiat  fashionably  against  his  side,  while  he  resisted 
tin-  courteous  eft'orts  of  his  patient  to  relieve  him  of  the  encum- 
bnince.     His  next  shift  was  as  reader  and  corrector  of  the  press  to 

1  The  ■  I'hilosopliit  Vagabond'  in  ihc  Vicar  of  Wakejiekt. 


GOLDSMITH.  207 

Richardson  tlie  novelist,  an  occupation  which  he  alternated  with 
his  medical  duties.  Discouraged  by  the  slow  growth  of  his  repu- 
tation and  practice,  he  accepted  the  charge  of  an  academy,  where 
he  soon  became  a  favorite  with  the  scholars,  mingling  in  their 
sports,  diverting  them  with  stories,  amusing  them  with  his  flute, 
and  treating  them  to  sweetmeats.  Changing  once  more  his  mode 
of  life,  he  began  to  write  miscellaneously  for  reviews  and  other 
periodicals,  but  without  making  any  decided  hit;  writing  only  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  at  the  urgent  importunity  of  his  em- 
ployer. A  letter  of  this  date,  after  indulging  in  visions  of  future 
magnificence  and  wealtli,  concludes: 

'Let  ine,  then,  stop  my  fancy  to  take  a  view  of  my  future  self,— and,  as  the  boys 
say,  light  down  to  see  myself  on  horsebadk.  Well,  now  that  I  am  down,  where  .  .  . 
i«  I?  Oh  gods  I  gods  I  here  in  a  garret,  writing  for  bread,  and  expecting  to  be  dunned 
for  a  milk  score! ' 

In  1T58  he  presented  himself  at  Surgeons'  Hall  for  examina- 
tion as  hospital  mate,  but  was  rejected  as  unqualified.  That  he 
might  make  a  respectable  appearance,  he  obtained  a  new  suit  of 
clothes,  which  were  to  be  either  returned  or  paid  for  as  soon  as 
the  temporary  purpose  was  served.  Four  days  after  his  defeat, 
in  response  to  a  piteous  tale  of  distress,  he  painned  the  clothes. 
His  security  threatened,  and  he  replied: 

'I  know  of  no  misery  but  a  jail,  to  which  my  own  imprudence  and  your  letter  seem 
to  point.  I  lia\c  seen  it  inevitable  these  three  or  four  weeks,  and,  by  heaven  I  request  it 
as  a  favor  — as  a  favor  tl>at  may  prevent  something  more  fatal.  I  have  been  some  years 
struggling  with  a  wretched  being  — with  all  that  contempt  that  indigence  brings  with  it 
—  witli  all  those  passions  which  make  contempt  insupportable.  What,  then,  has  a  jail 
that  is  formidable  ?  ' 

Bishop  Percy  says  of  his  squalid  apartment: 

'I  called  on  Goldsmith  at  his  lodgings  in  Marcli  175'.!,  and  found  liim  writing  liis 
Inquirij,  ill  a  mist'rable.  dirty-looking  room,  in  which  there  was  but  one  chair:  and  when, 
from  civility,  lie  resiiraed  it  to  me,  he  himself  was  obliged  to  sit  in  the  window." 

While  in  less  forlorn  quarters,  sufTering  under  e.\tr(Miu'  depres- 
sion of  spirits,  he  wrote  to  his  brotlier: 

'I  must  confess  it  'Jrives  me  some  i)ain  to  think  I  am  almost  botriuniiiLr  the  world  at 
the  age  of  tliirty-one.  Tliough  I  nevtr  had  a  day's  ^ickness  since  I  saw  you.  yet  1  am 
not  that  stroiiLT,  active  man  you  once  knew  me.  You  scarcely  can  cmiceivc  liow  much 
cigiit  years  of  disapijointment,  anguisli,  and  study  liave  worn  me  down." 

Hene(>rorwar<l  liis  career  was  tliat  of  a  man  of  letters.  As  he 
rose  in  the  world,  he  souglit  to  improve  his  stvh^  of  liviinr,  took 
chambers  in  the  Teni])le,  began  to  receive  visits  of  c»M"t'motiy,  and 
to  entertain    his  literary  friends.      In   ITGO,  from   Immiio-   partially 


208      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

known  as  the  author  of  some  clever  anonymous  writings  and  a 
tolerated  member  of  the  Johnson  circle,  he  had  risen  to  fame,  and 
become  one  of  the  lions  of  the  day.  Difficulty  and  distress,  how- 
ever, still  clung  to  him.  His  finances  were  often  at  very  low  ebb, 
owing  to  his  imprudent  hospitality,  to  his  extravagance  in  dress, 
to  his  liability  to  be  imposed  upon,  and  his  irresistible  propensity 
to  give  to  any  who  asked.  Much  of  the  time  he  lived  literally 
from  hand  to  mouth,  by  the  forced  drudgery  of  his  pen.  A  gleam 
of  prosperity  plunged  liim  into  heedless  gayety  —  fine  rooms, 
fine  furniture,  fine  dress,  fine  suppers.  When  his  purse  gave  out, 
he  drew  upon  futurity,  obtaining  advances  from  booksellers  and 
loans  from  friends.  Some  of  his  works,  before  they  were  finished, 
were  paid  for  and  the  money  spent.  Thus  his  literary  tasks  out- 
ran him,  and  he  began  to  'toil  after  them  in  vain.'  The  autumn 
of  1772  found  him  'working  with  an  overtasked  head  and  weary 
heart  to  pay  for  pleasures  and  past  extravagance,  and  at  the 
same  time  incurring  new  debts  to  perpetuate  his  struggles  and 
darken  his  future  prospects.' 

He  expired  in  April,  1774,  of  a  nervous  fever  induced  by  close 
study,  irregular  habits,  and  depressing  cares.  '  Your  pulse,'  said 
his  j)iiysician,  'is  in  greater  disorder  than  it  should  be  from  the 
degree  of  fever  which  you  have;  is  your  mind  at  case?'  'No,  it 
is  not,'  was  his  last  sad  reply.  Burke,  on  hearing  of  his  death, 
burst  into  tears.  Reynolds  threw  by  his  pencil  for  the  day. 
Johnson  wrote  to  Boswell  three  months  afterwards:  'Of  poor  Dr. 
Goldsmith  there  is  little  to  be  told  more  than  the  papers  have 
made  public.  He  died  of  a  fever,  made,  I  ain  afraid,  more  violent 
by  uneasiness  of  mind.  His  debts  began  to  be  heavy,  and  all  his 
resources  were  exhausted.  .  .  .  Was  ever  poet  so  trusted  before?' 
His  remains  were  interred  in  the  Temple  burying-ground,  and  the 
Literary  Club  erected  a  monument  to  his  niemory  in  Westminster 
Abbey."^ 

Appearance. —  In  stature,  about  five  and  a  half  feet;  in 
build,  strong  l)ut  not  lieavy;  in  features,  plain  l)ut  not  repulsive; 
ill  niai:nors,  simple  and  natural;  in  mirth,  often  l)oisterous.  His 
face  was  pock-marked,  ratlier  fair  in  complexion;  his  hair,  brown 
enough  to  be  distinguished  frf)m  the  wig  wliicli  he  always  wore. 

Writings. —  77/'-  Triivrlhr  (17''i4);  the  first  of  his  works  Xii 
which  he  ]irelixeLl  liis  nanit-,  ami  tlic  first  to  lift  him  into  celebrity. 


GOLDSMITH.  209 

Johnson  pronounced  it  a  poem  to  whidi  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  anything  equal  since  the  death  of  Pope.  It  opens  with  an 
allusion  to  his  lone  wanderings,  the  forsaken  delights  of  his  youth, 
and  the  fond  remembrance  of  a  brother's  protecting  kindness.  A 
homeless  vagrant,  his  heart  turns  with  longing  recollection  to 
that  brother's  happy  fireside  and  sheltering  care: 

'Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend. 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend; 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire: 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair. 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair: 
Blest  bo  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crowned. 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Catch  at  the  jest  or  pranks,  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food. 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good.' 

With  how  much  of  truth  and  graceful  melancholy  he  adds: 

'But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care; 
Impelled  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  lleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the  view; 
That,  like  the  circle  rounding  earth  and  skies. 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone. 
And  fp.ul  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own.' 

The  plan  is  noble  and  simple.  A  roaming  stranger,  seated 
upon  an  Alpine  crag,  looks  down  on  three  converging  countries, 
searches  for  some  sj)ot  of  bliss  without  alloy,  reviews  his  long 
pilgrimage,  recalls  the  varieties  of  scenery,  of  government,  of 
religion,  of  character,  which  he  has  observed,  and  comes  to  the 
conclusion  that  our  happiness  depends  far  less  upon  political 
institutions  than  upon  the  temj)er  and  r(>gulatioii  of  our  minds: 

'How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  curel 
Si  ill  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consigned. 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find." 

The  predominant  impression  of  the  poem  is  of  its  naturalness; 
that  it  is  built,  not  upon  fantastic  unreality,  but  ujion  nature, 
dealing  with  the  world  which  th(»  jioet  has  liimsclf  lived  in  and 
known,  and  appealing  to  f)ur  .sympathies  by  its  fact  of  e.\j)erience, 
])y  its  humanitv,  bv  its  lovely  images  of  various  life,  by  the  serene 
graces  of  its  stvle,  and  the  mellow  ilow  of  its  verse. 
14 


210      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield  (1766),  sold  to  save  its  author  from  arrest.' 
The  scenes  and  characters  are  taken  from  the  originals  of  his 
own  motley  experience,  but  he  has  set  them  forth  with  the  color- 
ings of  his  amiable  nature.  The  Primrose  family,  like  the  Gold- 
smiths, are  remarkable  for  their  worth,  but  of  no  cleverness  in 
the  ways  of  the  world;  their  hearts  always  right,  but  their  heads 
often  wrong.  Mrs.  Primrose  can  read  without  much  spelling,  is 
an  excellent  cook,  and  at  dinner  gives  the  history  of  every  dish. 
She  has  a  motherly  vanity  to  appear  genteel,  and  her  daughters, 
imbibing  the  spirit  of  elegance,  'make  a  wash  for  the  face  over 
the  fire.'  Her  son  Moses  gets  cheated  at  the  fair,  and  sells  a  colt 
for  a  box  of  green  spectacles,  that  makes  him  sweat  to  carry  it. 
Their  cousins,  'even  to  the  fortieth  remove,'  come  to  eat  dinner, 
and  sometimes  to  borrow  a  pair  of  boots.  Dr.  Primrose,  husband 
and  father,  is  a  country  clergyman;  a  good,  easy-going  soul, 
whose  only  adventures  have  been  by  the  fireside.  '  He  writes 
pamphlets,  which  no  one  buys,  against  second  marriages  of  the 
clergy;  writes  his  wife's  epitaph,  while  she  is  still  living,  stating 
that  'she  was  the  only  wife  of  Dr.  Primrose';  lias  it  elegantly 
framed  and  placed  over  the  chimney-piece. 

He  loses  a  fortune  and  migrates, —  his  family  with  him  on 
horseback, — easing  the  fatigues  of  the  journey  with  philosophical 
disputes.  Though  his  fortune  is  diminished,  his  happiness  is  not; 
for  he  has  a  constitution  that  extracts  cheerful  content  from  the 
humblest  lot: 

'Notliing  could  exceed  the  neatness  of  my  little  enclosures,  the  elms  and  hedge-rows 
appearing  with  inexpro^sible  beauty.  .  .  .  Our  little  habitation  was  situated  at  the  foot 
of  a  sloping  hill,  sheltered  with  a  beautiful  underwood  behind,  and  a  prattling  river 
before:  on  one  side  a  meadow,  on  the  other  a  green.  ...  It  consisted  of  but  one  story, 
and  was  covered  with  tliatch,  which  gave  it  an  air  of  great  snngness;  the  walls  on  the 
inside  were  nicely  whitewashed,  and  my  daughters  undertook  to  adorn  them  with 
pictures  of  their  own  designing.  Though  the  same  room  served  lis  for  parlor  and  kitchen, 
that  only  made  it  the  warmer.  Besides,  as  it  was  kept  with  the  utmost  neatness,  the 
dishes,  i)lates,  and  copiMTs,  being  well  scoured,  and  all  disposed  in  bright  rows  on  the 
shelves,  the  eye  w  as  airriH'ably  rtdieved,  and  did  not  want  richer  furniture.' 

I  I  receiveil  one  mornini:  a  messjitre  from  jionr  (ioldsnn'th  that  he  was  in  great  dis- 
tress, .'ind,  as  it  was  not  in  his  jjowcr  to  come  to  me.  bcLTiring  that  I  would  come  to  him 
as  soon  as  ])ossible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I 
accor(liii!.'ly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  fcnind  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him 
for  his  rent;  at  which  he  "as  in  a  vioU'Ut  passion.  I  i)ercei\('d  that  he  had  already 
changed  my  iruinea,  and  had  L'ot  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  Jiut  the 
cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  bi'^ran  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by 
which  he  mii^tit  be  extricated.  He  then  told  me  that  he  hail  a  no\el  ready  for  the  pres>, 
which  he  i)roduced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  its  merit;  told  tlu-  landlady  I  shoidd 
~oon  return,  and  haviii<_'  L'one  to  a  book-eller,  sold  it  for  sixty  ponmls.  I  brought  (Jold- 
>mith  tile  money,  and  he  discliar'_'ed  his  rent,  not  w  ithout  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high 
tone  for  having  iised  him  -o  \\\.—JI"-',it Its  /,;/>  of  .lohnxijn . 


GOLDSMITH.  211 

'The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws  wa^5  regulated  in  the  following  manner:  by 
sunrise  we  all  assembled  in  our  common  apartment,  the  fire  being  previously  kindled  by 
the  servant.  After  we  had  saluted  each  other  with  proper  ceremony,  for  I  alwayu 
thought  fit  to  keep  up  some  mechanical  forms  of  good  breeding,  without  which  freedom 
ever  destroys  friendship,  we  all  bent  in  gratitude  to  that  Being  who  gave  us  another  day. 
This  duty  being  performed,  my  son  and  I  went  to  pursue  our  usual  industry  abroad, 
while  my  wife  and  my  daughters  employed  themselves  in  providing  breakfast,  which  was 
always  ready  at  a  certain  time.  1  allowed  half  an  hour  for  this  meal,  and  an  hour  for 
dinner;  which  time  was  taken  up  in  innocent  mirth  between  my  wife  and  daughters,  and 
in  philosophical  arguments  between  my  sou  and  me." 

They  all  make  hay  together,  and  in  the  cahn  of  the  evening  sit 
under  the  hawthorn  hedge,  drink  tea  and  enjoy  the  landscape; 
the  two  little  ones  read,  the  girls  sing  to  the  guitar;  while  the 
parents  stroll  down  the  sloping  field,  '  that  was  embellished  with 
blue-bells,'  and  drink  in  the  breeze  that  wafts  both  health  and 
harmony: 

'It  is  a  proverb  abroad,  that  if  a  bridge  were  built  across  the  sea,  all  the  ladies  of  the 
continent  would  come  over  to  take  pattern  from  ours;  for  there  are  no  such  wives  in 
Europe  as  our  own.  But  let  us  have  one  bottle  more,  Deborah,  my  life,  and,  Moses,  give 
us  a  good  song.  What  thanks  do  we  not  owe  to  Heaven  for  thus  bestowing  tranquillity, 
health,  and  competence!  I  think  myself  happier  now  than  the  greatest  monarch  upou 
€arth.    He  has  no  such  fireside,  nor  such  pleasant  faces  about  it." 

The  poor  Vicar's  eldest  daughter  is  abducted,  and  he  sots  out, 
with  his  Bible  and  pilgrim's  staff,  to  find  her;  returns  at  midnight, 
to  discover  his  house  in  a  blaze  of  fire;  burns  his  arm  terriblv  in 
rescuing  his  two  little  children  from  the  flame.s,  but  thinks  onlv 
of  the  blessings  he  still  enjoys: 

'"Now,""  cried  I,  holding  up  my  children,  "now  let  the  flames  burn  on,  and  all  my 
possessions  ijerish;  here  they  are,— I  have  saved  my  treasure:  here,  my  dearest,  here 
are  our  treasures,  and  we  shall  yet  l)e  ha|)py.""  We  kissed  our  little  darlings  a  thousand 
times:  they  clasped  us  round  the  neck,  and  seemed  to  share  our  transiwrts,  while  their 
mother  laughed  and  wept  by  turns." 

Fresh  calamities  come.      He  is  thrown  into  jail   for  debt,  in  a  vile 

atmosphere,  among  wretches  who  sw<>ar  and  blaspheme;   but   he 

feels  for  them  oidy  compassion, —  even  resolves  to  reclaim  them: 

'These  peoi)lo,  however  fallen,  are  still  men;  and  that  is  very  good  title  to  my 
affections,  (iood  counsel  rejected,  returns  to  enrich  the  giver's  bosom;  and  thouirh  the 
instruction  I  coinniunicate  may  not  mend  them,  yet  it  will  assuredly  mend  myself.  If 
these  wretches  .  .  .  were  i)riiuis.  tliere  would  ln' thousands  ready  to  ofTer  their  minis- 
try; but,  in  iriy  opinion,  tlic  liearl  that  is  buried  in  a  diMiLreon  is  as  ])recious  as  that  seated 
upon  a  Ihroiic.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  may  e:ilcli  up  e\en  one  from  the  LTulf,  and  that  will  be  a 
great  gain:  for  is  thire  upoi.  eartli  a  geui  ^o  precious  as  the  human  soul  f' 

The  j^risoiicrs  wink,  wliisper,  cough,  and  laugh,  Imt  he  ucxcr 
gives  wav.  In  less  than  six  days,  some  were  piMiitcnt,  and  all 
were  attentive: 

'I  did  no!  stop  hiTe,  Out  iii:-tinittil  fines  for  the  pnni-hnu  nr  of  iinnioralil\ .  :ind 
rewuri'.-  for  peculiar  iniln-trv.     Thus  in  lc-~  than  a  fortniL'hi,  1   Inul  forun-d  tlnni  into 


212       SECOND  TKANSITIOX  PKRIOD RKPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

something  social  and  humane,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  regarding  myself  as  a  legislator, 
who  had  brought  men  from  their  native  ferocity  into  friendship  and  obedience.' 

He  falls  ill,  his  illness  increases;  he  sees  that  his  family  will  soon 
be  without  bread,  learns  that  his  daughter  is  dying;  still  his  soul 
is  paternal  and  humane  towards  the  author  of  his  misery: 

'Heaven  be  praised,  there  is  no  pride  left  me  now.  I  should  detest  my  own  heart,  if 
I  saw  either  pride  or  resentment  lurking  there.  On  the  contrary,  as  my  oppressor  has 
been  once  my  parishioner,  1  hope  one  day  to  present  him  an  unpolluted  soul  at  the 
eternal  tribunal." 

His  second  daughter  is  carried  off  and  his  eldest  son  is  impris- 
oned under  a  false  accusation  of  murder.  He  is  not  a  stoic;  he 
weeps,  wants  to  die,  even  a  curse  is  on  his  lips;  but  he  remem- 
bers his  calling,  recovers  his  fortitude,  and  thinks  how  he  will  fit 
himself  and  his  son  for  eternity.  But  he  must  also  exhort  his 
fellow-prisoners;  makes  an  effort  to  rise  from  the  straw,  but  is 
too  weak,  and  is  forced  to  recline  against  the  wall.  In  this 
position,  he  explains  that, — 

'Providence  has  given  to  the  wretched  two  advantages  over  tlie  happy  in  this  life  — 
greater  felicity  in  dying,  and  in  Heaven  all  that  superiority  of  pleasure  which  arises 
from  contrasted  enjoyment." 

Fortune  will  at  last  change  in  our  favor,  if  we  are  inflexible. 
Benevolence  is  repaid  with  unexpected  favor;  simplicity  and 
truth  have  their  reward: 

'I  had  nothing  now  on  this  side  of  the  grave  to  wish  for:  all  my  cares  were  over, 
my  pleasure  was  unspeakable.  It  now  only  remained  that  my  gratitude  in  good  fortune 
should  exceed  my  former  submission  in  adversity.' 

Good  triumj)hant  over  evil  is  the  moral.  Remember  that 
patience  in  distress,  trust  in  God,  indulgent  forgiveness,  quiet 
labor,  and  cheerful  endeavor,  are  the  certain  means  of  pleasure 
and  of  turning  pain  to  noble  uses.  Consider  that  self-denial  and 
heroism  may  coexist  with  many  follies;  that  in  the  improvement 
of  the  race  the  most  lowly  have  their  allotted  part.  Be  kind  to 
the  poor  —  a  lover  of  happy  human  faces.  Verily,  this  is  Gold- 
smith himself. 

Th(  Deserted  Yilleige  (1770).  Few  poems,  if  any,  have 
attainecl  a  wider  popularity.  Gray,  in  tiiis  the  last  summer  of 
his  life,  had  it  read  aloud  to  Iiini,  and  exclaimed,  '■This  man  is  ei 
jKxf."  It  describes,  not  a  living  and  active,  but  a  departed  and 
vaiiislicd,  f'xistence,  which  the  ]ioet  has  looked  upon,  loved  and 
prized, —  once  a  rural  paradise,  a  seat  of  plenty  and  content; 
now  a  decay;  a  thing  of  memory,  round  which  fancy  and  feeling 


GOLDSMITH.  213 

twine  their  golden,  ever  lengthening  chain.  Its  original,  we  are 
inclined  to  think,  is  Lissoy,  the  scene  of  his  boyhood.  Much  of 
it,  we  are  told,  was  composed  while  strolling  in  the  beautiful 
environs  of  London,  and  thus  mucii  of  the  softness  and  sweetness 
of  English  landscape  is  blended  with  the  ruder  features  of  his 
native  village. 

It  is  a  mirror  of  the  author^s  heart,  of  the  fond  pictures  of 
early  friends  and  early  life  forever  sacred.  Desolation  has  settled 
upon  the  haunts  of  his  childhood,  but  imagination  peoples  the 
deserted  spot  anew,  rebuilds  its  ruined  haunts,  carries  us  back 
to  the  season  of  natural  pastimes,  of  simple  joys  in  romantic 
seclusion: 

'Sweet  Auburn:  loveliest  village  of  the  plain. 
Where  health  and  |)leiity  cheered  the  labouring  swain; 
Where  .-iiniling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed; 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please; 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scent! ; 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
Tlie  never-failing  brook,  the  l)usy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbouring  hill; 
The  hawlhornbush,  with  seats  beneath  the  sliade. 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  1 
How  oflen  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
Wlien  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play; 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free; 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree.  .  .  . 
Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close, 
L'l)  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There  as  T  passed,  with  careless  steps  and  slow. 
The  niinL'lmg  notes  came  softened  from  l)elow; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young, 
Tlie  noisy  <rees('  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school." 

Tlio  whole  po(Mn  is  a  traiisi^rijit  of  his  own  associations  ;ind 
experience,  idcali/fd.  From  his  father  and  brother  aiikt-  were 
drawn  tho  (•xcjuisite  features  of  the  village  preaclier,  l(>adiiig  a 
life  of  active  pi(>tvand  of  Immble  lint  noble  usefulness.  (  )hserve 
the  sublime  simile  in  the  elosino-  lines: 

'  Near  yonder  copse,  nlieri'  once  the  LTarden  smiled, 
And  still  whire  many  a  garden  llower  grows  wild. 
There,  wlicn-  a  few  torn  slinili<  the  i)lace  disclose, 
The  vilhiL'e  prc:ich(v'-i  ni(ide<t   mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  counlry  dear. 


214      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

And  pasfiing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  j'car; 

Remote  from  towns,  he  ran  lii*  godly  race, 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  vishcd  lo  change  his  place; 

Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  i)o\ver. 

By  doctrines  fashioned  lo  the  varying  hour; 

Far  other  aims  his  heflrt  had  learned  to  prize. 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train; 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away ; 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  shewed  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow. 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe: 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 

His  ))ily  gave  ere  charily  began.  .  .  . 

At  churcli  witli  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  i)lace; 

Truth  from  his  lii)s  prevailed  with  double  sv\ay; 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remaiiH'd  lo  pray. 

Tlie  service  past,  around  the  i)ious  man. 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 

E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 

And  i)luckcd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile; 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed; 

To  tliem  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given. 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven; 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm; 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head." 

Through  his  immortal  waiidoriiio's,  amid  the  din  and  toil  of 
crowded  London,  his  heart  —  ever  innocent  and  childlike  amid  a 
thousand  follies  and  errors  of  the  head  —  had  cheated  itself  with 
'a  dream  of  rural  (juiet;  hut  time  at  last  had  shattered  the  fabric 
of  his  vision,  and  cut  to  its  root  his  clicrisluMl  hope: 

'111  .ill   my  wanderings  round  tliis  world  of  care. 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  (iod  has  giv'n  my  sliare  — 
I   -till  liM(l  hopes,   my  l:lte^t   hours  to  crown, 
Aiiiid   Ihc>e  humljle  bowers  to  lay  me  down: 
To  liii^baiid  out  life's  iai)er  at  the  clo^e, 
.\iid  kee])  llie  tlame  from  wasting  by  repose: 
I  still  liarl   liojies,   for  pride  attends  us  still. 
Amid  the  swains  to  sliow  my  book-learn'd  <kill. 
Around  my  tire  mm  ev'ninir  grouj)  to  draw, 
An<l  tell   i.r  all   1   felt  an.l  all   I  saw; 
An<l  a>  a  hare,  wlioiii  IiomikN  and  horns  pursue, 
I'ants  •()  the  |)laee  from  wlienee  at  lirst  she  flew. 


GOLDSMITH.  216 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexation*  past. 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blcss'd  retirement  1   friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  necer  must  t>e  mine. 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  lilie  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try. 
And,  since  "tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  woik  and  weej). 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state. 
To  pi)urn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves,  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue"*  friend; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unpcrceiv"d  decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past." 

She  Stoops  to  Co/iquer,  or  The  Mistakes  of  a  Xl(fht  (1773); 
a  prose  comedy,  in  which  the  hero  and  his  audience  are  led 
through  five  acts  of  blunders.  Johnson  said  that  he  knew  of  no 
comedy  for  many  years  that  had  so  much  exhilarated  an  audi- 
ence, and  had  answered  the  great  end  of  comedy  —  making  an 
audience  merry.  Two  parties  mistake  a  gentleman's  house  for 
an  inn — such  is  the  chief  incident.  The  author  but  dramatized 
his  own  adventure,  true  to  his  habit  of  turning  the  events  of  his 
life  to  literary  account.  In  his  school  days,  a  friend  had  given 
him  a  guinea  for  his  travelling  expenses  homeward.  He  deter- 
mined to  spend  his  money  royally.  Instead  of  pushing  directly 
home,  he  halted  for  the  night  at  the  little  town  of  Ardagh,  and, 
accosting  the  first  person  he  met,  iiujuired,  with  a  lofty  air,  for 
the  best  house  in  the  place.  The  person  addressed  cliaiu'ed  to  be 
a  notorious  wag,  who,  amused  with  the  self-consequence  of  the 
bov,  directed  him  to  the  family  mansion  of  Mr.  Featherstone. 
Arriving  there,  he  ordered  his  horse  to  be  taken  to  the  stable, 
walked  into  the  parlor,  seated  liimself  h\  the  fire,  and  demanded 
what  he  could  have  for  his  supper.  Though  connnonlv  dillident, 
he  now  rose  to  the  grandeur  of  the  occasion,  and  assumed  the  car- 
riage of  the  experienced  traveller.  The  owner  of  the  house  soon 
discovered  the  mistake,  but,  being  a  man  of  humor,  determined 
to  fool  his  whimsical  guest  'to  the  top  of  his  I)eiit.'  Aeconliiigly 
the  stripling  was  iicrmitted  to  swagi>"er  as  \\o  plcasiMJ.  .'^u])per 
served,  he  ordcrcnl  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  condi'sccndingly  insisKnl 
that  tlif   family  should   partake.      As  a  last   floiiri.sh,  on  going  to 


216      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

bed,  he  gave  particular  instructions  to  have  a  hot  cake  at  break- 
fast !  It  was  not  till  he  had  dispatched  his  morning  meal,  and 
was  regarding  his  guinea  with  a  pathetic  farewell,  that  he  was 
told,  to  his  confusion  and  dismay,  of  his  ludicrous  blunder. 

During  the  period  of  his  newspaper  drudgery  (1756-04),  he 
composed  his  J^ssaj/s  /  weekly  contributions,  neglected  at  their 
first  appearance,  but  generally  read  and  admired  when  known  to 
be  from  the  pen  of  the  famous  author  of  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
afield/  sad  commentary  on  the  world,  withholding  from  unknown 
and  unhonored  genius  that  praise  which  it  lavishes  at  the  sound 
of  the  trumpet  when  it  is  no  longer  needed.  Also,  Letters  from 
a  Citizeit.  of  the  World,  describing  English  life  and  manners 
under  the  assumed  character  of  a  Chinese  traveller;  -Letters  from 
a  Nohleman  to  his  Son,  a  short  and  gracefully  narrated  history 
of  England. 

As  task-work,  to  recruit  his  exhausted  finances,  he  put  forth 
successively  the  History  of  Rome,  History  of  England,  History 
of  Greece,  and  History  of  Animated  Nature.  The  charms  of 
his  style  and  the  play  of  his  happy  disposition  throughout,  have 
rendered  these  works  far  more  popular  than  many  others  of  much 
greater  scope  and  science.  Yet  the  undertakings  were  not  con- 
genial with  his  studies,  which  renders  their  popularity  somewhat 
wonderful.  His  genius  was  diverted  from  its  bent  to  drudge  for 
bread,  and  his  own  correspondence  betrays  his  misery: 

'Every  soul  is^  visiting  about  and  merry  but  myself.  And  that  is  hard  too,  as  I  have 
been  trying  those  three  months  lo  do  t;omething  to  make  people  laugh.  There  have  I 
been  strolling  about  the  hedges,  studying  jests  with  a  most  tragical  countenance.  The 
Natural  IlUtory  is  about  half  finished,  and  I  will  shortly  finish  the  rest.  God  knows  I  am 
tired  of  this  kind  of  finishing,  which  is  but  bungling  work:  and  that  not  so  much  my 
fault  as  the  fault  of  my  scurvy  circumstances.  ...  I  have  published,  or  Davies  has  i)ub- 
lished  for  me,  an  Ahrvhjdneul  of  the  Il'istoinj  of  EnrjlnnO,  for  which  I  have  been  a  good 
deal  abused  in  the  new>i)apers  for  betraying  the  liberties  of  the  i)coi)le.  God  knows  I 
had  no  thouL'ht  for  or  against  liberty  in  my  head;  my  whole  aim  being  to  make  up  a  book 
of  a  decent  ^ize,  that,  as  'Squire  Richard  says,  '■'■irould  do  no  harm  to  iiotjotly.''' ' 

Style. —  Simple,  delicate,  animated,  pure,  humane;  lifted,  by 
its  warmth,  above  the  school  to  which  it  belongs;  abounding  in 
images,  mild,  tender,  and  variotis,  reflected  from  the  calm  depths 
of  jiliilosophic  contemplation. 

Rank. — The  most  charming  and  versatile  writer  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  .Johnson,  estimating  him  as  a  writer,  thus,  in  con- 
versation with  Boswell,  compares  him  with  Kobertson: 


GOLDSMITH.  217 

'Sir,  yon  must  consider  how  that  penetration  an<l  tliut  paiiitinj;  are  employed.  Ills 
not  history,  it  is  imagination.  lie  who  describes  what  he  never  saw,  draws  from  fancy. 
Robertson  paints  minds  as  Sir  Joshua  paints  faces,  in  a  history-piece;  he  imasjines  an 
heroic  countenance.  Vou  must  look  upon  Robertson's  work  as  romance,  and  try  it  by 
that  standard.  History  it  is  not.  Besides,  sir,  it  is  the  great  excellence  of  a  writer  to  put 
into  his  book  as  much  as  his  book  will  hold.  Goldsmith  has  done  this  in  his  history.  Now 
Robertson  might  have  put  twice  as  much  in  his  book.  Robertson  is  like  a  man  who  has 
T)acked  gold  in  wool;  the  wool  takes  up  more  nwin  than  the  gold.  No,  sir,  I  always 
thought  Robertson  would  be  crashed  with  his  own  weiglit  —  would  be  buried  under  his 
own  ornaments.  Goldsmith  tells  you  shortly  all  you  want  to  know:  Robertson  detains 
you  a  great  deal  too  long.  No  man  will  read  Robertson's  cumbrous  detail  a  second  time, 
but  Goldsmith's  plain  narrative  will  please  again  and  again.  I  would  say  to  Robertson 
what  an  old  tutor  of  a  college  said  to  one  of  his  pupils,  "Read  over  your  composition, 
and,  wherever  yt)u  meet  with  a  passage  which  you  think  is  particularly  fine,  strike  it 
outi"  .  .  .  Sir,  he  has  the  art  of  compiling,  and  of  saying  everything  he  has  to  say  in  a 
pleasing  manner.  lie  is  now  writing  a  Natural  History,  and  will  make  It  as  entertaining 
as  a  Persian  tale." 

As  a  novelist,  he  wrote  the  first  pure  e.xainple  of  simple  domes- 
tic fiction.  Its  pleasantry  is  great,  its  morality  is  impressive,  its 
language  iswhat  'angels  might  have  heard,  and  virgins  told.'  As 
a  poet,  though  less  pointed  and  subtle  than  Pope,  his  appeal  to 
the  heart  is  more  gentle,  direct,  and  pure. 

He  had  buflfeted  the  trials  and  temptations  of  the  world,  and 
they  had  widened  his  sympathies;  he  had  seen  suffering,  and  bled 
for  it  —  want,  and  relieved  it  —  iniquity,  and  deplored  it  —  glad- 
nes.s,  and  loved  it  —  sadness,  and  cheered  it, —  because  tenderness 
and  sunshine  were  in  him.  Thus  it  is,  by  this  fact  of  intimate 
contact  with  human  nature  and  experience,  that  he  held  in  his 
hand  the  moving  strings  of  humanity,  and,  with  the  skill  to  make 
them  vibrate  n'gularlv,  drew  from  them  immortal  harmonies. 
Other  writings  have  had  higher  power  —  his  have  that  univer.sal 
expression  which  never  rises  above  the  comprehei-.sion  of  the 
huml)l('st,  vet  is  ever  on  a  level  with  the  understanding  of  the 
loftiest;  that  familiar  sweetness  of  household  imagery  which  wins 
them  welcome  alike  in  the  ]ialace  of  the  rich  and  the  cottage  of 
the  poor,  to  solace  and  improve  and  gladdcMi  all.  lie  wrote  from 
the  heart,  seeTuingly  unconscious  of  his  fairy  gifts  and  the  (excel- 
lence of  his  creations.  '.Mr.  Goldsmith,'  .said  Paoli,  'is  like  the 
sea,  which  casts  forth  pt-arls  and  many  other  i)eautiful  things 
without  jXTcciving  it.' 

Character. — From  childhood  lie  was  noted  for  his  cliarit;il)Ie 
feeliiio's.  If  he  was  prodigal,  his  jirodigality  is  more  tlian 
redeemed  by  the  circumstance  that  he  lavislnMl  ofteiicr  upon 
others  than  upon  himself.      His  l)enevolence,  always  prompt   and 


218     SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

often  whimsical,  forms  one  of  the  most  eccentric,  yet  endearing, 
points  of  his  character.  At  college,  engaged  to  breakfast  with  a 
class-mate,  he  failed  to  make  his  appearance.  His  friend,  repair- 
ing to  his  room,  knocked,  and  was  bidden  to  enter.  Goldsmith, 
was  in  bed  —  immersed  in  feathers.  In  the  course  of  a  stroll,  the 
preceding  evening,  he  had  met  a  woman  whose  husband  was  in 
the  hospital,  herself  a  stranger  from  the  country,  destitute,  with- 
out food  or  shelter  for  her  five  children.  Without  money,  almost 
as  poor  as  herself,  he  brought  her  to  the  college  gate,  gave  her 
the  blankets  from  his  bed  to  cover  her  little  ones,  and  part  of  his 
clothes  to  sell  and  purchase  food.  In  consequence,  finding  him- 
self cold  during  the  night,  he  had  cut  open  his  feather-bed  and 
buried  himself  in  the  feathers.  His  prompt  disposition  to  oblige 
placed  him,  at  times,  in  awkward  positions;  such  as  inviting  to  tea 
ladies  whom  he  met  unexpectedly;  running  up  a  bill  in  the  most 
open-handed  manner,  then  finding  himself  without  a  penny  in  his 
pocket  to  satisfy  the  claims  of  the  sneering  waiter. 

His  simplicity  made  him  the  victim  of  many  a  practical  joke. 
As  he  and  his  countryman,  Glover,  on  a  rural  excursion  in  the 
vicinity  of  London,  were  passing  a  cottage,  they  noticed  through 
the  open  window  a  party  at  tea.  'How  I  would  like  to  be  of  that 
party,'  exclaimed  the  tired  Goldsmith,  casting  a  wistful  glance  at 
the  cheerful  tea-table.  'Nothing  is  more  easy,' replied  Glover, 
who  was  a  notorious  w'ag;  'allow  me  to  introduce  you.'  On  the 
word  he  entered  the  house,  an  utter  stranger,  followed  by  the 
unsuspecting  Goldsmith,  who  supposed  him  to  be  an  old  acquaint- 
ance. The  owner  rose.  The  dauntless  Glover  shook  hands  with 
him  cordially,  fixed  his  eye  on  a  good-natured  looking  face  in  the 
company,  muttered  something  like  a  recognition,  and  straightway 
began  an  amusing  story,  invented  at  the  moment,  of  something 
which  he  pretended  had  occurred  on  the  road.  The  host  supposed 
that  the  intruders  wer(>  the  friends  of  his  guests;  the  guests  that 
they  were  tlie  friends  of  the  host.  They  were  not  allowed  time 
to  discover  tlie  trutli,  for  Glover  followed  one  story  with  another, 
and  kept  the  whole  ])artv  in  a  roar.  Tea  was  offered  and  accepted. 
At  the  end  of  an  liour,  spent  in  the  most  sociable  manner,  with 
some  last  facetious  remarks,  Glover  bt)wed  himself  and  his  com- 
})anion  out,  leaving  the  company  to  compare  n(Jtes  and  find  out 
how  iinpudentlv  they  had  been  imposed  upon. 


GOLDSMITH.  219 

He  had  that  heedless,  or,  perhaps,  happy  disposition  which 
takes  no  care  for  the  morrow.  He  even  threw  the  present  upon 
the  neck  of  the  future,  struggled  with  poverty  in  the  days  of  his 
obscurity,  and  the  struggle  was  rendered  still  more  intense  by  his 
elevation  into  the  society  of  the  wealthy  and  luxurious. 

His  nature  was  affectionate  and  confiding.  His  heart  craved 
familiar  intercourse,  family  firesides,  the  guileless  and  happy 
company  of  children.  In  children's  sports  he  was  a  leader,  and 
the  most  noisy  of  the  party,  playing  all  kinds  of  tricks  to  amuse 
them.  Hence  his  love  of  inferior  society.  He  had  neither  the 
graces  to  sustain  him  in  the  elevated  circles  of  literature  and 
fashion,  which  talk  and  live  for  display,  nor  the  tastes  which 
make  that  artificial  sphere  congenial.  He  relished  free,  unstudied 
human  nature,  and  sought  it,  where  he  was  sure  to  find  it, — 
among  the  unlettered,  in  the  innocence  of  the  child  and  the  con- 
viviality of  the  rustic.  If  his  associations  left  his  genius  unsul- 
lied, it  was  because  his  nature,  innately  pure  and  good,  had 
nothing  in  it  to  assimilate  vice  and  vulgarity. 

He  had  a  constitutional  gayety  of  heart,  an  elastic  hilarity,  'a 
knack  of  hoping,'  as  he  expressed  it;  and  extracted  sweets  from 
that  worldly  experience  which  yields  to  others  nothing  but  bitter- 
ness. As  often  as  he  returned  to  solitude  and  a  garret,  he  was 
returning  also  to  hal)itual  cheerfulness.  What  he  touched,  he 
transmuted  into  gold. 

As  a  child,  he  was  shy,  awkward,  sensitive,  bright,  blundering, 
desultory, —  and  the  child  was  father  to  the  man.  His  affections 
lacked  concentration;  his  pursuits,  unity;  his  character,  solidity. 
His  overmastering  defect  in  proper  reserve,  in  self-control,  placed 
him  at  a  great  disadvantage  in  animated  conversation,  and  caused 
him  to  be  habitually  undervalued  by  his  associates.  The  club 
were  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  appearance  of  Tlie  Traveller. 
They  knew  not  how  to  reconcile  its  magic  numbers  with  tlie 
heedless  garrulity  of  its  author.  Hence  Walpol<»  calhMl  him  an 
'inspired  idiot,' and  Johnson  said,  'no  man  was  more  foolish  when 
he  had  not  a  pen  in  his  hand,  or  more  wise  when  he  had.'  This 
was  the  special  wrong  he  suffered, —  that  in  his  lifctinic  he  was 
never  fully  appreciated  by  any  one.  His  genius  flowered  early, 
but  his  laurels  came  late.  He  never  saw  hijnself  enthroned,  and 
he  was  always  overshadowed   by   men   less  genial,   though   more 


220      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVK  AUTHORS. 

showy.     Those  who  ridiculed  him,  disliked  him  the  more  because 

they    could    not    understand    how   he   came    by   the    intellectual 

wealth  which  he  poured  into  the  lap  of  the  public,  and  which 

compelled  them  at  last  to  respect  him.     These  things,  however, 

have    happened    to    most    of    earth's    benefactors.     They   whose 

minds   are   of    no  ag-e   or  country   must   wait,  in  order  to  have 

justice   done   them,    for  the   award   of    posterity.     The   song   of 

commemoration   ascends   not  till   the  ears   are   deaf  that  would 

have  thrilled  to  the  music. 

'A  hundred  cities  claimed  great  Homer  dead, 
Through  which  the  living  Homer  begged  his  bread.' 

The  scorn  of  fools  and  the  imperfect  sympathy  of  friends  were 
far  heavier  afflictions  than  the  battles  which  he  fought  for  his 
daily  bread.  These  last  belong  to  the  appointed  conditions  of 
victory  and  of  power.  To  struggle  is  not  really  to  suffer.  Only 
the  soul  that  is  taxed  yields  revenue.  Only  the  ore  that  has  felt 
the  heat  of  the  flames  can  become  a  golden  crown.  'Heaven,' 
says  De  Qui:icey,  'grants  to  few  of  us  a  life  of  untroubled  pros- 
perity, and  grants  it  least  of  all  to  its  favorites.' 

Influence. — High  art  covers  a  moral  beauty,  is  to  itself  a 
kind  of  religion,  and  thus  by  sequence  is  a  noble  ally  of  the  moral 
and  religious  sentiments;  it  awakens,  preserves,  and  develops 
them.  Animated  by  the  True,  the  Good,  and  the  Beautiful,  it 
purifies  and  ennobles  the  soul  by  elevating  it  towards  the  Infinite, 
that  is  to  say,  towards  God.  Now  literature,  in  its  more  genial 
functions,  as  it  speaks  to  the  human  spirit,  works  by  the  very 
same  organs  as  the  fine  arts,  educates  the  same  deep  sympathies 
with  the  idc^al, —  reflects  the  images  of  the  sensible  world,  like 
sculpture  and  j^ainting;  reflects  sentiment,  like  painting  and 
music.  Nay,  its  charm  is  more  potent,  because  its  impressions 
are  deeper;  its  influence  is  more  durable,  in  the  degree  that  lan- 
guage is  durable  beyond  marble  or  canvas;  its  em])ir('  is  broader 
and  deeper,  in  the  degree  that  it  *»;»irosscs  wliat  is  inaccessible 
to  every  other  art, —  thought  that  has  no  foriiis,  thought  that 
has  no  colors,  thought  that  has  no  sounds,  thought  in  its  most 
refined  abstraction. 

Thus  has  Goldsmith  wrought  imperishably  for  mankind, —  by 
exposing  vice  and  exalting  virtue,  by  charming  us  to  love,  to 
gladness,   and   to  trust;    l)y   making  the  world's  daily  accidents 


THE    PEASANT    POET.  221 

easier  and  kinder;  by  the  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal  and 
bless;  by  the  nameless  spell  that  draws  all  men  in  the  line  of  his 
spiritual  movement,  in  the  direction  of  the  true,  the  sweet,  the 
natural,  and  the  gentle.  Thus  he  who  was  once  a  journeying 
beggar,  now  rides  on  the  shoulders  of  the  world.  While  the  rich 
and  the  proud  who  ridiculed  or  disparaged  him  are  forgotten,  he 
is  embalmed  to  perpetuity.  Verily,  the  value  of  a  man  is  not  in 
the  splendor  of  his  externals,  but  in  the  ideas  and  the  principles 
enshrined  in  him,  in  the  central  sentiments  which  move  him. 
The  diadems  of  kings,  the  riches  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind,  were  poor 
and  cheap,  compared  to  this  single  possession  of  the  dead,  who 
.all  his  life  wore  the  badge  of  poverty: 

OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,— 

A  Poet,  Naturalist,  and  Historian, 

Who  left  scarcely  any  style  op  writing  cntouched. 

And  touched  nothing  that  ue  did  not  adorn. 

Of  all  the  passions. 

Whether  smiles  were  to  be  moved  or  teaks, 

A  powerful  yet  gentle  master: 

In  genius,  sublime,  vivid,  versatile. 

In  style,  elevated,  clear,  elegant,— 

The  love  op  companions, 

The  fidelity  of  friends. 

And  the  veneration  of  readers. 

Have  by  this  monument  honored  the  memory. 

He  was  born  in  Ireland, 

At  a  place  called  Pallas. 

In  the  parish  of  Forney,  and  the  county  op  Longford, 

On  the  10th  November.  1708, 

Educated  at  the  I'niversity  op  Dublin, 

And  died  in  London, 

4tu  April,  1774. 


BURNS. 

Frc?h  as  the  flower,  wliose  modest  worth 
Ho  sniiK,  his  ijcniiis  'Ljlinted'  forth, 
Ro-c  like  a  star,  that,  touching  earth. 

For  so  it  seems. 
Doth  L'lorify  its  humhle  birth, 

Willi  matchless  hi-aw^.—  Wordsnorth. 


Biography. — Born   in  a  low  clay-built  cottage  in  Ayrshire,, 
Scotland,  in  1759.     His  father  vvas  a  poor  farmer,  but  of  manly 


222      SECOND  TRANSITION   PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

qualities  and  Christian  virtues,  wlio  is  said  to  have  practised 
every  known  duty  and  to  have  avoided  everything  criminal. 
The  following  is  the  epitaph  written  for  him  by  the  son: 

'O  yo,  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 
Draw  near,  with  pious  reverence,  and  attend! 
Here  lie  tlie  husband's  dear  remains, 
The  tender  father  and  the  generous  friend: 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe; 
The  dauntless  heart  that  feared  no  human  pride; 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe, 
"For  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side."' 

His  mother  was  a  very  sagacious  woman,  who  possessed  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  ballads  and  legendary  tales,  with  which  she 
nourished  the  poet's  infant  imagination. 

Subsistence  was  scanty.  The  family  were  obliged  to  live 
sparingly,  did  all  the  labor,  almost  fasted.  For  several  years, 
butcher's  meat  was  a  thing  unknown  in  the  house.  Robert  went 
barefoot,  bareheaded;  at  thirteen  was  busily  employed,  and  at 
fifteen  was  the  principal  laborer  on  the  farm: 

'This  kind  of  life  — the  cheerless  gloom  of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  toil  of  a 
galley-slave,  brought  me  to  my  sixteenth  year." 

Too  much  toil  rounded  his  shoulders,  and  induced  melancholy. 
'Almost  every  evening,'  says  his  brother,  'he  was  constantly 
afflicted  with  a  dull  headache,  which  at  a  future  period  of  his 
life  was  exchanged  for  a  jialpitation  of  the  heart,  and  a  threaten- 
ing of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  the  bed  in  the  night-time.'  The 
father,  a  renter,  worn  out  with  grief  and  labor,  received  insolent 
letters  from  the  factor,  which  set  all  the  family  in  tears.  The 
farm  was  changed,  but  a  lawsuit  sprang  up: 

'After  three  years'  tossing  and  whirling  in  the  vortex  of  litigation,  my  father  was 
just  saved  from  the  horrors  of  a  gaol  by  a  consumption,  which  after  two  years'  promises 
kindly  stepped  in." 

To  rescue  a  pittance  from  the  gripe  of  the  law,  the  children, 
including  two  daughters,  became  creditors  for  arrears  of  wages. 
Another  farm  was  taken.  Robert  had  seven  pounds  annually 
for  his  services,  and  during  four  years  his  expenses  did  not 
exceed  this  wretched  allowance.      He  .said: 

'I  entered  on  this  farm  with  a  full  resolution,  C'om#,  go  to.  I  will  be  wise.'  I  read 
farming  hooks;  I  calculated  crops:  1  attended  markets,  and,  in  short,  in  spite  of  the 
devil,  and  the  world,  and  /he , flesh,  I  believe  I  should  have  been  a  wise  man ;  hut  the  first 
year,  from  unfortunately  buying  bad  seed,  and  the  second,  from  a  late  harvest,  we  lost 
half  our  crops.  This  overset  all  my  wisdom,  and  1  returned,  like  the  doc/  to  hift  vomit, 
and  the  sow  that  was  washed  to  her  ivallowing  in  the  mire  .'^ 


BUKNS,  223 

Clouds  of  misfortune  gathered  darkly.  He  was  oVjliged  to  hide. 
Jamaica  was  his  destination.  From  the  age  of  fifteen  he  had 
written  rhymes,  as  the  divine  rage  happened  upon  him, —  songs, 
epistles,  satires,  and  reveries.  Before  leaving  his  native  land 
'forever,'  he  resolved  to  publish  his  best  poems,  which  had 
already  acquired  a  local  fame: 

'I  weighed  my  productions  as  impartially  as  was  in  my  [wwer:  I  ttiought  they  had 
merit:  and  it  was  a  delicions  idea  that  I  should  be  called  a  clever  fellow,  even  though  it 
should  never  reach  my  ears  — a  poor  negro-driver;  or  perhaps  a  victim  to  that  inhospi- 
table clime,  and  gone  to  the  world  of  spirits." 

The  imagery  and  the  sentiments  were  so  natural  and  impressive, 
so  familiar  and  striking,  whether  of  superstition,  of  religion,  of 
character,  or  of  scandal, —  old  and  young,  learned  and  ignorant, 
were  alike  surprised  and  transported.  He  grew  suddenly  famous, 
altered  his  resolution,  and  hastened  to  Edinburgh  witii  antici- 
pating lieart: 

'  I  had  been  for  some  days  skulking  from  covert  to  covert,  under  all  the  terrors  of  a 
jail,  as  some  ill-advised  peoi>le  had  uncoupled  the  merciless  pack  of  the  law  at  my  heels. 
I  hud  taken  the  last  farewell  of  my  friends;  my  chest  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock;  I 
had  composed  the  last  song  1  should  ever  measure  in  Caledonia  — 77(<'  Gloomy  yight  ii> 
GalheriiKj  Fasl  —  \\\\{:n  a  letter  from  Dr.  Ulacklock  to  a  friend  of  mine  overthrew  all  my 
schemes,  by  opening  new  i)rospects  to  my  jjoetic  ambition.  The  doctor  belonged  to  a 
set  of  critics  for  whose  applause  I  had  not  dared  to  hoi)e.  His  encouragement  in  Edin- 
burgli  for  a  second  edition  fired  me  so  mncb,  that  away  I  posted  for  that  city,  without  a 
single  acquaintance,  or  a  single  letter  of  introduction.  The  baneful  star  that  had  so  long 
shed  its  blasting  inlluence  in  my  Zenith,  for  once  made  a  revolution  to  the  Nadir.' 

Arriving  there,  he  was  feasted,  flattered,  and  caressed,  as  the 
wonderful  peasant.  Multitudes,  the  sage,  the  noble,  and  the 
lovelv,  vied  with  each  other  in  doing  him  honor.  His  hours  were 
divided  between  ])oetry  and  rich  men's  bantpiets,  where  his 
divine  hre  mingled  witli  the  smok*'  of  intoxication.  A  subscri})- 
tioii,  conducted  under  the  pati-onagc  of  the  great,  brought  him  a 
second  edition  and  live  hundred  pouiuls.  For  one  winter  he 
basked  in  the  noontide  sun  of  pijpularity,  then,  after  an  excursion 
of  two  months  to  the  soutlicni  border,  he  returned  to  his  family 
and  the  shades  wlionce  he  had  emerged.  He  now  married  .Miss 
i\.rniour,  to  whom  he  had  been  long  attachi>d.  Coiiij)e]led  to 
work  for  his  living,  he  took  a  little  farm,  and  lived  in  a  hovel. 
He  seems  to  have  contemplated  his  situation  and  ])i()spects  with 
consideration  and  foretlionght.      He  writes: 

•I  am  >ucli  a  coward  in  life,  so  tired  of  tin-  service,  that  1  would  aliiiost  at  any  time 
with  Milton's  .\dam,  "gladly  lay  me  in  my  mother's  lap  and  be  at  peate."  Hut  a  wifo 
and  children  bind  me  to  sirusgle  with  the  strcain.  till  some  sudden  s(iiiall  shall  overset 


224      SECOND  TKAXSITION  PKUIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

the  silly  vessel,  or,  in  the  listless  return  of  years,  its  own  craziness  reduce  it  to  a  wreck. 
Farewell  now  to  those  Kiddy  follies,  those  varnished  vices,  which,  though  half  sanctified 
by  the  bewitching  levity  of  wit  and  humour,  are  at  best  but  thriftless  idling  with  the 
precious  current  of  existence." 

Amidst  dreary  objects  and  sordid  cares,  he  mused  on  the  ima^e 
of  his  wife,  and  sent  his  thoughts,  in  charming  lyrics,  towards  the 
place  which  her  presence  brightened;  for  she  yet  tarried  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ayr,  till  he  should  be  able  to  provide  a  suitable 
dwelling.  When  she  arrived,  we  may  well  believe  that  he  had  a 
brief  release  from  the  pain  of  life;  that  he  found  an  inexpressible 
charm  in  sitting  at  his  own  fireside,  in  wandering  over  his  own 
ground,  in  resuming  the  spade  and  the  plough,  in  farming  his 
enclosures  and  managing  his  cattle.  Indeed,  he  was  accustomed 
to  say  that  the  happiest  period  of  his  life  was  the  first  winter 
spent  in  his  new  location.  But  the  farming  speculation  proved  a 
failure,  and  in  1791  he  relinquished  it,  with  empty  pockets,  to  fill 
at  Dumfries  the  small  post  of  Exciseman,  which  was  worth,  in 
all,  ninety  pounds  a  year.  His  duties  were,  to  brand  leather,  to 
gauge  casks,  to  test  the  make  of  candles,  to  issue  license  for  the 
transit  of  liquors.  What  employment  for  an  immortal  bard  ! 
what  an  atmosphere  for  grand  or  graceful  dreams  I 

In  his  seventeenth  year,  he  attended  a  country  dancing-school 
and  there  whet  his  appetite  for  convivial  pleasures.  lie  had 
passed  his  nineteenth  summer  on  a  smuggling  coast,  studying 
mensuration — and  learning  to  fill  his  glass.  He  had  joined  a  flax- 
dresser  in  a  neighboring  town,  and  the  shop  had  burned  to  ashes 
(luring  a  carousal.  Growing  celebrity  had  Hushed  him  with  its 
irregular  excitement  and  indulgence  had  issued  in  excess.  Wild 
desires  and  wild  repentance  alternately  oppressed  him.  At  Duvn- 
fries,  his  moral  car<M^r  was  downwards.  He  shared  the  revels  of 
the  dissolute  and  th(!  idle.  The  young  pressed  him  to  drink  that 
they  might  enjoy  his  wit.  Health  and  spirits  failed.  Ever  and 
anon  the  heavenly  instinct  flamed,  and  he  struck  from  iiis  ha!j> 
notes  of  impcrisliul)le  excellence,  then  sat  morose  amidst  the 
memories  of  his  faults  and  his  lost  ])leasures.  He  was  very  often 
drtirik.  Oiico  at  Mr.  Ividdcirs,  lu;  made  himself  so  tipsy  that  he 
insulted  the  lady  of  the  lif)use;  the  next  day  sent  her  an  apology, 
which  she  refused,  then  dashed  off  some  rhymes  against  her.  One 
night  in  January  he  drank  too  much,  and  fell  asleep  in  the  street. 
A  fatal  cliill   penetrated  to  liis  bones,  and   tlie  seeds  of  rheumatic 


BURNS.  225 

fever  were  rooted  in  his  weakened  frame.  A  month  later  he 
wrote:  *1  close  my  e3'es  in  misery,  and  open  them  without  hope.' 
'What  business,'  said  he  to  his  doctor,  'has  a  physician  to  waste 
his  time  on  mo?  I  am  a  poor  pigeon  not  worth  plucking.  Alas  ! 
I  have  not  feathers  enough  upon  me  to  carry  me  to  my  grave.' 
On  the  26th  of  June  he  wrote: 

'Alas,  Clarke :  I  begin  to  fear  the  worst.  A?*  to  itiy  individual  self,  I  am  tranquil,  and 
would  deispise  myself  if  1  were  not;  but  Burns's  [xwr  widow,  and  half-a-dozen  of  his  poor 
little  ones  —  helpless  orphans  1  —  there  1  am  weak  as  a  woman's  tear." 

A  letter  from  a  solicitor,  urging  the  payment  of  a  bill,  struck  him 
with  terror,  and  he  had  the  bitterness  of  being  obliged  to  beg; 

'A  rascal  of  a  haberdasher,  to  whom  I  owe  a  considerable  bill,  taking  it  into  his  head 
that  1  am  dying,  has  commenced  a  process  against  me,  and  will  infallil)ly  put  my  emaci- 
ated body  into  jail.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  accommodate  me,  and  that  by  return  of 
post,  with  ten  pounds?  O  James!  did  you  know  the  pride  of  my  heart,  you  would  feel 
doubly  for  me !    Alas  !    1  am  not  used  to  beg.  .  .  .  Save  me  from  the  horrors  of  a  jail ! ' 

A  few  days  afterwards  he  sank  into  an  untimely  grave,  consumed, 
at  the  early  age  of  thirty-seven,  by  the  fires  of  his  own  heart.  His 
last  words  were  a  muttered  execration  against  the  legal  agent  by 
whose  note  his  parting  days  had  been  embittered.  He  was 
interred  with  military  honors,  and  a  procession  of  ten  thousand 
persons  testified  to  the  interest  he  had  excited. 

Appearance. — Tn  height,  about  five  feet  ten  inches;  in  per- 
son, agile  and  strong;  his  hair,  tied  behind  and  spreading  in  black 
curls  upon  his  well-raised  forehead;  his  eyes,  large  and  dark, 
glowing  wlien  he  spoke  with  feeling  or  interest;  his  shoulders 
bent,  his  dress  often  slovenly,  his  mainiers  rustic,  his  air  dignified. 

Education. — He  received,  rather  imperfectly,  the  training  of 
the  common  school.  In  his  sixth  year  he  was  put  under  the 
tuition  of  one  Campbell,  about  a  mile  di.stant  from  the  cottage, 
and  subsequently  under  that  of  Mr.  Murdoch,  a  very  faithful  and 
painstaking  teacher,  by  wliom  he  was  accurately  instructed  in  the 
first  principles  of  com])osition.  He  is  said  to  have  been  an  apt 
pupil,  to  have  made  raj)id  ])rogrcss,  and  to  have  been  reniarkal^le 
for  the  ease  with  wliieh  he  coinniitted  devotional  poetrv  to  mein- 
ory.  His  school  attendance,  how(>ver,  seems  to  have  been  les.s 
appreciated  by  liiiuself  than  the  legendary  lore  which  Ik^  derived 
from  an  old  woman  who  resich'd  in  th<>  faiiiilv.      11(>  savs: 

'At  tliose  years  I  was  by  no  means  a  favorite  witli  anybody.     I  was  a  good  deal  noted 
for  a  retentive  meiuory,  a  stubborn,  sturdy  sonictliing  in  my  disposition,  and  an  eiithiisi- 
15 


226      SECOND  THANSITIOX  PKKIOD UKl'HESEXTATI VE  AUTIIOUS. 

astic  idiot  piety.  I  say  Ul'iol  piety,  because  I  was  then  but  a  child.  Though  it  cost  the 
sclioolmaster  some  thrashings,  I  made  an  excellent  English  scholar;  and  by  the  time  I 
was  ten  or  eleven  year.*  of  age,  I  was  a  critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and  participles.  In 
my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too,  I  owed  much  to  an  old  woman  who  resided  in  the  fam- 
ily, romarkable  for  her  ignorance,  credulity,  and  superstition.  She  had,  I  suppose,  the 
largest  collection  in  the  country,  of  tales  and  songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies, 
brownies,  witches,  warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies,  elf-candles,  dead- lights,  wraiths,  appari- 
tions, cantraips,  giants,  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and  other  trumpery.  This  cultivated 
the  latent  seeds  of  poetry:  but  had  so  strong  an  effect  upon  my  imagination,  that  to  this 
hour  in  mynoct\irnal  rambles,  I  sometimes  keep  a  sharp  look-out  in  suspicious  places; 
and  though  nobody  can  be  more  sceptical  than  I  am  in  such  matters,  yet  it  often  takes 
an  effort  of  philosophy  to  shako  off  these  idle  terrors.  The  earliest  composition  that  I 
recollect  taking  pleasure  in,  was  The  Vif:io/i  of  Mirza,  and  a  hymn  of  Addison's  begin- 
ning, "How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord  1 "  I  particularly  remember  one  stanza,  which 
was  music  to  my  boyish  ear: 

"For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung. 
High  on  the  broken  wave." 

I  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English  Collection,  one  of  my  school-books.  The 
first  two  books  I  ever  read  in  private,  and  which  gave  mc  more  pleasure  than  any  two 
books  I  ever  read  since?,  wore  TVie  Life  of  Hannibal  and  The  IRstoryof  Sir  William  Wal- 
lace. Hannibal  gave  my  young  ideas  such  a  turn  that  I  used  to  strut  in  raptures  up  and 
down  after  the  recruiting  drum  and  bagpipe,  and  wish  myself  tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier; 
while  the  story  of  Wallace  poured  a  Scottish  prejudice  into  my  mind,  which  will  boil 
along  there  till  the  floodgates  of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest.' 

At  fourteen  he  was  sent  to  school  every  alternate  week  for  the 
iinprovemen<t  of  his  writing.  At  sixteen,  obtaining'  a  respite  of 
three  weeks,  he  reviewed  English  grammar,  and  studied  French, 
Avliich  he  is  said  to  have  acquired  with  unconnnon  facility.  He 
tried  Latin,  but  finding  it  dry  and  uninteresting,  quickly  laid  it 
aside.  He  afterwards  devoted  a  summer  quarter  to  the  study  of 
surveying,  with  a  somewhat  fitful  and  irregular  attention,  having 
in  the  meanwhile,  however,  considerably  extended  his  reading. 
He  never  struggled  forward  to  a  university,  as  many  weaker  men 
have  done,  but  he  grew  into  practical  wisdom,  into  strength,  into 
expertness,  by  the  irrepressible  movement  of  his  own  spirit.  To 
him  the  gates  of  the  temple  of  science  were  never  opened,  but 
mankind  and  tlie  universe  supplied  him  with  ideas,  and  were  not 
exhausted  or  diminished  by  the  using. 

Motive. — Ambition  early  made  itself  felt  in  him: 

'I  liiiil  felt  curly  sonic  stirrings  of  ambition,  but  they  were  the  blind  grojiings  of 
iloiiier's  Cyclops  nuiiid  the  walls  of  his  cave.  .  .  .  The  only  two  openings  by  which  I 
( Duld  enter  the  toini)le  of  fortune  wore  the  gale  of  nicgardly  economy,  or  the  path  of 
little  chicaniiiL'  baruMin-iiiakinir.  The  first  is  so  contracted  an  aperture,  1  never  could 
squeeze  myself  into  it;  the  hist  1  always  hated  —  there  was  contamination  in  the  very 
entrance.' 

So  was  his  life  an  insurrection,  lietween  the  spirit  that  would  .soar 
and    tlu;    base    entano-lements   that    bound    it    down.      While    he 


BURNS.  227 

stooped  behind  his  plow,  his  heart  panted  ardently  to  be  distin- 
guished: 

'Obscure  I  am,  and  obscure  I  must  be,  though  no  young  poet  s,  nor  youug  soldier's 
heart,  ever  beat  more  fondly  for  fame  than  mine,— 

"And  if  there  is  no  other  scene  of  being 
Where  my  insatiate  wish  may  liavc  its  fill  — 
This  something  at  my  heart  that  heaves  for  room. 
My  best,  my  dearest  part  was  made  in  vain." ' 

Method. —  He  carried  a  book  in  his  pocket  when  he  went  to 
the  Held,  to  study  in  his  spare  moments.  He  wore  out  thus  two 
copies  of  Mackenzie's  J\Iatt  of  FealiiKj.  He  had  a  favorite  col- 
lection of  songs,  and  pored  over  them  driving  his  cart  or  walking 
to  labor,  'song  by  song,  verse  by  verse,  carefully  noticing  the 
true,  tender,  or  sublime,  from  affectation  and  fustian.'  He  kept 
a  common-place  book,  in  which  he  criticised  his  own  productions, 
entered  his  ideas  on  man,  religion,  and  literary  phrases  particu- 
larly fine.  He  maintained  a  correspondence  with  several  of  his 
companions,  in  order  to  form  his  expression.  Some  book  he 
always  carried,  and  read  when  not  otherwise  employed  —  even  at 
meals,  a  spoon  in  one  hand  and  a  book  in  the  other.  He  organ- 
ized a  debating  club,  to  exercise  himself  in  general  questions,  and 
discussed  pro  and  con.,  in  order  to  see  both  sides  of  every  idea. 
Here  are  some  specimen  questions: 

'Whether  do  we  derive  njorc  happiness  from  love  or  friendship?'  'Whether  between 
friends,  who  liave  no  reason  to  doubt  each  other's  friendship,  there  should  be  any  reserve  *' 
'Whether  is  the  savage  man,  or  the  peasant  of  a  civilized  country,  in  the  most  hapi)y  sa- 
nation ':"  'Whether  is  a  young  man  of  the  lower  ranks  of  life  likeliest  to  be  happy  who 
has  a  good  education  and  a  well-informed  mind,  or  he  who  has  just  the  education  and 
information  of  those  around  him.' 

He  wrote  poetry  according  to  the  humor  of  the  hour.  He  had 
usually  half  a  dozen  or  more  pieces  on  hand,  and  would  takt;  up 
one  or  other,  as  it  suited  the  momentary  tone  of  his  mind,  dis- 
missing it  as  it  brought  on  fatigue.  His  songs  were  composed 
with  the  utmost  care  and  att^Mition: 

'T'ntil  I  am  complete  muster  of  ;i  tunc  in  my  own  sineiiiix,  such  as  it  is,  I  can  never 
compose  for  it.  My  way  is  llii-;:  I  consider  tlic  poetic  sentiment  corresijondeiit  to  my 
idea  of  the  musical  exprcs-iou,  ilicii  clioosc  my  theme,  compose  one  stanza.  When 
that  is  composed,  which  is  generally  the  most  diflicult  part  of  tlie  business,  I  walk  out, 
sit  down  now  and  then,  look  out  for  objects  In  nature  roun<t  me  that  arc  in  unison  or 
harmony  with  the  c  )gitations  of  my  fancy,  and  workings  of  my  bosom,—  humming  every 
now  and  then  the  air,  with  the  verses  I  liave  framed.  When  I  feel  niy  muse  beginning 
to  jade,  I  retire  to  the  solitary  fireside  of  my  study,  and  there  commit  my  I'tTusions  to 
pai)er;  swinging  at  intcrv;ils  on  tlic  liiiid  Icl'^  of  my  elbow-chair,  l)y  way  of  calling  forth 
my  own  critical  strictures,  a-^  my  pen  i^oc^.' 


228      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

One  more  proof  that  the  harvest,  though  gathered  in  a  day,  is 
the  result  of  ploughing,  harrowing,  planting,  and  growth.  Not  a 
page  of  fine  writing  was  ever  produced,  without  much  intellectual 
effort;  and  the  more  seemingly  simple,  the  greater  the  cost  of 
production.  Virgil  occupied  ten  years  in  writing  six  books  of 
the  yEneid.  Pericles,  'who  thundered,  and  astonished  Greece,' 
never  spoke  extempore,  nor  even  ventured  to  deliver  an  opinion 
without  ample  preparation.  Behind  every  little  point  of  accom- 
plishment, there  is  a  great  beam  of  endeavor  and  toil. 

Loves. — Power  of  feeling  is  essential  to  greatness  of  char- 
acter. The  heart  is  the  wizard  that  evokes  thought,  and  opens 
the  sluices  of  the  inner  skies.  Imagination  furnishes  the  poet 
with  wings,  but  feeling  is  the  muscle  which  plies  them  and  lifts 
him  from  the  ground. 

Love  was  the  consuming  fire  that  revealed  to  Burns  what 
manner  of  spirit  he  was  of, —  the  volcano  that  heaved  up  mount- 
ains within  his  mind,  gathered  and  whirled  the  spiritual  waters  in 
vigorous  currents  to  the  sea.  At  fifteen  he  had  for  his  companion 
in  the  harvest-field  a  sweet  and  lovable  girl,  a  year  younger  than 
himself : 

'In  short,  she  altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated  me  in  that  delicious 
I)assion  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence,  and  book-worm 
philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of  human  joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here  below  I ' 

In  the  evening,  as  the  toilers  returned  from  their  toil,  he  loitered 
behind  with  her, —  he  knew  not  why.  With  a  joy  he  could  not 
ex])lain,  he  sat  beside  her  to  'pick  from  her  little  hands  the  cruel 
nettle-stings  and  thistles.'  This  simple  girl  sang,  sweetly,  a 
song  composed  by  a  neighboring  country  lad.  Burns,  with  the 
consuming  fire  in  his  breast,  saw  no  reason  why  he  might  not 
rhyme  as  well  : 

'Thus  with  me  beizan  love  and  poetry,  which  at  timers  have  been  my  only,  and  till 
within  the  last  twelve  months  have  been  my  highest,  enjoyment." 

Away  at  school,  a  next-door  rustic  charmer  set  him  off  at  a 
tangent  from  the  sphere  of  his  studies.  He  struggled  on  with 
his  sines  and  rosi/tes  for  a  few  days  more,  but  stepping  into  the 
garden  one  noon  to  take  the  sun's  altitude,  there  he  met  his 
angel, — 

'Like  Proserpine,  L::ithcriiiir  flowers, 
Ilcr-ilf  a   fainr  (lower.' 


BURNS.  229 

After  that,  he  did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of  his  soul 
about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her: 

'The  last  two  nights  of  iny  stay  in  the  country,  had  sleep  been  a  mortal  8in,  the 
image  of  this  modest  and  innocent  girl  had  kept  me  guiltless.' 

He  met  yet  another,  a  sprightly,  blue-eyed  creature,  amiable 
and  trusting.  On  the  eve  of  his  intended  voyage  to  the  West 
Indies,  they  stood  on  each  side  of  a  purling  brook,  laved  their 
hands  in  the  limpid  stream,  held  a  Bible  between  them,  pro- 
nounced their  vows  of  eternal  constancy,  then  parted, —  never  to 
meet  again. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  in  the  hush  of  a  vernal  evening,  as 
he  leaned  against  a  tree,  listening  to  the  melody  of  birds,  he 
spied  with  rapture  'one  of  the  fairest  pieces  of  nature's  workman- 
ship that  ever  crowned  a  poetic  landscape.'  It  was  a  golden 
moment,  that  coined  the  air  with  song,  and  he  sang  her  into 
immortality. 

Anon,  in  Edinburgh,  ho  met  a  young  widow, —  the  celebrated 
Clarinda;  saw  and  admired,  kindled  at  the  recollection  of  their 
interview;  saw  again,  and  loved  with  deathless  affection,  swore 
to  remember  hor  in  all  the  pride  and  warmth  of  friendship  till  he 
should  cease  to  be.      He  said: 

'What  luxury  of  bliss  I  was  cujoyint;  this  tinic  ycster-night I  My  ever  dearest 
Clarinda,  you  have  stolen  away  my  suul;  but  you  have  relined,  you  have  exalted  it:  you 
have  given  it  a  stronger  sense  of  virtue,  and  a  stronger  relish  for  i)iety.  Clarinda,  first 
of  your  sex  !  if  ever  I  am  the  veriest  wretch  on  earth  to  forget  you, —  if  ever  your  lovely 
image  is  effaced  from  my  soul,  — 

"May  I  lie  lost,  no  eye  to  weep  my  end. 
And  find  no  earth  thafs  base  enough  to  hury  me."" 

Exactly.     A  few  w-eeks  later  iie  wrote  to  still  another,  his  wife: 

'By  night,  by  day,  afield,  at  tianie 
The  thoughts  of  lliee  my  breast  inflame; 
And  aye  I  musf  and  simr  thy  name, — 

I  only  live  to  love  Ihet'. 
Thout^li   I  were  doomed  to  waiuler  on 
Beyond  the  sea,   beyond   tlie  sim, 
Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run; 

Till  then,— and   tlieii   I   love  thee." 

But  enougii.  He  pursued  every  butterfly  that  proinis(>(l  to 
settle.  He  composed  a  song  on  every  tolerablolooking  lass  in 
his  parish,  and  finally  one  in  wliieli  they  wen-  all  included.  lie 
organized  a  club,  and  exacted  that  every  caixlidate  for  achiiission 
should  be  the  ])roi"essed  lover  of  one  or  more  fair  ones.  W  hen 
press(Ml   to   tell    why   he   never  aj)pru'd   himself   to    Latin,    he   was 


230      SECONl>  TRANSITION  J'EKIOI) — KEriJKSENTATIVK  AUTHORS. 


wont  to  reply  with  a  smile  that  he  had  learned  all  the  Latin  he 
desired  to  know,  and  that  was  oinnia  vincit  amor.  Verily,  we 
have  found  the  excitant  that  disturbs  the  electricity  of  the 
mental  clouds. 

"Writings. — Burns  could  be  religious.  After  the  death  of 
his  father,  he  conducted  cottage  worship,  and  drew  tears  from 
those  present.  This  phase  of  Scottish  rustic  life  he  has  placed 
in  everlasting-  remembrance  in  The  Cotter^ s  Saturday  Niyht,  the 
most  heartfelt  of  virtuous  idyls.  The  following  exquisite  picture 
represents  the  father  and  his  family  in  their  evening  devotions: 

'The  evening  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide;  [,/'>« 

The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace. 
The  big  ha'-bible,  ance  his  father's  pride; 
Ilis  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyari  hallets  wearing  thin  and  bare;  [gray  cheeks 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 
He  wales  a  i)ortion  with  judicious  care:  [selects 

And  "Let  us  worship  God  I''  he  says,  with  solemn  air.  .  .  . 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  liusband  prays: 

"Hope  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days: 

There  ever  ba-k  in  uncreati^d  rays. 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shod  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 

While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere,  .  .  . 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art. 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  inceiis'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  i>ompous  .-train,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul; 
And  in   his  bonk  of  life  the  inmates  |)oor  enroll.' 

Ho  loved  the  religion  which  is  piety  in  the  heart  and  morality 
in  the  outer  life,  which  ap))roves  jov  and  speaks  well  of  happi- 
ness; but  against  the  gloomy  theology  that  draws  down  the 
coriK'is  of  tlie  mouth  and  hangs  a  pall  over  the  life  of  man, 
Voltaire  was  not  more  bitter  or  more  jocose.  Gatherings  of  tlie 
])ious  w(>re  lield,  in  which  tlit^  sacrament  was  administered  in  the 
open  air.  'i'he  rustic  j)o])iihition  from  every  quarter  flocked  to 
the  comtnunion  as  to  a  fair,  ])resenting  a  serio-comic  mixture  of 
religion,   sleep,   drinking,   eourtship,   a   confusion  of  sexes,   ages, 


BURNS.  231 

and  characters.  Presently,  over  all  the  congregation  silent 
expectation  sits,  while  the  clergymen,  one  after  another,  hurl 
the  thunderbolts  of  divine  vengeance.  This  rural  celebration, 
with  its  fierce  creed  which  dannis  men.  Burns  has  satirized  in 
The  Holy  Fair.  Kev.  Mr.  Moodie  raves  and  fumes  to  impress 
the  terrors  of  the  law : 

'Should  Hornic,  as  in  ancient  day^, 
"Mong  sons  of  God  present  him. 
The  very  sight  o'  Moodius  face 
To"s  ain  hct  hunie  bed  sent  him 
Wi"  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o"  faith 
Wi'  rattlin'  an'  wi'  Ihunipin" ! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath 
He's  .-tainpin"  an'  he's  jiimpin'! 
His  lengthen'd  chin,  his  tiirn'd-ii|)  snout, 
His  eldritch  squeal  and  gestures. 
Oh!  how  they  lire  the  heart  devout. 
Like  cantharidian  plasters. 
On  sic  a  day  1 ' 

Now  'Smith  opens  out  with  his  cold  harangues,'  then  two  n)ore 
ministers  speak.  At  last  the  audience  have  a  respite,  the  peo])le 
fall  to  eating,  the  dishes  rattle,  whiskey  flows,  kindling  wit  and 
raising  a  din  of  comment  that  is  like  to  breed  a  rupture  of  wrath; 
lads  and  lasses,  bent  on  minding  both  soul  and  body,  sit  round 
the  table,  and  '^  steer  about  the  toddy,' — some  making  observa- 
tion on  this  one's  dress  and  tliat  one's  look,  others  forming 
appointments  'to  meet  some  day': 

'Hut  now  the  Lord's  ain  trninpet  touts, 
Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin'. 
An"  echoes  back  re'.tirn  the  -liouls; 
Black  Ku>sfll  is  na  sparin": 
His  piercini:  words,  like  Hiirhlan'  swords, 
Divide  the  joints  and  marrow. 
His  talk  o'  hell,  where  devils  dwell, 
Our  \era  saitls  does  harrow 
Wi'  fri;:lit   that  day. 

.\  vast  uuhottoin'd  lioundless  pit, 
Fill'd  fii"  ii"  lowiu'  brun>tane, 
Wlia's  raijin'  flame  an"  scorchin"  heat. 
Wad  melt  the  hardest  whuu-^tane  1 
The  lialf-asleep  start   up  wi"  fear. 
And  think  they  hear  it   roarin" 
When  |]resently  it  does  ap])ear 
■Twa<  hut  some  ucetior  snoorin' 
Asleep  that  day.   .  .  . 

How  mony  heart-  this  day  converts 
O'  sinners  and  o'  lasxesl 


232       SECOND  TRANSITION   PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Their  hearts  o'  stimc,  gin  night,  arc  gane. 
As  saft  as  ony  llesli  is. 
Tliere's  some  are  foil  o'  love  divine; 
There's  some  are  foil  o'  brandy." 

Are  not  all  creatures  fellow-mortals,  subject  alike  to  the 
inexorable  edict  of  'dust  to  dust'?  Are  not  all  born  to  trouble, 
pursuing  visions  and  losing  content,  doomed,  in  the  very  mantling 
flush  of  promise,  to  look  upon  the  wreck  or  miscarriage  of  provi- 
dent pains?  Even  a  mouse  stores  up,  calculates,  and  suffers,  like 
a  man.  So  was  the  love  of  Burns  all-embracing.  He  pitied,  and 
that  sincerely,  the  Mouse  whose  home,  in  chill  November,  his 
ploughshare  laid  in  ruins.  The  assistant,  who  drove  the  horses, 
ran  after  it  to  kill  it,  but  was  checked  by  his  master,  who  was 
observed  to  fall  immediately  into  reverie: 

'Wee,  slcelvil,  cow'rin",  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  wliat  a  i)anic"s  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  away  sac  hasty, 

Wi'  bickerin"  brattle!  [hasty  clatter 

I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  patlle!' 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An"  weary  winter  comin'  fast; 
An'  cozie  liere,  beneath  the  l)last. 

Thou  thought  to  dwell; 
Till,  crash!   the  cruel  coulter  passed 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o"  leaves  an"  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turned  out,  for  a"  thy  trouble. 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble; 

An"  cranrench  cald. 

But,  Moiisie,  thou  art  no  tiiy  lane 
In  i)rovin'  foresight  may  be  vain: 
Tiie  best-laid  schemes  o"  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley. 
An'  lea'e  us  nouglit  but  grief  an'  pain. 

For  promised  joy." 

Amidst  the  gloom  of  personal   misery  brooding  over  the  wintry 
desolation  without,  how  loucliiiiglv  lie  adds: 

'Still  thou   art   h\i'<\   coiuparcd  wi'  me! 
'I'lie  iiresent  only  loiiclietli  thee: 
But  ocli!   I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  i)r()si)octs  drear; 
An"   forward,  though  I  ranna  see, 

I  guess  an"  fear." 

'The  stick  used  for  clearing  away  the  clods  from  the  plough. 


[without,  hold 

[endure 

[hoar-frost 


BURNS.  233 

Was  ever  common  incident  rendered  into  expression  more  natural, 
delicately  graceful,  and  true  ? 

Of  the  same  nature,  rich  in  poetic  light  and  color,  is  the  poem 
to  the  Mountain  Daisy,  that  lay  in  the  path  of  his  plough: 

'Wee,  modest,  crimson- tipped  flower, 
Thoifs  met  ine  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem: 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power. 

Thou  bonnie  gem.  .  .  . 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies  I  .  .  . 

E'en  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate. 
That  fate  is  thine  — no  distant  date; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till,  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom.' 

In  these  poems,  Burns  is  seen  in  his  happiest  inspiration,  in  his 
brightest  sunshine,  and  tenderest  moods. 

Of  quite  another  style,  and  best  displaying  the  variety  of  his 
poetic  talent,  is  7\()ii  O^S/uaiter,  a  witch-story,  beginning  with 
revelry  and  ranging  through  the  terrible,  the  supernatural,  and 
the  ludicrous: 

'Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious  — 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious !' 

7^^e  Jolly  Bryyars,  picturesque,  varied,  and  jiowerful.  A 
joyous  band  of  vagrants  are  accustomed  to  collect  at  a  lodging- 
house,  to  compensate  in  a  hearty  supper  for  the  ])rivations  and 
contumelies  of  the  day.  Travelling  tinkers,  brawlers,  and  gypsies, 
all  in  rags,  fight,  bang,  kiss  each  other,  and  make  the  glasses  ring 
with  their  frantic  merriment: 

'Wi'  (|Miifflng  and  laughing 
They  ranted  and  tlicy  sang; 
Wi'  jnnii)ing  and  thumping 
The  very  girdle  rang.' 

Low  life,  but   not  below  the  regard  of  one  who  finds  a   human 

heart  beating  even  in  a  happy  devil. 

In  Burns,  prcfMiiinently,  tlie  po(>t   is  the  man.      In  all   that   he 

has  written  best,  he  has  given  us  himself.     But  his  songs,  bora  of 

real  emotion,  are  the  very  fiame-breath  of  his  heart,  simple  and 


234       SECOND  TRAXSITION   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

direct  as  laughter  or  tears.  Here  is  one  that  contains  'the  essence 
of  a  thousand  love-tales': 

'Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever 

Ac  fareweel,  alas  '.   for  ever  I 

Deej)  in  lieart-wrung  tears  Til  pledge  thee. 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 

Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him. 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  iiae  cheerfnT  twinkle  lights  me; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  uie. 

ril  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naelhint,'  could  resist  my  Nancy; 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her; 
Love  but  her  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly. 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare- thee- weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare-thee-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest  1 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

.\e  fareweel,  alas!   for  ever  I 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee. 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee.' 

Style. — Musical,  graceful,  picturesque,  familiar,  glowing  with 
the  warmth  and  truth  of  nature.  He  was  content  to  exhibit  his 
feeling  as  he  felt  it: 

'My  passions,  when  once  lighted  up,  raged  like  so  many  devils,  till  they  got  vent  in 
rhyme;  and  then  the  conning  over  my  verses,  like  a  spell,  soothed  all  into  quiet." 

This  man,  who  despises  cant,  could  not  wear  the  classical  dress. 
His  figure  is  too  awkward  and  powerful  for  the  gold-embroid- 
ered jacket.  Humming  his  verses  to  old  Scotch  airs  as  he  walks 
in  the  furrow,  he  consults  no  fashion.  In  fact,  he  is  contemptu- 
ous of  rule,  and  sometimes  pronounces  more  decisively  than  is 
consistent  with  politeness.  At  a  private  breakfast  party,  in  a 
literary  circle  of  Edinburgh,  a  fastidious  clergyman  made  an 
attack  on  (iray's  Kh  (jij.  He  was  urged  to  quote  the  passages 
which  he  thought  exceptionable.  This  lie  attempted  to  do,  but 
alwavs  in  a  blundering  manner.  Burns,  who  was  enthusiastically 
Un\<\  of  the  poem,  was  at  length  goaded  beyond  forbearance  by 
the  wretched  quil)blings  of  the  critic,  and,  with  an  eye  flashing 
indignation,  cri(;d: 


BURNS.  235 

'Sir,  I  now  perceive  a  man  may  be  an  excellent  judge  of  i)oetry  by  square  and  rule, 
and  after  all  be  a  d blockhead.' 

In  prose,  he  was  more  ambitious,  more  studied,  more  artificial. 
His  letters  have  sometimes  an  inflated  tone  which  contrasts  ill 
with  the  rugged  simplicity  of  his  verses.  Pleased  now  to  show 
himself  as  well  bred  as  fashionable  folks,  he  put  on  the  grand 
conventional  robe.     For  example: 

'O  Clarinda,  shall  we  not  meet  In  a  state,  some  yet  unknown  state  of  being,  where  the 
lavish  hand  of  plenty  shall  minister  to  the  highest  wish  of  benevolence,  and  where  the 
chill  north- wind  of  prudence  shall  never  blow  over  the  flowery  tields  of  enjoyment? 

It  is  but  fair  to  state,  however,  that  he  was  not  muster  of  pure 
English  as  of  liis  native  dialect. 

Rank.  —  By  far  the  greatest  peasant-poet  that  has  ever  ap- 
peared. He  is  not  like  Shakespeare  in  the  range  of  his  genius  — 
has  little  of  his  imagination  or  inventive  power;  but  within  the 
limited  compass  of  personal  feeling  or  domestic  incident,  he  comes 
up  to  nature  —  and  who  can  go  beyond?  Pope  had  more  wisdom, 
but  which  is  the  poet  for  man's  heart  and  his  pillow?  He  sel- 
dom rose  into  the  region  of  great  ideas,  but  he  had  the  gift  of 
vision  —  the  eye  to  see  and  the  divining  instinct  to  understand 
what  came  and  ])assed  before  him.  He  could  not,  like  the  great 
dramatists,  lose  liimself  in  the  creations  of  his  fancy,  but,  within 
the  sphere  of  his  experience,  or  observation,  whatever  he  has 
written  is  perfect  and  complete,  as  the  humblest  weed  or  the 
proudest  flower, —  pulsating  with  thought  as  well  as  with  passion, 
full  of  light  as  well  as  of  fire.  He  found  his  ideal,  not  in  the 
remote  and  conventional,  but  in  the  familiar  and  near-at-hand; 
and,  without  rant  or  trick,  with  genuine  feeling,  gave  it  articu- 
late voice  —  a  voice  not  from  the  university,  but  from  the  heart 
of  Nature.  Thus  we  may  understand  why  no  ])oetry  was  ever 
more  instantaneouslv  and  more  widelv  jiopular;  why  in  the  rural 
circh;  he  was  a  delight  and  an  admiration,  and  in  cultured  Edin- 
luirgli  a  phenomenon. 

He  is  the  lii'st  of  all  our  song  writers.  His  songs  are  in  them- 
selves music  —  fitfLd  gushes  —  every  line,  every  cadence  stt'cped 
in  ])athos. 

He  has  left  us  onlv  fragments  of  himself.  IK-  was  too  nuu'h 
the  sp(U't  of  stonnv  inliuenees  for  the  calm  and  regulated  move- 
ment of  sustained  effort.      Perhaps   the   most   truly  natural  jjoets 


236       SECOXD  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

are  in  this  sense  passive,  ^Eolian  harps  swept  by  an  ever-varying' 
breeze. 

Character.  —  His  general  abilities  were  extraordinary.  His 
intellect  was  strong  and  its  perceptions  vivid.  Its  movement 
was  that  of  gigantic  but  unpolished  strength,  remarkably  quick, 
penetrating  and  sure.  Especially  in  conversation,  in  brilliant 
repartee  and  social  argument,  his  sagacious  energy  amazed  the 
best  thinkers  of  his  time. 

His  intellectual  character  was  fine,  as  well  as  logical;  delicate, 
as  well  as  powerful.     Witness: 

'There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me  more  —  I  do  not  know  if  I  shonld  call 
it  pleasure  —  but  something  which  exalts  me,  something  which  enraptures  me  —  than  to 
walk  in  tlie  slieltered  side  of  a  wood,  or  high  plantation,  in  a  cloudy  winter  day,  and  hear 
the  stormy  wind  howling  among  the  trees  and  raving  over  the  plain.  .  .  .  I  listened  to 
the  l)irds  and  frequently  turned  out  of  my  path,  lest  I  should  disturb  their  little  songs  or 
fri'-'hteu  them  to  another  station.' 

Again: 

•We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the  structure  of  our  souls,  so  we  cannot 
account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that  one  should  be  i)articularly  pleased  with 
that  which  on  minds  of  a  different  cast  makes  no  extraordinary  imi)ression.  I  have 
some  favorite  flowers  in  sjjring,  among  which  are  the  mountain-daisy,  the  harebell,  the 
foxglove,  the  wikl-briar  rose,  the  budding  birch  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view  and 
hang  over  with  particular  delight.  I  never  heard  the  loud  solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew 
in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence  of  a  troop  of  gray  plover  in  an  autumnal 
morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry. 
Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  owing  ?  Arc  we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which, 
like  the  ^Eolian  harp,  i)assive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  accident:  or  do  these 
argue  something  within  us  above  the  trodden  clod  ?  I  own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs 
of  those  awful  and  imjwrtant  realities:  a  God  that  made  all  things,  man's  immaterial  and 
immortal  nature,  and  a  world  of  weal  or  woe  beyond  death  and  the  grave." 

Calvinism,  methodical,  austere,  iron-boutid,  was  the  prevalent 

religion.     Against  this  prescriptive  and  gloomy  form  of  faith,  the 

vigorous  and  impetuous  mind  of  Burns  revolted,  and,  like  a  bow 

unstrung,  tended  to  the  opposite  extreme: 

'Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was  i>ntting  the  country  half  mad;  and  I,  an»t)i- 
tious  of  shining  in  ((in\('rsation  i)arties  on  Sundays,  between  sermons,  at  funerals,  etc., 
used,  a  few  years  aftirwarils,  to  ))uz/.le  Calvinism  with  so  much  heat  and  indiscretion, 
tiiat  I  raised  a  hue  and  cry  of  heresy  against  me,  which  has  not  ceased  to  this  hour." 

He  considers  Christ   to    be    oiilv  an    inspired    man,   and   resolves 
religion  into  adoration,  benevolence,  universal  sympathies: 

'  lie  wlio  is  our  .\ntlior  and  !'rc--erv(r,  and  will  one  day  be  our  Judge,  must  be  (not 
for  His  sake  in  the  way  of  duty,  Imt  from  the  native  imimlse  of  our  hearts)  the  object 
of  our  revi/renlial  awe  and  irraterul  adoration.  lie  is  almiglity  and  all-bounteous,  we  are 
Weak  anil  dependent:  hence  jiravrr  and  I'very  other  sort  of  devotion.  .  .  .  He  is  not 
willing  tliat  any  should  perish,  but  that  all  shouhl  come  to  "everlasting  life"":  conse- 
ijuently  it  must  be  in  every  one's  power  to  embrace  His  offer  of  "  everlastinir  life""; 
othrrwi-c   He   could   not.   in   justice,  condemn  thosi-  who  did  Tiot.     .\  mind  pervaded, 


BURNS.  237 

actuated,  and  governed  by  purity,  truth,  and  charity,  though  it  docs  not  tnerU  heaven, 
yet  is  an  absolutely  necessary  prerequisite,  without  which  heaven  can  neither  be 
obtained  nor  enjoyed:  and,  by  divine  promise,  such  a  mind  shall  never  fail  of  attaining 
"everlasting  life";  hence  the  impure,  the  deceiving,  and  the  uncharitable,  extrude 
themselves  from  eternal  bliss  by  their  unfitness  for  enjoying  it.  The  Supreme  Being 
has  put  the  immediate  administration  of  all  this,  for  wise  and  good  ends  known  to 
Himself,  into  the  hands  of  Jesus  Christ,  a  great  personage,  whose  relation  to  Him  we 
cannot  comprehend,  but  whose  relation  to  us  is  [that  of]  a  guide  and  Saviour;  and  who, 
except  for  our  own  obstinacy  and  misconduct,  will  bring  us  all,  through  various  ways, 
and  by  various  means,  to  bliss  at  last.' 

Beyond  question,  he  is  fundamentally  devout.  He  will  not  quar- 
rel with  a  man  for  his  irreligion,  any  more  than  for  his  want  of  a 
musical  ear;  but  he  will  regret  his  exclusion  from  so  'superlative 
a  source  of  enjoyment,'  and  would  deeply  imbue  the  mind  of 
every  child  with  the  principles  of  religion.  Often,  at  Edinburgh, 
he  disapproved  of  the  sceptical  jokes  which  he  heard  at  the  table. 
He  advises  his  pupil  to  keep  up  'a  regular  warm  intercourse  with 
the  Deity.'  In  difficulty,  sorrow,  and  remorse,  his  unfailing  sup- 
port was  his  firm  assurance  of  the  loving-kindness  of  God,  and 
the  reality  of  a  future  existence,  where  riches  return  to  their 
native  sordid  matter,  where  titles  are  disregarded,  and  human 
frailties  are  as  if  they  had  not  been.  One  of  his  favorite  quota- 
tions, sjx)ken  of  religion,  was: 

''Tis  Ihis,  iny  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning  bright, 
"Tis  /his  that  gilds  the  honor  of  our  night. 
When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends  are  few; 
When  friends  are  faithless  or  when  foes  pursue." 

His  sensibilities  are  tremblingly  alive.  The  sounding  woods 
are  his  delight.  Solemn  desolation  charms  him  to  a  sad  and  oft- 
returning  fondness.  A  beautiful  face  kindles  him  into  song.  A 
daisy  turned  under  by  his  plougii,  a  field-mouse  hurrying  from  its 
ruined  dwelling,  moves  him  to  pity  and  eloquence.  Now  buoyant, 
now  pathetic,  now  stern,  now  stormful,  he  has  a  tone  and  the 
words  for  everv  mood  of  man's  heart.  Feeling  himself  equal  to 
the  highest,  he  claims  no  rank  above  the  lowest, —  a  jilaymate  to 
Nature  and  to  Man. 

His  grand  characteristic  is  iniconsrious  sincerif;/.  He  is  an 
honest  man  and  an  honest  writei-,  abhorring  formalism  and 
hvpocrisy.  Always,  in  his  successes  and  his  failures,  with  gen- 
uine earnestness,  he  speaks  his  convictions.  'Phis  virtue  belongs 
to  all  men  in  anv  wav  iieroic;  and  this  it  is,  if  they  have  also 
depth  of  vision,  that  makes  men  ]ioets  and  prophets.  In  the 
preface  of  his  first  edition,  he  states  that  he  hatl  written, — 


238       SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

\ 

'To  amuse  himself  with  the  little  creations  of  his  own  fancy,  amid  the  toil  and 
fatigues  of  a  laborious  life;  to  transcribe  the  various  feelings,  the  loves,  the  griefs,  the 
hopes,  the  fears,  in  his  own  breast;  to  ttnd  some  kind  of  counterpoise  to  the  struggles  of 
a  world,  always  an  alien  scene,  a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind.' 

Byron  has  wisely  styled  man  a  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and 
a  tear.  A  tumultuous  pulse,  an  excess  of  sap,  kept  Burns  in 
apparent  variations  and  extremes.  Side  by  side  with  jocose 
satires  are  stanzas  full  of  humble  repentance  or  Christian  resig- 
nation. He  acknowledged  but  two  classes  of  objects, —  those  of 
adoration  the  most  fervent,  or  of  aversion  the  most  uncontrol- 
lable. Wrung  with  anguish  one  day,  the  next  he  was  in  merri- 
ment. In  the  prospective  horrors  of  a  jail,  he  composed  verse? 
of  compliment;  on  his  death-bed,  he  wrote  a  love-song.  Hf 
says : 

'I  lie  so  miserably  open  to  the  inroads  and  incursions  of  a  mischievous,  light-armed, 
well-mounted  banditti,  under  the  banners  of  imagination,  whim,  caprice,  and  passion; 
and  the  heavy-armed  veteran  regulars  of  wisdom,  ])rudence,  and  forethought  move  so 
very,  very  slow,  that  1  am  almost  in  a  state  of  perpetual  warfare,  and  alas!  frequent 
defeat.  There  are  just  two  creatures  I  would  envy,— a  horse  in  his  wild  state  traversing 
the  forests  of  Asia,  or  an  oyster  on  some  of  the  desert  shores  of  Europe.  The  one  has 
not  a  wish  without  enjoyment,  the  other  has  neither  wish  nor  fear.' 

Yet  what  harmony,  what  music  are  in  these  discords  !  Perhaps 
it  is  a  law  of  our  nature,  that  as  high  as  we  have  mounted  in 
delight  we  shall  sink  in  dejection.  Hood  expresses  it,  'There's 
not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth,  but  has  its  chord  in  melancholy'; 
and  Burns,  'Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure  thrill  the 
deepest  notes  of  woe.'  'Even  in  the  hour  of  social  mirth,'  he 
tells  us,  'my  gayety  is  the  madness  of  an  intoxicated  criminal 
under  the  hands  of  an  executioner.' 

If  you  would  probe  the  real  value  of  a  man,  ask  not  what  is 
the  grade  of  liis  living  or  the  scale  of  his  expenses,  but  what  is 
the  moral  skeleton  or  frame-work  of  his  career.  Weigh  the  man, 
not  Ills  titles.  There  are  those  noble  by  nature,  and  they  alone 
arc  iiol)le.  Only  virtue  is  nobility, —  all  else  is  but  paint  where- 
with to  write  its  name.  A  lord  with  all  his  tinsel  glitter  is  but  a 
creature  ff)rni('(l  us  you  and  I, —  like  us  a  wayfarer  from  tomb  to 
tomb.  He  may  have  l)een  rocked  in  a  golden  cradle,  but  he  is 
not  therefore  well-born.  He  is  better  than  the  peasant,  precisely 
in  the  degree  that  he  has  more  thought,  more  truth,  more  human- 
ity; richer,  only  in  proportion  as  he  is  richer  in  his  immortal 
nature.  Ideas  and  principles, —  these  are  the  stamp  of  royalty. 
Wisdom,  integrity,   justice,  piety, —  these  are   kingly,  and  whoso 


BURNS.  239 

has  them,  he  only  is  the  best-born  of  men,  though  hiid  in  the  crib 
of  an  ass,  or  trained  in  the  soil  between  the  furrows.  So  has 
Burns  a  just  self-consciousness.  As  the  first  duty  of  man,  he 
respects  his  own  nature,  estimating  himself  and  others  by  the 
spiritual  method.  In  the  splendid  drawing-rocjms  of  Edinburgh, 
he  is  unaffected,  unastonished,  never  forgets  the  majesty  of  man- 
hood. Standing  on  his  own  basis,  conscious  of  his  natural  rank, 
he  repels  the  forward,  and  subdues  the  supercilious.  Pretensions 
of  wealth  or  of  ancestry  he  ignores  or  despises.  The  sterling  of 
his  honest  worth  no  poverty  can  debase  into  servility.  Oppres- 
sion may  bend,  but  it  cannot  subdue,  his  independence.  He  will 
not  be  hired.  He  would  rather  assert  his  integrity  than  wear  a 
diadem.  A  mercenary  motive  he  abhors.  He  was  solicited  to 
supply  twenty  or  thirty  songs  for  a  musical  work,  with  an  under- 
standing distinctly  specified  that  he  should  receive  a  regular 
pecuniary  remuneration  for  his  contributions.  With  the  first 
part  of  the  proposal  he  instantly  complied,  but  the  last  he  per- 
emptorily rejected  : 

'As  to  any  remuneration,  yon  may  think  my  son;?.*  either  above  or  below  price:  for 
they  shall  absolutely  be  the  one  or  the  other.  In  the  honest  enthusiasm  with  which  I 
embark  in  your  undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages,  fee,  hire,  etc.,  would  be  downright 
prostitution  of  soul.' 

The  editor  subsequently  ventured  to  acknowledge  his  services  by 
a  small  sum,  which  the  poet  with  difficulty  restrained  himself 
from  returning: 

'I  assure  you,  my  dear  sjr,  that  you  truly  hurt  me  by  your  pecuniary  parcel.  It 
degrades  me  in  my  own  eyes.  However,  to  return  it  would  savor  of  afTectalion:  but 
as  to  any  more  trathc  of  that  debtor  and  creditor  kind,  I  swear  l)y  that  honor  which 
crowns  tlie  upright  statue  of  Hobert  Burns"  integrity  —  on  the  least  motion  of  it,  I  will 
indignantly  spurn  the  by-past  transaction,  and  from  that  moment  commence  entire 
stranger  to  you," 

So  did  proud  old  Samuel  .rolinson  throw  away  with  indignation 
the  new  shoes  which  had  bet'ii  jilaced  at  his  chamber  door.  'I 
ought  not,'  savs  IOiiktsoii,  'to  allow  anv  man,  because  he  has 
broad  lands,  to  feel  that  he  is  rich  in  my  presence.  1  ought  to 
make  him  feel  that  1  can  do  without  his  riclies,  that  I  cannot  l)e 
l)oiiglit, —  neither  1)V  comfort,  neither  l)v  ])ri(le, —  and  though  I 
b(^  titter! v  penniless,  and  receiving  l)read  from  him.  tliat  he  is 
the  poor  man  Ix'side  nic' 

To  measiii-e  his  struggles  and  his  pains,  we  must  consider  that 
he   had   not   the  patient  dulness   nor  the  crattv  vigilance  to  make 


240       SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

mechanical  toil  and  perpetual  econoniy  congenial  or  prosperous. 
He  could  plough,  sow,  harrow,  reap,  thrash,  winnow,  and  sell, — 
none  could  do  it  better;  but  he  did  it  by  a  sort  of  mechanical 
impulse  —  his  thoug-hts  were  elsewhere.  He  would  pen  an  ode 
on  his  sheep  when  he  should  have  been  driving  them  to  pasture, 
see  visions  on  his  way  home  from  market,  write  a  ballad  on  the 
girl  who  shows  the  brightest  eyes  among  his  reapers.  When 
addressed  about  a  business  matter,  he  always  turned  it  off  with, 
'  Oh,  talk  to  my  brother  about  that.'  He  procured  a  book  of 
blank  paper  with  the  purpose,  as  expressed  on  the  first  page, 
of  making  farm  memoranda.  Here  is  a  detached  specimen  of 
his  entries: 

'Oh,  why  the  donee  should  I  repine, 

And  be  an  iU-forebodcr? 
I'm  twenty-three,  and  five  feet  nine, 
I'll  go  and  be  a  sodgerl' 

How  should  a  man  grow  opulent,  or  purchase  the  soil  he  tills, 
who  says: 

'I  might  write  yon  on  farming,  on  liuilding,  on  niarlceting;  but  my  poor  distracted 
mind  is  so  jaded,  so  raclved,  and  bedeviled  with  the  task  of  the  superlatively  damned 
obligation  to  make  one  guinea  do  the  business  of  tliree,  that  I  detest,  abhor,  and  swoon 
at  the  very  word  business.' 

His  gTcat  defect  was  the  lack  of  unity  in  his  purposes,  of 
consistency  in  his  aims;  the  want  of  that  self-command  and  self- 
suppression  by  which  great  souls,  conceiving  a  mission,  are  able 
to  fulfil  it,  despite  the  impulses  of  earth,  alike  in  sunshine  and 
in  wintr\^  gloom. 

To  the  last,  he  had  a  divided  aim  in  liis  activit}^, —  conviviality 
and  the  muse.  Thus  it  is  that,  while  his  hoofs  were  of  fire,  he 
continued  to  wade  the  mud.  To  this,  more  than  to  his  outward 
situation,  is  it  due  that  he  ntncr  rose  })ermanent]y  above  his 
environment  into  the  serene  ether  of  moral  and  physical  victory, 
but  passed  existence  in  an  angry  discontent  with  fate.  We  can 
believe  that  to  his  culture  as  a  poet  a  season  of  poverty  and 
sufTering  was  a  positive  advantage  —  a  divine  mean  to  a  divine 
end.  It  was  required  only  that  his  heart  should  be  right,  tliat 
he  should  c(Jiistitute  oix;  object  the  soul  of  his  endeavors;  then, 
as  it  was  his  lot  to  strive,  it  would  have  been  his  glory  to  coii- 
(juor.  Said  Jeati  I';iui,  who  had  often  onlv  an  allowance  of  water, 
'I  would  not  for  inucji  that  1  had  lieen  born  richer.'  'The 
canarv   bird   sings   sweeter,   the   longer   it    has   been   trained   in   a 


THE    UNHAPPY    BARD.  241 

darkened  cage.'  '  Fortune,'  says  Disraeli,  '  has  rarely  conde- 
scended to  be  the  companion  of  genius.'  Tasso  was  obliged  to 
borrow  a  crown  to  subsist  through  the  week.  Cervantes,  the 
genius  of  Spain,  wanted  bread.  Said  a  nobleman  to  a  bishop: 
*I  want  your  advice,  my  lord;  how  am  I  to  bring  up  my  son  so 
as  to  make  him  get  forward  in  the  world?'  'J  know  of  but  one 
way,'  replied  the  bishop;  'give  him  parts  and  poverty.'  Poussin, 
shown  a  picture  by  a  person  of  rank,  remarked,  '  You  only  want 
a  little  poverty,  sir,  to  make  you  a  good  painter.'  Johnson 
usually  wrote  from  the  pressure  of  want.  With  his  lassitude  and 
love  of  ease,  he  would  never  have  been  the  literary  autocrat  of 
his  century,  had  he  not  been  pressed  into  service  and  driven  on 
to  glory  at  the  sharp  point  of  necessity. 

Inj3.ueiice . —  On  the  popular  mind  of  Scotland  his  influence 
has  been  great  and  lasting.  His  poetry  has  helped  to  awaken, 
enlarge,  elevate,  and  refine  it.  This  frank,  generous,  and  reck- 
less blooming  of  poetic  life  was  needed  as  a  counteraction  against 
the  pitiless  doctrines  of  Calvinism.  To  the  national  literature  it 
restored  the  idea  of  beauty;  to  the  national  religion,  the  pleas- 
ures of  instinct;  to  both,  the  natural  expression  of  the  heart's 
emotions. 

■  While  'rivers  roll  and  woods  are  green,'  aspiring  youth  will 
be  instructed  by  the  efforts,  the  miseries,  the  revolts,  the  errors, 
and  the  virtues  of  the  mighty  peasant  who  '  grew  immortal  as  he 
stooped  behind  his  plough.' 


c  C)  ^v  p  E  u 


Poor  cliMrmiiit:  f'oiil,  pcrisliiii'^  liko  a  frail  llowcr  tniiisplantcd  from  a  warm  land  to 
the  Miou  :  the  worlii's  t('iiii)i'ralurc  was  too  roii^li  for  it :  and  tlit-  moral  law,  which  .-hoiiid 
have  supported  il,  tore  it  with  iis  thorns. —  Taiiie. 

Biography. — Born  in  the  county  of  Hertford,  in  lT;^)I,son 
of  a  cU'i-uviiian.  In  his  seventh  year,  lie  lost  his  niotlMT.  a  lady 
of  most  atnial)le  temper  and  agreeal)le  manners.  At  tliis  tender 
age  he  was  sent  to  a  boarding-seliool.  Timid  and  home-sick,  he 
was  sinu'led  out  l)y  a  boy  of  fifteen  who  jierseeuted  him  witli 
'^      IG 


242      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

relentless  cruelty,  and  .  never  seemed   pleased  except  when  tor- 
menting; him: 

'  I  conceived  such  a  dread  of  his  figure,  .  .  .  that  I  well  remember  being  afraid  to 
lift  my  eyes  upon  him  higher  than  his  knees;  and  that  I  knew  him  better  by  his  shoe- 
buckles  than  by  any  oilier  part  of  his  dress." 

At  nine  a  malady  of  the  nerves  seized  him,  the  shadow  of  evil 
to  come.  At  ten  he  was  sent  to  Westminster,  where  he  studied 
the  classics  diligently  till  eighteen.  Here  he  experienced  more 
brutality,  and  in  consequence  could  never  advert  to  those  years 
without  a  feeling  of  horror.  Warren  Hastings  Avas  one  of  his 
schoolmates. 

He  next  studied,  or  professed  to  study,  the  law,  with  a  London 
attorney,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1?54.  A  more  unsuita- 
ble choice  of  profession  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  make.  He 
devoted  his  time  chiefly  to  poetry  and  general  literature.  As 
students,  he  and  Thurlow  —  the  future  Lord  Chancellor  —  were 
'  constantly  employed  from  morning  to  night  in  giggling  and 
making  giggle.'  His  evil  had  not  left  him.  Melancholy  came, 
profound  dejection: 

'Day  and  night  I  was  upon  the  rack,  lying  down  in  horror  and  rising  up  in  despair." 

At  thirty-one,  almost  without  an  object  in  life,  his  father  dead 
and  his  fortune  small,  he  accepted  gladly,  without  reflection,  the 
post  of  reading  clerk  in  the  House  of  Lords.  But  his  meek  and 
gentle  spirit  was  so  overwhelmed  by  the  idea  of  a  public  appear- 
ance, that  he  resigned  his  position  before  he  assumed  its  duties. 
Thinking,  like  a  man  in  a  fever,  that  a  change  of  jiosture  would 
relieve  his  ])aiii,  ho  had  requested  appointment  to  the  clerkshij) 
of  the  Journals  —  an  oiTieo  which,  lie  had  supjiosed,  would  not 
require  his  ])rfseiice  in  the  House.  But  he  had  to  undergo  an 
examination,  and  again  his  nerves  were  unstrung: 

'  They  whose  spirits  are  formed  like  mine,  to  whom  a  public  exhibition  of  tliemsolves, 
on  any  occasion,  is  mortal  iioison.  may  have  some  idea  of  the  horror  of  my  situation  — 
others  can  liavo  none.  My  continual  misery  at  length  brought  on  a  nervous  fever:  quiet 
forsook  me  by  <l.iy,  and  peace  by  night;  even  a  finger  raised  against  me  seemed  more 
than  I  could  bear." 

For  six  months  ho  stndiod  tlie  .Tournal  l)ooks  and  tried  to  prejiare 
liimsclf,  l)ut  ho  road  without  understanding:  ' 

'In  this  situation,  such  .1  lit  <i(  passion  has  sometimes  seized  me  when  alone  in  my 
chainbiT',  tliat  I  have  cried  out  almid,  and  ciir^ed  the  hour  of  my  birth;  lifting  up  my 
eyes  to  licavcn  not  as  .-i  supiiliant,  but  in  the  hellish  spirit  of  rancorous  reproacli  and 
bhispliumy  against  my  Maker." 


cowPER.  243 

The  day  of  examination  arrived,  and  he  attempted  suicide  as  a 
means  of  escape.  At  last  insanity  came,  and  he  was  sent  to  an 
asylum,  whilst  his  conscience  was  scaring  him,  and  the  bottomless 
pit  seemed  yawning  to  receive  him. 

On  his  recovery,  feeling  himself  incapable  of  an  active  life,  he 
withdrew  into  the  country,  with  the  remnant  of  his  patrimonv, 
and  a  further  sum  contributed  by  his  friends.  Here  he  formed 
an  intimacy  witli  the  family  of  Mr.  Lnwin,  a  resident  clergvman: 

'  They  are  the  mos^t  agreeable  people  imaginable ;  quite  sociable,  and  as  free  from  the 
ceremoniou><  civility  of  country  gentlefolks  a-^  any  I  ever  met  with  They  treat  me  more 
like  a  near  relation  than  a  stranger,  and  their  house  i;-  always  open  to  me." 

To  his  joy  they  received  him  as  an  inmate.  Their  cheerful  com- 
pany, the  wholesome  air,  and,  above  all,  the  maternal  tenderness 
of  Mrs.  Lnwin,  gave  him  a  few  gleams  of  light.  Several  hours  of 
each  day  he  worked  in  the  garden;  the  rest  of  the  time  he  em- 
ployed in  i-eading  scripture  or  sermons,  in  singing  hymns  with  his 
friends,  and  in  Christian  conversation: 

On  the  death  of  Mr.  Unwin,  he  removed  with  the  family  to 
Olney,  where  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Rev.  Mr.  Newton,  a 
man  of  great  force  of  character  and  of  fervid  piety.  Here,  amid 
picturesque  scenery,  he  lived  a  religious  recluse.  As  a  pastime  to 
divert  him  from  sad  reflections,  Mr.  Newton  engaged  his  assist- 
ance in  preparing  a  volume  of  hymns;  but  his  morbid  melancholy 
increased,  and  in  1TT8  he  was  again  shrouded  in  the  gloom  of 
madness.  Mrs.  T'liwin  watoliod  over  him  with  untiring  vigilance. 
After  four  years,  reason  returned.  As  he  began  to  recover,  he 
took  to  gardeniiio-  and  composing  jioetry.  A  friend  gave  him 
three  hares,  which  yet  live  in  his  verse.  He  had  also  five  rabbits, 
two  guinea-jiigs,  two  dogs,  a 'magpie,  a  jay,  a  starling,  canaries, 
pigeons,  and  gold-finches. 

When  upwards  of  fifty  years  old  he  publishcil  his  first  volume 
of  poems.      On  tln'  occasion,  Ik^  wrote  to  Mr.  I  nwin: 

'Your  mother  says  I  m"sf  write,  and  "must  "  admits  of  no  apology:  t  niiglu  other- 
wise plead  that  I  have  noiliing  to  say.  that  I  am  weary,  that  I  am  dull.  .  .  .  Rut  all  these 
pleas,  and  whatever  pleas  l)esi(les.  either  disinclination,  indolence,  or  necessiiy,  miLrht 
suggest,  are  overruled,  as  they  ought  to  be,  tlie  moment  a  lady  adduces  hi'r  irrefraL'able 
arirunient,  y)"  iioi--^t.' 

At  this  tiiiic.  l.adv  Austoii.  a  baronet's  widow,  sistcr-iii-hiw  ol 
a  clerirvniaii  near  Olney,  became  his  friend.  Klegant,  accom- 
plished, and  witty,  her  society  was  an  antidote  to  his  low  spirits. 


244      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Whenever  the  cloud  seejiied  to  be  coming  over  him,  her  spright- 
liness  dispelled  it.  She  was  the  taskmaster  of  his  muse,  assigned 
him  topics,  and  exhorted  him  to  undertake  the  translation  of 
Homer.  Mrs.  Unwin,  the  devoted  friend  of  twenty  years,  looked 
with  no  little  jealousy  upon  the  ascendancy  of  this  fair  inspirer; 
and  finding  it  necessary  to  choose  which  he  should  please  to 
retain,  Cowper,  in  mental  anguish,  sent  Lady  Austen  a  valedic- 
tory letter.     Depression  continued: 

'My  heart  resembles:  not  the  heart  of  a.  Christian,  mourning  and  yet  rejoicing,  pierced 
with  thorn;;,  yet  wreatlied  about  with  roses;  1  have  tlie  lliorn  without  the  rose.  My 
brier  is  a  wintry  one,  tiie  flowers  are  withered,  but  the  thorn  remains.' 

His  cousin,  a  woman  of  refined  and  fascinating  manners,  whom 
he  had  not  seen  for  three-and-twenty  years,  came  to  visit  them; 
and,  with  her,  sweet  moments.  Thus  he  records  the  promised 
delight: 

'  1  shall  see  you  again,  I  shall  hear  your  voice.  Wc  shall  lake  walks  together.  I  will 
show  you  my  prospects  — the  hovel,  the  alcove,  the  Ouse,  and  its  banks,  everything  that 
I  Inive  described.  ...  1  will  not  let  you  come  till  the  end  of  May  or  the  beginning  of 
June,  because  before  that  time  my  green-house  will  not  be  ready  to  receive  us,  and  it  is 
the  only  pleasant  room  belonging  to  us.  When  the  plants  go  out,  we  go  In.  I  line  it  with 
nets,  and  s|)read  the  floor  with  mats,  and  there  you  shall  sit,  with  a  bed  of  mignonette  at 
your  side,  and  a  hedge  of  honeysuckles,  roses,  and  jasmine;  and  I  will  make  you  a 
bouquet  of  myrtle  every  day.' 

Despair  was  seldom  out  of  his  mind.  He  floated  on  a  sea  of 
endless  conjectures,  apprehending  the  worst.     In  1T88  he  wrote: 

M)  trouble!  the  portion  of  mortals  —  but  mine  in  jiarticular.  Would  I  had  never 
known  tliee,  or  could  bid  thee  farewell  forever!  for  I  meet  thee  at  every  turn,  my 
pillows  are  stuffed  with  tiiee,  my  very  roses  smell  of  thee.' 

In  1702  Mrs.  Unwin  was  stricken  with  paralysis,  and  the  task 
of  nursing  her  fell  upon  the  sensitive  and  dejected  poet.  Again 
he  battled  with  despondency,  j)lainied  work  upon  Milton  in  his 
occasionally  briglit  intervaLs,  relapsed  again  into  a  j)ainful  illness 
of  mind,  from  wliich,  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  he  found 
relief  only  in  the  revi.sion  of  IIo)ii(r.  'I  may  as  well  do  tlii.-^,'  he 
said,  'for  I  can  do  nothing  else';  and  toiled  sadly  on  till  he  died, 
in  1800,  under  tlie  terrors  of  eternal  damnation.  On  hi.s  death- 
bod,  when  told  to  confide  in  the  Redeemer,  who  desired  to  save 
all  men,  he  uttered  a  passionate  cry,  begging  the  clergyman  not 
to  offer  hitn  such  eou.solations. 

"Writings. —  'rmtli,  one  of  hi.s  earlier  poems  —  all  of  which, 
perhajxs,  have   been   less  read   than  they  deserved.      The  parallel 


cow  PER.  245 

between  Voltaire  and  the  poor  cottager  is  an  exquisite  piece  of 
eloquence  and  poetry: 

*Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  our  own  door. 
Pillows  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store: 
Content  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay, 
Shuflling  her  threads  about  thi-  live-long  day. 
Just  earns  a  scanty  pittance,  and  at  night 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light; 
She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nature  fit. 
Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit; 
Receives  no  praise;   but,  though  her  lot  be  such, 
(Toilsome  and  indigent)  she  renders  mucli; 
Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  lier  Bible  true  — 
A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew; 
And  in  that  charter  reads  witli  si)arkling  eyes 
Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies. 

O  hapi)y  i)easant:   O  unhappy  bard! 
His  the  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  rich  reward; 
He  prais'd  [K-rhaps,  for  ages  yet  to  come. 
She  never  heard  of  half  a  mile  from  home; 
He  lost  in  errors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 
She  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers.' 

On  one  occasion,  to  arouse  him  from  unusual  depression,  Lady 
Austen  told  him,  in  her  happiest  manner,  an  amusing-  story  of  a 
famous  horseman;  and  it  kept  him  laughing  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  niglit.  The  ne.xt  mor'iing  he  turned  it  into  the  best 
of  playful  l)allads — Jolm.  Gilpin.  It  rapidly  found  its  way  into  all 
the  periodicals  of  the  day,  was  read  to  crowded  houses  in  I^ondon, 
and  was  repeated  with  equal  siu^ce.ss  on  provincial  stages.  Per- 
haps it  has  given  as  much  pleasure  to  as  many  people,  young  and 
old,  educated  and  uneducated,  as  anything  of  the  same  length 
that  ever  was  written.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  this  merry 
ballad  was  written  l)y  a  man  who  at  the  time  seemed  to  himself 
suspended  over  an  al)yss  —  the  flame  and  darkness  of  hell,  and, 
while  it  was  convulsing  audiences  with  laughter,  lie  was  in  the 
depths  of  d(>spair. 

A  cousin  sent  him  his  mother's  ])ortrait.  He  rcc<Mved  it  in 
trepidation,  kissed  it,  Inuig  it  where  it  woidd  be  seen  last  at 
night,  lirst  in  the  morning,  and  wrote  a  jioem  on  it,  whose  ten- 
derness and  pathos,  flowing  in  richer  and  sweeter  music  tlian  he 
has  elsewhere  reached,  arc  unequalled  l)y  anything  else  he  has 
written,  and  surpassed  I)y  little  in  the  language.  Springing  from 
the  deepest  and  purest  foiuit  of  passi(^n,  and  shaping  itself  into 
mobile  aiul  fluent  verse,  it  reveals  his  true  oriiz-inality,  as  well  as 


246      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

that  life-like  elegance,  that  natural  spirit  of  art,  wherein  consists 
the  great  revolution  of  the  modern  style: 

'O  that  those  lips  had  language!    Life  has  pass'd 
With  me  but  roughly  i-ince  1  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  —  thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  I" 
My  mother  1  when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Ilover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  tliy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journej'  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss. 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers— Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  tliy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such?    It  was.    Where  thou  art  gone, 
•  Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  word  shall  i)ass  my  lii)s  no  more!  ... 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp'd 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  call'd  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
!Short-lived  jjossession  I     But  the  record  fair. 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  lias  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced.  .  .  . 
Could  Time,  his  (light   reversed,  restore  the  hour.s. 
When  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers. 
The  violet,  the  jiink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin. 
(.■\nd  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Woiildst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile). 
Could  those  few  ])leasant  days  again  appear,   . 
Miirht  one  wish  brins  them,  would  I  wish  them  here?  .  .  . 
Thoii,  as  a  •ralJaiit  bark  from  All)ion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  wrather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 
Shoots  into  i)ort  at  some  well-haven'd  isle. 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile. 
There  sits  (piiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  inipieLMiated  with  incense  play 
.^r()un(l  her,  fanuiuL'  liu'lit  her  streamers  gay: — 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  hast  reach'd  the  shore, 
"Where  teniiiests  never  heat  nr)r  billows  roar;" 
And  thy  loved  consort  dm  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life.  Ioul:  since  has  anchor'd  bv  thv  side 


cowPER.  247 

Bui  nic,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  tliat  rest. 
Always  fn)ni  port  withhold,  alwav:-  (liKtrt-ss'd  — 
Me  howling  bla^'ts  drive  deviou!;,  ternpei^t  toas'd, 
bails  rippM,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost. 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course." 

Lady  Austen  advised  him  to  write  something  in  blank  verse. 
'Set  me  a  subject,  then,'  said  he.  'Oh,  you  can  write  on  any- 
thing; take  tlie  sofa.'  So  he  began  his  masterpiece  —  The  Task. 
Hence  the  mock-heroic  opening: 

'I  sing  the  Sofa.  I  who  lately  f^ang 
Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,  and  toncird  with  awe 
The  solemn  chords,  and  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Escap'd  with  pain  from  that  advciifrous  llight. 
Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme; 
The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 
Th"  occasion  —  for  the  fair  commands  the  song." 

He  begins  with  a  history  of  seats,  and,  having  come  down  to  the 
creation  of  the  sofa,  goes  backwards  in  memory  to  his  school- 
days, when  he  rambled  along  the  banks  of  the  Thames  till  tired, 
and  needed  no  sofa  when  he  returned;  then  ho  dreams,  traces 
his  life  down  the  stream  of  time  to  the  present  hour,  noting  what 
has  charmed  him,  strengthened  him,  made  him  happy,  or  raised 
his  drooping  spirits, — and  concludes  that  it  has  ever  been  free 
communion  with  Nature  in  the  country: 

'God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town. 
What  wonder,  then,  that  health  and  virtue,  irifts 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That   life  holds  out  to  all  should  most  abound 
And  lea?-t  l)e  Ihrcaten'd  in   the  fields  and  groves.' 

Then  he  follows  the  bent  of  his  mind,  describing  what  he  has 
seen  and  felt, —  sounds  and  sights,  landscajies  and  domestic  inci- 
dents, j(n'  and  .sorrow;  mingling  here  and  there  stories,  ()|)inions, 
dissertations,  apostro])hos,  reflections;  always  expressing  his  con- 
victions, not  dreaming  that  he  is  heard,  and  employing  words 
onl}'  to  mark  emotions. 

He  is  never  in  want  of  a  subject.  To  his  eye,  all  objects,  the 
smallest  and  most  familiar,  ;ire  ])oetic.  Here  is  his  memorable 
description  of  the  post  coming  in: 

'Hark!  'tis  the  Iw:ingiug  born  o"er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but   nnedful  leuLrth 
Bestrides  the  wintry  Hood;  in  wliicli  llie  moon 
Sees  her  nnwrinkleil   fare  riMleited  bri_'ht:  — 
lie  comes,  the  beralil  <if  a  noisy  world, 


248      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

With  ppatter'd  boots,  strapped  waist  and  frozen  locks, 
NeWiri  from  ail  nations  liimb'ring  at  liis  back, 
True  to  liis  charge,  the  close-pack'd  load  behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destin'd  inn; 
And  having  dropped  the  expected  bsg,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful;   messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some.'  .  .  . 

With  expectant  hand  we  open  the  close-packed  load,  to  learn  the 
tidings  from  noisy  London,  jewelled  India,  and  the  universe: 

'Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steaming  column,  and  the  cups. 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  ev'ning  in.' 

He  sees  a  gallery  of  splendid  and  various  pictures  where 
others  hear  only  a  sound  or  see  only  extension.  His  description 
of  a  winter's  walk  at  noon  is  one  of  the  most  feeling  and  elegant 
specimens  of  his  manner: 

'There  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds; 
And,  as  the  mind  is  pitch" d,  the  ear  is  pleas'd 
With  melting  airs  or  martial,  brisk  or  grave; 
Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 
Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 
How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells. 
Falling  at  intervals  ni)on  tlie  ear 
In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away ; 
Now  ))ealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still. 
Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on ! 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  Mcm'ry  slept.    Wherever  I  have  heard 
A  kindred  melody  the  scene  recurs. 
And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains.  .  .  . 
The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood. 
The  morning  sliarp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon 
l"l)()n  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills. 
And  wliere  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage. 
And  liMs  file  warmth  of  May.    The  vault  is  blue, 
,  Witliout  a  cloud;  and  white,  without  a  spock. 

The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  haruiony  comes  o'er  the  vale: 
And  through  the  trees  I  view  th"  embattled  tow"r. 
Whence  all  the  music.     I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  inlluence  of  the  wafted  strains. 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms. 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade.' 


cow  PER.  249 

Not  infrequently  the  rudest  and  most  insigniticant  sight, —  a 
mole,  for  instance, —  awakens  a  touch  of  native  humor: 

'  [We]  feel  at  every  step 
Our  foot  half  ^iunk  in  hiilocks  green  and  soft, 
Raised  by  the  mole,  the  miner  of  the  soil. 
He,  not  unlilve  the  great  ones  of  mankind. 
Disfigures  earth,  and,  plotting  in  the  dark, 
Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile 
That  may  record  the  mischiefs  he  has  done.' 

Homely,  flat,  and  tame  was  the  country  he  described  ;  but  its 
figures,  seen  by  the  poet,  not  the  realist,  are  transfigured  and 
ennobled  by  the  earnestness  of  love,  and  are  painted  in  lines 
which  are  genuine  poetry, —  exact,  transparent,  lingering  fondly 
over  the  scene  upon  which  the  eye  has  rested.  As  one  of  many 
landscape  views,  take  this  : 

'How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 
Has  slackened  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne 
The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew. 
While  admiration,  feeding  at  the  eye. 
And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 
Thence  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discerned. 
The  distant  i)low,  slow-moving,  and  beside 
His  laboring  team,  that  swerved  not  from  the  track, 
The  sturdy  swain  diminished  to  a  boy! 
Hero  Oiise,  slow-winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads  with  cattle  sprinkled  o"er. 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 
Delighted.    There,  fast  rooted  in  their  l)ank. 
Stand,  never  overlooked,  our  favorite  elms. 
That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut : 
While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream. 
That,  as  with  molten   glass,  inlays  the  vale. 
The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds; 
Displaying,  on  its  varied  side,  the  grace 
Of  liedi,'e-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tower. 
Tall  si)ire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  ui)on  the  listening  ear, 
Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  \illages,  remote." 

The  nature  of  his  theme, —  the  Sofa, —  suggestive  'of  home 
scenes  and  experiences,  naturally  led  to  an  iinmethodical  treat- 
ment of  toj^ics  coming  up,  as  in  everv-day  lif(;,  without  order  or 
coherence.  It  as  naturally  led  to  a  diversity  of  sciitiincntal 
expression, —  descriptivi^,  humorous,  pathetic,  satirical,  moral, 
reliiiious.  Hence  few  poems  contain  so  great  a  luimlier  of  things 
to  attract  and  attach  rcadi'rs.  In  his  zeal  to  avoid  the  jiolished 
uniformitv  of  Pope  and  his  imitators,  he  had  often  hccomo,  in  his 
former  versification,  too  ruggeil.      S(>nsil)lc  of  his  error,  Tfu   Ta^k 


250      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

was  made  to  unite  strength  and  freedom  with  grace  and  melody. 
The  doctrinal  strain,  too,  which  had  operated  against  the  popu- 
larity of  his  earlier  poems,  was  pitched  upon  a  lower  key,  and 
religion,  without  compromising  "any  of  its  essentials,  assumed  an 
aspect  less  rueful  and  severe. 

'My  principal  purpose  has  been,  to  allure  the  reader  by  character,  by  scenery,  by 
imagery,  and  such  poetical  embullishinents,  to  the  reading  of  what  may  profit  him.  .  .  . 
What  there  is  of  a  religious  cast  in  the  volume,  I  have  thrown  towards  the  end  of  it,  for 
two  reasons:  first,  that  I  might  not  revolt  the  reader  at  his  entrance,  and,  secondly,  that 
my  best  impressions  might  be  made  last.' 

These  considerations,  added  to  that  of  pervading  sincerity,  may 
explain  why  the  success  of  the  Task  was  instant  and  decided, 
giving  its  author  rank  as  one  of  the  classics  of  the  language. 
'The  best  didactic  poems,'  says  Southey,  'when  compared  with 
the  Task,  are  like  formal  gardens  in  comparison  with  woodland 
scenery.' 

His  Letters  are  the  purest  and  most  perfect  specimens  of 
familiar  correspondence  in  the  language.  Their  charm  consists 
in  their  natural  elegance  —  their  inimitable  ease  and  colloquial 
freedom;  in  their  exquisite  light  of  poetic  truth  shed  upon  daily 
life;  in  the  glimpse  which  they  afford  of  an  amiable,  suffering, 
and  benevolent  character. 

One  da\',  being  in  much  distress  of  mind,  he  took  up  the  Iliad, 
and  translated  the  first  twelve  lines.  The  same  necessity  pressing 
liim  again,  he  had  recourse  to  the  same  expedient,  and  translated 
more.  Every  day,  in  a  similar  way,  added  something  to  the  work; 
till  at  last  he  formed  the  design  of  translating  the  whole  of  the 
Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  —  forty  thousand  verses.  His  task,  self- 
constituted,  was  forty  lines  per  day,  to  which  he  gave  all  the  finish 
that  the  most  scrupvilous  accuracy  could  command.  He  appears 
to  have  had  a  just  conception  of  Homer,  to  have  entered  into  the 
sj)irit  of  his  })oetry,  and  to  have  justly  considered  that  the  neat 
and  artificial  style  of  Pope  was  ill  suited  to  the  fire  and  majesty 
of  the  original: 

'There  is  not,  I  believe,  in  all  tlie  world  to  be  found  an  uninsinred  poem  so  simple  as 
are  both  of  those  of  Homer:  nor  in  all  the  world  a  i)oem  more  bedizened  with  ornaments 
than  Pope's  translation  of  tlnin.  .  .  .  Neither  had  Pope  tlie  faintest  conception  of  those 
exquisite  discriminations  of  chai-acter  for  which  Homer  is  so  remarkable.  All  his  persons, 
and  e(iUMlly  upon  all  occasions,  s|)cak  in  an  inllatecl  and  struttinL'  phraseoloiry,  as  Pope 
has  niaiia'jed  them:  altliou'jh  in  tlic  oriL'inal,  the  (liL'nity  of  tlieir  utifrance,  even  when 
tliey  are  most  majestic,  con-ists  princijmlly  in  tlie  simplicity  of  tliiir  -entiments  and  of 
their  lanLMiatre.  .  .      No  «rit<r  more  [lathetic  than  Homer,  because  none  more  natural; 


COWPEK.  251 

and  because  none  less  natural  than  Pope,  in  his  version  of  Homer,  therefore,  than  he, 
none  less  pathetic.  .  .  . 

As  an  accomplished  per.son  moves  gracefully  without  thinking  of  it,  in  like  manner 
the  dignity  of  Homer  secerns  to  have  cost  him  no  labor.  It  was  natural  to  him  to  say  great 
things,  and  to  say  them  well,  and  little  ornaments  were  beneath  his  notice.' 

These  ideas  and  strictures  indicate  that  a  new  light  had  risen  in 
the  poetical  firmament;  tiiat  in  the  manner  of  writing  a  new  spirit 
had  broken  out:  that,  as  the  flower  grows  into  fruit,  the  form  of 
the  human  mind,  since  the  soulless  days  of  Queen  Anne,  had 
changed.  Feeling  is  poetical,  and  nature  is  reasserted.  Cowper's 
version,  however,  though  more  faithful  than  Pope's,  in  aiming  at 
greater  force  and  vigor,  became  too  rugged  and  harsh. 

Style. — Animated,  vigorous,  pointed,  free,  clear,  and  expres- 
sive. Less  musical  and  brilliant  than  Pope's,  less  warm  and  glow- 
ing perhaps  than  Goldsmith's,  it  has  more  nature  than  the  former, 
more  'bone  and  muscle'  than  the  latter.  His  manner  was  his  own. 
He  wrote  from  a  full  soul,  not  for  the  pleasure  of  making  a  noise 
in  the  world,  but  to  occupy  himself.  Hence  his  naturalness; 
hence  his  contempt  of  the  'creamy  smoothness'  of  fashionable 
verse.     Not  the  constraint  of  outward  form,  but, — 

'Give  me  the  line  that  ])loughs  its  stately  course 
Like  a  proud  swan,  conquering  the  stream  by  force; 
That,  like  some  cottage  beauty,  strikes  the  heart, 
Quite  unindebted  to  the  tricks  of  art.' 

While  he  admires  Pope, — 

'As  harmony  itself  exact, 
In  verse  well  discii)lined,  complete,  compact,' 

lie  condemns  liis  devotion  to  form: 

'But  he,  his  musical  finesse  was  such. 
So  nice  his  ear,  so  delicate  his  touch. 
Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanic  art. 
And  every  warbler  has  his  time  by  heart." 

In  reading  Pop(\  we  are  inij)ressed  by  the  wonderful  sul)jection 
of  the  idea  to  the  exactions  of  the  rliynu^  and  the  rhythm;  in 
Cow])er,  l)v  the  earnestness  of  his  thought,  the  })urity  and  swei't- 
ness  of  Ills  emotion.  We  read  no  poetry  with  a  deeper  conviction 
that  its  sentiments  have  come  from  the  author's  lH>;irt.  \\'f  arc 
not  to  suppose,  however,  that  he  wrote  without  care  and  «'vcn 
anxiety.  On  the  contrary,  his  example  is  but  another  cumuliit ive 
illustration  of  the  truth,  that  tlie  price  of  excellence  in  composi- 
tion is  labor.      In  more  than  one  passage  he  has  descanted  on, — 


252      SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

'The  shifts  and  turns, 
The  expedients  and  inventions  multiform, 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms, 
Tliough  apt,  yet  coy  and  difficult  to  win.' 

Hank. — For  colloquial  freedom  of  manner,  for  noble  and 
tender  sentiment,  for  fervent  piety,  for  glowing  patriotism,  for 
appreciation  of  natural  beauty  and  of  domestic  life,  for  humor 
and  quiet  satire,  for  descriptive  power,  for  skill  and  variety  of 
expression  (at  least  in  the  2hsk),  he  has  seldom  been  equalled; 
and  for  all  of  these  qualities  combined,  he  has  been  surpassed 
by  few  or  by  none. 

Young's  religion  and  mirth  seem  to  belong  to  different  men; 
Cowper  lives  in  every  line,  and  moves  in  every  scene,  Milton  is 
more  majestic,  erudite,  and  profound;  but  he  has  less  ease  and 
elegance  —  is  less  completely  a  companion,  a  friend.  In  the  pro- 
ductions of  Milton  and  Young,  religion  is  mainly  controversial 
and  theoretical;  in  those  of  Cowper,  it  is  practical  and  experi- 
mental. Indeed,  it  is  Cowper's  distinction  to  have  dissipated  the 
prejudice  that  contemplative  piety  cannot  be  poetical.  For  the 
first  time  the  multitude  saw  with  pleasure, — 

'A  bard  all  fire. 
Touched  with  a  coal  from  heaven,  assume  the  lyre, 
And  tell  the  world,  still  kindling  as  he  sung. 
With  more  than  mortal  music  on  his  tongue, 
That  He  who  died  below,  and  reigns  above. 
Inspires  the  song,  and  that  his  name  was  Love.' 

Pope  has  more  l)rilliancy  and  a  more  exquisite  sense  of  the  ele- 
gances of  art;  but  who  would  select  liim  as  a  mirror  of  the  affec- 
tions, the  regrets,  the  feelings,  the  desires,  which  all  have  felt  and 
would  wish  to  cherish?  In  his  descriptions  of  nature,  he  is  less 
ideal  than  Thomson,  but  more  rapturous,  simpler  in  diction,  and 
more  picturesque  —  more  abounding  in  curious  details.  Thoni- 
soiTs  i)iety  is  of  the  kind  easily  satisfied  and  only  thoughtlessly 
thankful.  AVitli  all  his  love  of  natural  scenery,  the  world  is 
coiiiparalively  mechanical  and  dead.      With  Cowper, — 

■There  lives  and  moves 
A  soul  in  :ill  things,  and  that  soul  is  God.' 

It  is  lie  who  alik(;  — 

'Gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing. 
And  wheels  Ilis  throne  ujxin  tlie  rolling  world.' 

AVhcn  the  human  is  touched  and  enlightened  by  the  Divine, — 

'In  that  blest  moment,  Xaturi',  throwing  wide 
Her  veil  oi)a(nu',  ili.^closes  witli  a  smile 


cowpER.  253 

The  author  of  her  beauties,  wlio,  retired 

Behind  His  own  creation,  worlvs  unseen 

By  the  impure,  and  hears  His  word  denied.  .  .  . 

But  O  Thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  goo<l, 

Thou  art  of  all  Thy  gifts  Thyself  the  crown! 

Give  what  Thou  canst,  without  Thee  we  are  poor, 

And  with  Thee  rich,  take  what  Thou  wilt  away.' 

It  is  to  be  observed,  also,  that  Cowper,  more   intimately  than 

Thomson,  sees  Nature  in  union  with  human  passion.      Her  full 

depth  and  tenderness  are  never  revealed  except  to  the  heart  that 

throbs  with  human  interest. 

His  productions  were  eminently  his  own.     He  says: 

'I  reckon  it  among  my  principal  advantages  as  a  composer  of  verses,  that  I  have  not 
read  an  English  poet  these  thirteen  years,  and  but  one  these  twenty  years.  Imitation 
even  of  the  best  models  is  my  aversion;  it  is  a  servile  and  mechanical  trick,  that  has 
enabled  many  to  usurp  the  name  of  author,  who  could  not  have  written  at  all  if  they  had 
not  written  upon  the  pattern  of  some  original.  But  when  tlie  ear  and  the  task  have  been 
much  accustomed  to  the  style  and  manner  of  others,  it  is  almost  iini)ossible  to  avoid  it, 
and  we  imitate,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  just  in  the  same  proportion  as  we  admire.' 

Again,  referring  to  llie  2\isk: 

'My  descriptions  arc  all  from  nature,  not  one  of  them  second-handed.  My  delinea- 
tions of  the  heart  are  from  my  own  e.\i)erieiice;  not  one  of  them  borrowed  from  books, 
or  in  the  least  degree  conjectural.' 

Objects  hitherto  regarded  with  disdain  or  despair,  were  by  him 
thought  fit  to  be  clothed  in  poetic  imagery.  He  scrupled  not  to 
employ  in  verse  every  expression  that  would  have  been  admitted 
in  jiro.se.  In  both  these  particulars  —  the  choice  and  management 
of  sul>jects  —  his  predecessors  had  been  circumscrii)ed  by  the  ob- 
servance of  the  classical  model;  but  moved  by  his  inner  strength 
and  courage  of  soul,  he  crossed  the  enchanted  circle,  and  regained 
the  long-lost  freedom  of  English  poetry. 

Character. —  Quiet,  earnest,  jiure,  sensitive,  tender,  imagina- 
tive, devout,  and  anliaj)py. 

He  wa.s  prcdispiised  to  melancholy  and  insanity.  A  disposi- 
tion to  sadness  was  habitual;  and  subsiding  grief,  or  the  pressure 
of  severe  calamity,  pa.ssing  away,  left  in  his  mind  the  gray  and 
solemn  twilight  that  succeeds  a  jiartial  or  total  ecli[ise.  Tliis 
state  of  gloom  most  ju'ohablv  resulted  from  sonu^  physical  dc- 
rang'enient;  certainly  not  from  sympathy  with  the  suilVring  and 
sorrowing  world,  nor  from  sad  experience  of  the  troubles  and 
conflicts  of  life.      He  says: 

'My  niiiui  has  always  a  melancholy  cast,  and  is  like  some  jiools  I  have  seen,  which, 
though  lillrd  with  a  Ijlack  and  putrid  water,  will  nevertheless  in  a  hrii'lit  day  ridect  the 
sunbeams  from  their  surface.' 


254      SKCOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVK  AUTHORS. 

'Indeed,  I  wonder,  that  a  sportive  thought  should  ever  knock  at  the  door  of  my 
intellect,  and  still  more  that  it  should  gain-  admittance.  It  is  as  if  a  harlequin  should 
intrude  himself  into  the  gloomy  chamber  where  a  corpse  is  deposited  in  state.  His 
antic  gesticulations  would  be  unreasonable  at  any  rate,  but  more  specially  so  if  they 
should  distort  the  features  of  the  mournful  attendants  into  laughter.  But  the  mind, 
long  wearied  with  the  sameness  of  a  dull,  dreary  prospect,  will  gladly  fix  its  eyes  on 
anything  that  may  make  a  little  variety  in  its  contemplations,  though  it  were  but  a  kitten 
playing  with  her  tail.' 

His  only  human  relief  was  occupation: 

'The  melancholy  that  I  have  mentioned  to  you,  and  concerning  which  you  are  so 
kind  as  to  inquire,  is  of  a  kind,  so  far  as  I  know,  peculiar  to  myself.  It  does  not  at  all 
affect  the  operations  of  my  mind  on  any  subject  to  which  I  can  attach  it,  whether  serious 
or  ludicrous,  or  whatever  it  niay  be;  for  which  reason  I  am  almost  always  employed 
either  in  reading  or  writing,  when  1  am  not  engaged  in  conversation.  A  vacant  hour  is 
my  abhorrence;  because  when  I  am  not  occupied,  I  suffer  under  the  whole  influence  of 
my  unhappy  temperament.' 

Innocent,  amiable,  and  piovis,  he  lived  —  oftentimes  in  a  sweat 
of  agony  —  in  dread  of  the  eternal  wrath.  He  could  not  persuade 
himself  that  one  so  vile  as  he  conceived  himself  to  be,  could  ever 
partake  of  the  benefits  of  the  Gospel;  and  —  consistently  with 
the  Calvinistic  system  he  had  embraced  —  thought  himself  pre- 
destined to  be  damned: 

'The  dealings  of  God  with  me  are  to  myself  utterly  unintelligible.  I  have  never 
met,  cither  in  books  or  in  conversation,  with  an  experience  at  all  similar  to  my  own. 
More  than  twelve  months  have  now  passed  since  I  began  to  hope,  that  having  walked 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  bottom  of  this  Red  Sea,  I  was  beginning  to  climb  the  opposite 
shore,  and  I  prei)ared  to  sing  the  song  of  Moses.  But  I  have  been  disappointed;  those 
hopes  have  been  blasted;  those  comforts  have  been  wrested  from  me.' 

Writing  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Newton,  respecting  himself  and  Mrs. 

Unwin,  he  said: 

'But  you  may  be  assured,  that  notwithstanding  all  the  rumours  to  the  contrary,  we 
are  exactly  what  we  were  when  you  saw  us  last;— I,  miserable  on  account  of  God's 
departure  from  me,  which  I  believe  to  be  final;  and  she  seeking  Ilis  return  to  me  in  the 
path  of  duty,  and  in  continual  prayer." 

Already  in  the  lengthening  shadow  of  the  grave  he  wrote: 

'I  expect  that  in  six  days,  at  the  latest,  I  shall  no  longer  foresee,  but  feel,  the  accom- 
plishment of  all  my  fears.  O  lot  of  unexampled  misery  incurred  in  a  moment!  O 
wretch  I  to  whom  death  and  life  are  alike  impossible!  Most  miserable  at  present  in 
this,  that  being  thus  miserable  I  have  my  senses  continued  to  me,  only  that  I  may  look 
forward  to  the  worst.  It  is  certain,  at  least,  that  I  have  them  for  no  other  purpose,  and 
but  very  imperfectly  for  this.  My  thoughts  are  like  loose  and  dry  sand,  which,  the  closer 
it  is  grasi)ed,  slips  tlie  sooner  away.  .  .  . 

Adieu.  I  shall  not  be  here  to  receive  your  answer,  neither  shall  I  ever  see  you  more. 
Such  is  the  expectation  of  the  most  desperate,  and  the  most  miserable  of  all  beings." 

Yet  he  never  questioned  the  loving-kindness  of  God,  the  perfect 
rectitude  of  Mis  providence,  nor  tlie  support  and  joy  of  His 
religion  to  all  men.  For  him  alone,  mysteriously,  there  was  no 
assured  hope. 


COWPER.  255 

We  are  not  to  charge  religion  with  the  affecting  peculiarity  of 
his  case.  It  seems  to  be  the  nature  of  the  poetic  teiiiperament  — 
physical  disorder  aside  —  to  vibrate  between  extremes,  to  carry 
everything  to  excess,  to  find  torment  or  rapture  where  others 
find  only  relaxation.  Thus  the  author  of  Night  Thoughts  was 
in  conversation  a  jovial  and  witty  man.  'There  have  been  times 
in  my  life,'  says  Goethe,  'when  I  have  fallen  asleep  in  tears;  but 
in  my  dreams  the  most  charming  forms  have  come  to  console  and 
to  cheer  me.'  'Alas  I  it  is  all  outside,'  said  Johnson;  '1  may  be 
cracking  my  joke  and  cursing  the  sun:  sun,  how  I  hate  thy 
beams!'  So  we  have  the  saintly  Cowper  despairing  of  Heaven, 
and  the  melancholy  Cowper  singing  John   Gilpin  : 

'Strange  as  it  may  sceni,  llic  most  ludicrous  lines  I  ever  wrote  have  been  when  in 
the  saddest  mood,  and  but  for  that  saddest  mood,  perhaps,  would  never  have  been 
written  at  all.' 

Never  was  i)oet  more  lonely  or  sad;  yet  by  none  has  domestic 
happiness  been  more  beautifully  described.  Despondent  and 
remorseful,  no  one  knew  better  tlie  divine  skill  of  strengthening 
the  weak,  of  encouraging  the  timid,  of  pouring  the  healing  oil 
into  the  wounded  spirit. 

As  a  writer,  his  ruling  desire  was  to  be  useful.  Keferring  to 
The  Task,  he  says: 

'I  can  write  nothing  without  aiming,  at  least,  at  usefulness.  It  were  beneath  my 
year-:  to  do  it,  and  still  more  dishonourable  to  my  religion.  I  know  that  a  reformation 
of  such  abuses  as  I  censured  is  not  to  be  e.\i)ected  from  the  efforts  of  a  poet:  liut  to 
Contemi)l:ile  the  worlil,  its  follies,  its  vices,  its  inditTerence  to  duty,  and  its  strenuous 
attachment  to  wliat  is  evil,  and  not  to  re|)reliend  it,  were  to  approve  it.  From  this 
charge,  at  least  I  sliall  l)e  clear,  for  I  have  neither  tacitly,  nor  expressly,  llattired  either 
its  characters  or  its  customs." 

Influence. — He  was,  if  not  th('  founder  of  a  new  school,  the 
pioneer  of  a  new  era.  When  he  died  —  one  hundred  vears  after 
the  deatli  of  Drydcii  —  blaidv  verse  was  rc^storcd  to  favor,  and 
English  poetry  was  again  in  possession  of  its  varied  ciKlowinciit. 
For  th(>  first  time  it  became  apparent  that  the  despotism  of  Pope 
and  .\d(lison  had  jiassed  away. 

ViX  tlie  iiiarriun'e  c)f  verse  to  theologv  and  morals,  lie  secured 
for  jioetrv  a  more  cordial  reception  in  religious  (|iiarters. 

He  was  ])ractically  the  first  to  make  })oetry  the  liaii(liii;ii<l  to 
pietv.  Religion  no  longer  stood  'shivering  tind  forlorn,'  l)ut 
attired  in  the  tjeatitv  of  ])oetic  enchantment,  scattering  flowers 
'wliere'er  she  deiofned  to  strav.' 


256       SECOND  TRANSITION  PERIOD REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

To  estimate  the  scope  and  endurance  of  his  practical  influence, 
it  is  sufficient  to  consider  the  popularity  which  his  poems  gained 
and  still  preserve;  their  meditative  and  moral  tone,  ever  slipping 
in  between  — 

'The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone;' 

and  the  natural  law  by  which  the  mind  grows  into  the  likeness  of 
its  associated  images.  No  good  thing  is  lost.  All  excellence  is 
perpetual : 

'When  one  that  holds  communion  with  the  skies 
Has  filled  his  urn  where  the  pure  waters  rise, 
And  once  more  mingles  with  us  meaner  things, 
'Tis  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings; 
Immortal  fragrance  fills  the  circuit  wide.' 


SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FEATURES. 

E'en  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 

A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom, 

The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  \i(c.— Tennyson. 

Politics. — A  colonial  senate  had  confronted  the  British  Par- 
liament. Colonial  militia  had  crossed  bayonets  with  British 
regulars;  and  beyond  the  Atlantic,  on  the  shores  of  an  immeas- 
urable land,  three  millions  of  Englishmen,  refusing  to  be  taxed 
without  representation,  had  founded  the  English  Republic. 
Across  the  Chaimel,  where  freedom  was  wholly  extinct,  the 
leadin""  fact  of  the  English  Revolution, —  the  struirjjle  between 
free  inquiry  and  pure  monarchy, —  had  been  repeated.  A  Ver- 
sailles audience  had  greeted  with  thunders  of  applause  the  lines 
of  Voltaire:  'lam  the  son  of  Brutus,  and  bear  graven  on  my 
heart  tlie  love  of  liberty  and  tlie  horror  of  kings.'  News  of  the 
American  revolt  had  fallen  like  a  spark  on  the  inflammatory 
mass;  and  the  Bastile,  grim  symbol  of  despotism,  had  been  razed 
to  the  ground, — 

'I$y  violence  overthrown 
Of  indignation,  and  with  shouts  that  drowned 
The  crash  it  made  in  falling." 

Feudal  France  became  a  youthful  America.  Napoleon,  organ 
and  leader  of  the  popular  movement,  was  the  giant  of  the  middlo- 
class.  Ilis  only  nol)ility,  he  said,  was  the  rabble.  His  judicial 
code  taught  the  equality  of  man  before  the  law.  Revolutionary 
principles  were  sown  broadcast.  T'nderneath  the  tumult  of  uni- 
versal war,  now  forces  waxed  silently  strong.  Europe  rallied,  it 
is  true,  and  the  dread  apostle  of  Democracy  was  banished  to  the 
barren  rock  of  8t.  Helena;  but  the  im{)ulses  he  created  and 
streno-thoned  lived  on.  A  liollow  and  insincere  trantniillity 
17  257 


258  SECOND   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

ensued,  broken  first  by  the  insurrection  of  the  Spanish  colonies 
in  America;  then  by  the  democratic  ardor  which  their  success 
kindled  in  Spain  herself,  and  which  extended  into  Portugal  orr 
the  one  hand,  into  Naples  on  the  other.  Emulating  the  energy 
of  her  neighbors,  Greece,  after  four  centuries  of  servitude, 
asserted  and  won  her  independence.  Her  triumph  hastened  the 
French  Revolution  of  1830,  which  in  turn  quickened  the  repub- 
lican efforts  of  the  Swiss,  roused  the  unhappy  Poles  to  a  vain 
rebellion,  inflamed  an  anti-papal  rising  in  Italy,  and  in  England 
intensified  the  desire  for  parliamentary  reform. 

The  need  was  urgent.  The  representative  system  had  become 
corrupt.  Two-thirds  of  the  lower  house  were  appointed  by  peers. 
Three  hundred  members,  it  was  estimated,  were  returned  by  one 
hundred  and  sixty  persons.  Seats  were  openly  offered  for  sale, 
and  the  purchasers  sold  their  votes.  Only  a  small  minority  had 
the  privilege  of  franchise.  In  Scotland,  the  county  of  Bute  had 
at  one  time  but  a  single  resident  voter.  At  an  election  he  took 
the  chair,  proposed  and  seconded  his  own  return,  and  solemnly 
announced  himself  unanimously  elected.  The  House  of  Commons 
had  ceased  to  represent  the  nation.  Before  the  end  of  1816,  the 
demand  even  for  universal  suffrage  was  loud.  The  great  work  of 
the  next  sixteen  years  was  the  agitation  for  the  correction  of 
legislative  abuses.  Then,  amid  such  rejoicing  as  political  victory 
has  seldom  awakened,  the  Reform  Act  inaugurated  forever  the 
govenmient  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people, —  one 
more  advance  against  the  spirit  of  exclusiveness,  restriction,  nar- 
rowness, monopoly.  That  the  change  was  accomplished  by  the 
pressure  of  public  opinion  is  proof  decisive  of  the  natural  and 
healthy  march  of  p]nglish  civilization, —  its  elasticity  and  yet 
sobriety  of  spirit. 

'While  men  pa}'  reverence  to  miglity  things, 
They  must  revere  thee,  thou  blue-cinctured  ii^le, 
.  .  .  not  to-day,  but  this  long  while 
In  the  fro!it  rank  of  nations,  mother  of  great  kings. 
Soldiers,  and  poets." 

Society. — The  cause  which  most  disturbed  or  accelerated 
normal  ])rogress,  in  antiquity,  was  the  appearance  of  great  men; 
in  modern  times,  it  has  been  the  appearance  of  great  inventions. 
Printing  has  secured  the  past,  and  has  guaranteed  the  future. 
Gunpowder  and  military  appliances  render  the  triumph   of  bar- 


INDUSTRIAL    PROGRESS.  259 

barians  impossible.  In  1807  the  gas-light  was  tried  in  London, 
and  soon  the  cheerful  blaze  chased  away  forever  the  tumultuous 
vagabonds  who  were  wont,  in  the  darkn(>ss,  to  insult,  to  plunder, 
and  to  kill.  In  the  same  year,  Fulton  made,  from  New  York  to 
Albany,  the  first  successful  voyage  by  steam.  Ten  years  later, 
steamboats  were  flying  on  the  Thames.  Here  is  .lefTrey's  descrip- 
tion of  one  of  these  smoke-puffing  vessels  which  surprised  him 
and  his  wife  on  Loch  Lomond: 

'It  is  a  new  experiment  for  the  temptation  of  tonris^ts.  It  circumnavi<rates>  the  whole 
lake  every  day  in  about  ten  hours;  and  it  was  certainly  very  strange  and  striking  to  hear 
and  see  it  hissing  and  roaring  past  the  headlands  of  our  little  bay,  foaming  and  siwuting 
like  an  angry  whale;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  think  it  rather  vulgarizes  the  scene  too  much, 
and  I  am  glad  that  it  is  found  not  to  answer,  and  is  to  be  dropped  next  year." 

Scarcely  less  important  was  tlie  application  of  steam  to  })rinting. 
On  a  November  morning  of  1814,  th.e  following  announcement 
appeared  in  a  London  paper: 

'The  reader  now  holds  in  his  hands  one  of  the  many  thousand  impressions  of  the 
Times  newspaper,  which  were  taken  last  night  by  a  mechanical  apparatus.  That  the 
magnitude  of  the  invention  may  be  justly  appreciated  by  its  effects,  we  shall  inform  the 
l)ul)lic  that  after  the  letters  are  placed  by  the  compositors,  and  enclosed  in  what  is  called 
a  "form,"  little  more  remains  for  man  to  do  than  to  attend  and  watch  this  unconscious 
agent  in  its  operations.  The  machine  is  then  merely  sui)plied  with  pai)er;  itself  places 
the  form,  inks  it,  adjusts  the  jtajjer  to  the  form  newly  inked,  stamps  ihe  sheet,  and  gi\es 
it  forth  to  the  hands  of  the  attendant,  at  the  same  time  withdrawing  the  form  for  a  fre-^h 
coat  of  ink,  which  itself  again  distributes,  to  meet  the  ensuinsr  sheet,  now  advancing  for 
impression;  and  the  whole  of  these  coini)licated  acts  are  performed  with  such  a  velocity 
and  simultaneousness  of  movement,  that  no  less  than  eleven  hundred  sheets  are  im- 
pressed in  one  hour." 

In  1S()2  the  vain  experiment  was  tried  of  fitting  a  little  engine 
to  a  carriage  on  tlie  connnon  road.  Soon  after  wagtM's  were  won 
as  to  tlie  weight  a  horse  could  draw  on  an  iron  train-way.  Ne.xt 
the  two  were  combined  —  the  iron  rail  and  the  steam-carriage. 
From  18.'3()  the  old  modes  of  transit  were  changiMl  throughout  the 
civilized  world.  The  New  England  Puritan,  when  told  how  by 
magic  a  witch  rod*'  from  Salem  to  Hcxston,  look«Ml  up,  treiiiblt^d, 
and  wi.shed  he  had  the  ])ower.  A  few  generations  after,  in  1S:]T, 
not  a  witcli,  but  tlit,'  lightning,  rode,  not  the  crupper  of  a  broom, 
but  a  permanent  wire,  and  thought  was  ))ostiliom'd  across  the 
air.  Machinery  suj)erseded  forever  tli(>  spintlh'  tiiid  tlie  distaff 
<jf  tlie  ]iriineval  world.  Once  three  hundred  women  sat  a  long 
summer's  dav  on  ]3oston  ("omiiioii,  and  spun  with  tiirec^  liniidrcd 
wheels,  well  content  with  their  few  hanks  of  cotton,  linen 
thread,  and  wf)ollen  yarn.      But  the  sj)inning-wlieel  sank   in  turn 


260  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

into  disuse  when  it  was  found  that  the  power-loom  could  spin 
more  in  a  day  than  these  three  hundred  in  a  month.  A  writer 
in  1833  was  able  to  say  that  the  lengtli  of  yarn  spun  in  England 
in  one  year  was  sufficient  to  girdle  the  earth  two  hundred 
thousand  times,  and  the  wrouglit  fabrics  of  cotton  exported  in  one 
year  would  form  a  continuous  sheet  from  the  earth  to  the  moon. 

These  vast  improvements  were  effected  slowly,  against  bitter 
opposition.  The  adventurers  in  lighting  by  gas  were  universally 
derided.  It  was  alleged  in  Parliament  that  'the  company  aimed 
at  a  monopoly,  which  would  ultimately  prove  injurious  to  the 
public,  and  ruia  that  most  important  branch  of  trade,  our  whale 
fisheries.'  Fulton  was  mocked:  'Poor  fellow,  what  a  pity  he  is 
crazy  ! '  Against  the  railway  it  was  urged  that  the  experiment 
of  conveying  goods  in  this  manner  had  failed  completely;  for 
the  average  rate  of  the  best  engine  was  not  four  miles  per  hour. 
When  it  was  suggested  that  the  speed  might  be  increased  to 
fifteen  and  even  to  twenty  miles,  the  rejoinder  was  that  'people 
would  as  soon  suffer  themselves  to  be  fired  off  from  a  rocket  as 
trust  themselves  to  such  a  machine  going  at  such  a  rate.'  A 
writer  in  the  Quarterly  Review  thus  summarily  disposes  of  the 
question: 

'As  to  those  persons  who  speciihite  on  making  railways  general  thronghout  the 
kingdom  and  snperseding  all  canals,  all  the  wagons,  mail  and  stage-coaches,  post- 
chaises,  and,  in  short,  every  other  mode  of  conveyance  by  land  and  by  water,  wu  deem 
them  and  their  visionary  schemes  unworthy  of  notice.' 

Workmen,  suffering  from  a  stagnation  of  trade,  organized  con- 
spiracies for  the  destruction  of  machinery,  which  had  lessened 
the  requirements  of  manual  labor.  When  the  Times  adopted 
the  new  press,  the  innovation  was  made  with  the  utmost  caution. 
All  being  ready,  the  pressmen  were  told  one  night  to  wait  for 
news  from  the  Continent.  At  six  o'clock  of  the  next  morning 
the  proprietor  ajipeared  among  them,  to  tell  them  that  the  7)'t/i€S 
was  already  jiriiited  off  by  steam;  that  if  they  were  evilly  dis- 
])Osed,  he  was  prepared;  but  that  if  they  were  peaceabl<%  he 
would  continue  their  wages  till  they  should  obtain  employment 
elsewhere.  Tlic  operative  was  not  incorrect  in  his  conclusion 
that  machinery  was  throwing  him  out  of  work;  and  doubtless 
the  distress  was  temporarily  severe.  Men  were  compelled  to 
starve  or  turn  to  new  vocations.  Before  long,  however,  the 
depression  was  seen  to  be  a  real  elevation.      Demands  were  mul- 


THE   HUMANITIES.  261 

tipHed.  The  new  system,  moreover,  was  doing  the  drudgery, 
while  forms  of  activity  were  developed  requiring  observation  and 
intelligence. 

The  advance  of  civilization  is  thus  shown  by  the  growing  sub- 
stitution of  pacific  for  warlike  occupations;  further  and  in  a  still 
higher  degree,  by  the  rapid  multiplication  of  the  ties  of  connec- 
tion between  classes  and  nations,  by  the  introduction  of  refined 
and  intellectual  tastes,  by  the  repudiation  of  practices  as  inhu- 
man which  once  were  accepted  as  natural  and  right.  After  1834 
it  was  no  longer  permitted  to  behead  the  body  of  the  slain  crimi- 
nal, to  dissect  it  or  hang  it  in  chains.  At  the  opening  of  the 
period  men  were  hung  for  a  theft  of  five  shillings.  In  1837  the 
death  penalty  was  abolished  for  more  than  two-thirds  of  the 
crimes  to  which  it  had  been  assigned.  Trial  hy  Battle,  though 
fallen  into  desuetude,  was  not  legislatively  abolished  till  1817, 
when  the  right  to  it  was  openly  claimed  in  Westminster  Hall. 
The  bench,  the  bar,  the  kingdom,  were  startled  by  the  outrage. 
The  emancipation  of  the  slaves  in  all  the  dominions  of  the  British 
crown  was  the  result  of  a  solemn  conviction  that  man  cannot 
justly  be  held  and  used  as  property;  that  he  has  sacred  rights, 
the  gifts  of  God,  and  inseparable  from  his  nature,  of  which  his 
bondage  is  an  infraction.  In  1834  the  laborer,  much  as  in  the 
days  of  serfdom,  was  confined  to  a  given  area  as  the  utmost 
range  of  his  employment.  In  that  year  his  sphere  was  extended, 
and  the  ditcher  might  carry  his  spade  and  pickaxe  where  he 
would.  Among  the  glories  of  the  })resent  age,  none  is  greater 
than  the  voluntary  effort  to  relievo  the  suffering  and  raise  the 
fallen.  At  the  beginning  of  the  century  the  number  of  schools, 
public  and  private,  is  said  to  have  been  three  thousand  three 
hundred  and  sixty-three.      Here  is  a  picture  of  one: 

'III  a  L'arrct,  uj)  tlirco  pair  of  dark,  brokoii  stairs,  was  a  common  scliool-room.  with 
forty  cluldrcn,  in  a  toiiipass  of  ten  foot  by  nine.  On  a  perch  forming  a  lrian;^lt'  witti  a 
corner  of  the  room,  sat  a  cock  and  two  hens;  under  a  stump  bed,  immediately  Iteneatli, 
was  a  doL'-kennel  in  the  occupation  of  tliree  bhick  terriers,  whose  l)arkinsr,  a(Uied  to  the 
voice  of  tlie  cluUlr<'n  and  the  cackling  of  the  fowls,  on  the  approach  of  a  stransrer,  were 
almost  deafeniriLT.  There  was  only  one  small  window,  at  which  sat  the  inast<r,  ab-tr:iel- 
ing  three-fourtlis  of  tlie  liglu  it  was  callable  of  admitting.' 

Of  the  married,  one-third  of  the  men  and  one-half  of  the  women 
could  not  sign  the  register.  In  1S18  only  one  jxtsoii  in  si>vcn- 
teen  attended  school.      In  1833  the  proportion  was  one  in  eleven. 


2G2  SECOND    CKEATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Five  years  before,  in  opposing  tlie  appointment  of  Wellington  as 
Prime  Minister,  Brougham  said: 

'I  am  perfectly  satisfied  that  there  will  be  no  unconstitutional  attack  on  the  liberties 
of  tlie  people.  These  are  not  the  times  for  such  an  attempt.  There  have  been  periods 
when  the  country  heard  with  dismay  that  the  soldier  was  abroad.  That  is  not  the  case 
now.  Let  the  soldier  be  ever  so  much  abroad,  in  the  present  age  he  can  do  nothing. 
There  is  another  person  abroad, —  a  less  imi)ortant  person, —  in  the  eyes  of  some  an 
insignificant  person,— whose  labors  have  tended  to  produce  this  state  of  things,— the 
schoolmaster  is  abroad.' 

Education  was  in  various  ways  improving  the  general  character. 
Tlie  establishment  of  Sunday  schools  in  1783  was  the  first  attempt 
to  broaden  the  instruction  of  the  poor.  Fifty  years  later,  the 
attendance  exceeded  a  million  and  a  half.  Societies  were  founded 
for  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and  literature  was  cheapened. 
During  the  first  quarter  of  the  century,  missionary  work,  in 
Europe  and  America,  was  organized  into  a  system.  Even  if  no 
other  good  should  result  from  it,  the  philanthropist  might  rejoice 
that,  at  the  least,  a  new  channel  had  been  opened  for  carrying  off 
the  superabundant  energies  of  the  multitude.  But  the  Fountain 
of  Life  was  to  send  forth  its  stream  to  g'ladden  the  wilderness  and 
the  .solitary  place. 

A  glimpse  of  young  America  in  this  period  may  not  be  irrele- 
vant or  uninstructive;  and  it  may  enhance  the  interest  of  the 
picture  to  view  ourselves  in  a  foreign  g-lass.  The  reader  will 
judge  how  considerable  have  been  the  changes,  to  what  extent 
prejudice  mingles  with  the  observations  recorded,  how  incomplete 
may  be  the  data,  and  how  far  the  writers,  who  dislike  the  .struc- 
ture of  American  society,  may  forget  or  ignore  the  English 
descent  of  American  manners.  A  transatlantic  brother  is  en 
roiitf  from  New  Vork  to  Philadelphia: 

'I  iiiiw  niotiiitcd,  for  tlic  first  time,  an  American  stage,  literally  a  kind  of  light 
wagon.  While  1  attempt  to  describe  this  clumsy  and  uncomfortable  machine,  I  cannot 
suppress  the  wish  of  being  i)ossessed  of  one  of  them,  with  the  horses,  harness,  and 
driv<T,  just  as  we  set  oflf,  in  order  to  convert  them  into  an  exhibition  in  London." ' 

Arrived  at  liis  destination,  he  is  forced  to  l)elieve  that, — 

'Manufactures,  the  great  source  of  national  wealth,  are  at  a  very  low  ebb  in  the 
riiiteil  States." 

lie  goes  to  the  theatre,  taking  his  seat  in  the  pit: 

'I  was  early  in  my  attiudance,  and  on  my  entrance,  I  found  the  back  row  taken  up 
by  a  number  of  l)oys.  .  .  .  As  the  house  filled,  these  urchins  set  up  a  violent  clamor, 
be:itiii<_'  with  sticks.  stami)iiig  with  their  feet,  and  the  hou^e  echoed  with  their  shrill  pipes 
for  tile  iinisic  of  Yankef  Doodle,  and  Jfff/rxon'K  Marrli.' 

Mausen's  Slrunger  in  America.  1S(I7. 


CISATLANTIC    SOCIETY.  263 

This  is  generalized  into  '  the  indecorous  behavior  of  an  American 
audience.'  It  was  still  the  day  of  primeval  forests  and  vast 
solitudes.  Of  the  lower  class  he  says,  in  apparent  oblivion  that 
multitudes  in  England  were  living  miserably  on  shell-fish  and 
other  sea-ware: 

'They  live  in  tlie  woods  and  deserts,  and  many  of  them  cultivate  no  more  land  than 
will  raise  them  corn  and  cabbages,  which  with  fish,  and  occasionally  a  piece  of  pickled 
pork  or  bacon,  are  their  constant  food.  .  .  .  Their  habitations  .  .  .  are  constructed  of 
pine  (?)  trees,  cut  in  lengths  of  ten  or  fifteen  feet,  and  piled  up  in  a  square.  .  .  .  The 
interstices  between  the  logs  are  often  left  open  to  the  elements,  and  arc  large  enough  to 
give  admission  to  vermin  and  reptiles.' 

He  is  shocked  to  think  that, — 

'Amid  the  accumulated  miseries,  the  inhabitants  of  log-houses  are  extremely  tena- 
cious of  the  rights  and  liberties  of  republicanism.  They  consider  themselves  on  an  e(|ual 
footing  with  the  best  educated  people  of  the  country,  and  upon  the  principles  of  equality 
they  intrude  themselves  into  every  company." 

Yet  trade,  .steam,  education,  and  chartism  were  doing  what  they 
could  to  create  in  England  the  same  social  condition.  Intensely 
patriotic,  he  makes  a  painful  effort  to  be  candid: 

'The  punishments  annexed  to  criminal  convictions,  throughout  almost  every  state, 
are  worthy  of  imitation.  The  many  public  executions  which  take  place  in  England  after 
every  general  gaol  delivery,  form  u  spectacle  which  strikes  Americans  with  horror." 

Another,  a  lady,  with  whom  loyalty  is  a  sub-religion,  sails  from 
London  in  1827,  reaches  Cincinnati  in  the  course  of  her  wander- 
ings, and  is  astoin'shed  at  the  dearth  of  jniblic  amusement: 

'I  never  saw  any  people  who  appeared  to  live  so  much  without  amusement  as  the 
Cincinnatiuns.  Billiards  are  forbidden  by  law;  so  are  cards.  To  sell  a  pack  of  cards  in 
Ohio  subjects  the  seller  to  a  penalty  of  lifty  dollars.'  • 

In  Washington  she  visits  the  theatre.  IJnmindfid  that  the 
Middle  Ages  still  lurk  in  London,  ignorant  that  the  turbulent 
health  of  the  young  lOnglish  had  made  the  English  travelK-r  a 
proverl)  for  bold  and  offensive  manners,  she  says: 

'Tlu'  tlicatri' w;is  not  oih'ii  while  we  were  in  Washington,  but  we  aflerw^irds  took 
advantage  of  our  vicinity  to  the  city  to  visit  it.  The  house  is  very  small,  and  most 
astonisliinirly  dirty  and  void  of  decoration,  considering  that  it  is  the  only  place  of  public 
amiiseniciit  that  tlic  city  affords.  I  have  before  mentioned  the  want  of  decorum  at  the 
Cincinnati  lluatre,  but  icrtainly  that  of  the  capital  at  least  rivalled  it  in  the  fn  edmn  of 
action  and  attitude:  a  freedom  wliieii  seems  to  disdain  the  reslraint^  of  ci\ilised  man- 
ners. One  man  in  the  pit  was  seized  with  a  violent  lit  of  vomiting,  which  appeared  not 
in  the  least  to  Munoy  or  surprise  his  neighbour-:  and  the  happy  coincidence  of  a  phy-i. 
cian  being  at  that  moment  personated  on  the  staire,  was  hailed  by  many  of  the  auilience 
as  an  e.xeelleiit  joke,  of  which  the  actor  took  advantage,  and  elicited  shout?-  of  ai)plause 
by  sayimr.  "  I  expect  my  services  are  wanted  elsewhere.""     'I'he -piltiiu:  wa-  incessant  : 

'  Donif^fir  Mdnners  of  the  Amerirans :  Frances  'I'rollope. 


264  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

and  not  one  in  ten  of  the  male  part  of  the  illustrious  legislative  audience  sat  according 
to  the  usual  custom  of  human  beings;  the  legs  were  thrown  sometimes  over  the  front 
of  the  box,  sometimes  over  the  side  of  it;  here  and  there  a  senator  stretched  his  entire 
length  along  a  bench;  and  in  many  instances  the  front  rail  was  preferred  as  a  seat." 

She  deplores  and  abhors  the  iniquity  of  slavery,  in  which  the 
North  joins  hands  with  the  South: 

'  There  is  something  in  the  system  of  breeding  and  rearing  negroes  in  the  Northern 
States,  for  the  express  purpose  of  sending  them  to  be  sold  in  the  South,  that  strikes 
painfully  against  every  feeling  of  justice,  mercy,  or  common  humanity.' 

She  lias  a  fixed  purpose  to  qualify  all  praise,  and  cannot  or  will 
not  see  the  interior  excellence,  of  which  the  outward  charm  is  but 
a  record  in  sculpture: 

'I  certainly  believe  the  women  of  America  to  be  the  handsomest  in  the  world,  but 
as  surely  do  I  believe  they  are  the  least  attractive.' 

Her  energy  of  observation  breaks  out  in  spasms  of  impatience 
with  defective  individuals: 

'The  ladies  have  strange  ways  of  adding  to  their  charms.  They  powder  themselves 
immoderaiely,  face,  neck,  and  arms,  with  pulverized  slarcli;  the  effect  is  indescribably 
disagreeable  by  daylight,  and  not  very  favourable  at  any  time.  They  are  also  most 
unhappily  jiartial  to  false  hair,  which  they  wear  in  surjirising  quantities.  ...  I  suspect 
this  fashion  to  arise  from  an  indolent  mode  of  making  their  toilet,  and  from  accom- 
plished ladies"  maids  not  being  very  abundant;  it  is  less  trouble  to  append  a  bunch 
of  waving  curls,  here  and  there,  and  everywhere,  than  to  keep  their  native  tresses  in 
perfect  order.' 

In  no  country  w^as  the  homage  to  wealth  so  absolute  as  in  Eng- 
land, in  none  was  the  reproach  of  poverty  so  great,  in  none  was 
the  logic  of  the  soul  so  coarse;  yet  she  complains,  perhaps  with 
a  justness  that  needs  no  apol(\gy: 

'Xothiiig  can  exceed  their  activity  and  perseverance  in  all  kinds  of  speculation, 
handicraft,  and  enterprise,  whicti  promises  a  profitable  pecuniary  result.  I  heard  an 
Englishman,  who  had  Ixen  long  resident  in  America,  declare  that  in  following,  in 
meeting,  or  in  overtaking,  in  the  street,  on  the  road,  or  in  the  field,  at  the  theatre,  the 
coiTce-house,  or  at  home,  he  had  never  overheard  Americans  conversing  witliout  the 
word  ilollar  being  pronounced  between  them.' 

English  nature  caiuiot  r(>adily  sec  beyond  England,  and  there 
the  gale  wliich  directs  the  vane.s  on  university  towers  l)Iows  out 
of  anti(juity,  while  the  definition  of  a  ]>ublic  school  is  'a  school 
which  excludes  all  that  could  fit  a  man  for  standing  behind  a 
counter.'      llence: 

'\\"ere  we  to  read  a  prosyx'ctus  of  the  system  pursued  in  any  of  our  public  schools, 
and  that  of  a  first-rate  seminary  in  .\nierica,  we  should  be  struck  by  the  confined  scliolas- 
tic  routine.'  of  the  former,  wlien  coiiiijared  to  tlie  varied  and  exi)ansive  scope  of  tlie  latter; 
but  let  the  examination  go  a  little  farther,  and  I  believe  it  will  be  found  that  the  old- 
fa-liii)iic(l  scliool  discipline  of  Knirland  has  i)r()duced  something  higher,  and  deeper  too, 
than  that  wliich  roars  so  loud,  and  thunders  in  the  index.  ...  At  sixteen,  often  much 


CISATLANTIC    SOCIETY.  265 

earlier,  education  endg.  .  .  .  When  tl>e  money-getting  begino,  leisure  ceases  and  all  of 
lore  whicli  can  be  acquired  afterwards,  is  picked  up  from  novels,  magazines,  and  news- 
papers.' 

A  few  years  later,  there  came  to  the  United  States  a  French- 
man, an  ardent  friend  of  free  institutions,  a  careful  and  profound 
observer.      In  his  eyes  equality  and  civility  are  correlative  facts: 

'In  no  country  is  criminal  justice  administered  witli  more  mildness  tlian  in  tlie 
United  States.  While  the  English  seem  disposed  carefully  to  retain  the  bloody  traces 
of  the  dark  ages  in  their  penal  legislation,  the  Americans  have  almost  expunged  capital 
punishment  from  their  codes.  North  America  is,  1  think,  ilie  only  country  upon  earth 
in  wliich  the  life  of  no  one  citizen  has  been  taken  for  a  i)olitical  ollence  in  the  course  of 
the  last  fifty  years.' ' 

In  contrast  with  the  social  condition  of  FCngland,  where  moneyed 
aristocracy  has  influence  next  to  aristocracy  of  birth, — 

'In  America,  where  the  privileges  of  birth  never  existed,  and  where  riches  confer 
no  peculiar  rights  on  their  iwssessors,  men  unacquainted  with  each  other  .  .  .  find 
neither  peril  nor  advantage  in  tiie  free  interchange  of  tlieir  thoughts.  If  they  meet  l)y 
accident  they  neither  seek  nor  avoid  intercourse;  their  manner  is  therefore  natural, 
frank,  and  oi)en.  .  ,  If  their  demeanor  i.s  often  cold  and  serious,  it  is  never  haughty  or 
constrained;  and  if  they  do  not  converse,  it  is  because  they  are  not  in  a  liumor  to  talk, 
not  because  they  think  it  their  interest  to  be  silent." 

Under  the  influence  of  religion  and  democracy,  austere  authority 
vani.shes,  a  familiar  intimacy  springs  up,  the  son,  master  of  his 
thoughts,  is  soon  master  of  his  conduct,  the  daughter  enters 
early  upon  a  free  observation  of  the  world,  and  acquires  a  char- 
acter of  self-reliance: 

'Among  ill!  PiotestMut  nations,  young  women  are  far  more  mistresses  of  their  own 
actions  than  liiey  are  in  Catholic  countries.  ...  In  the  I'nited  States  tlie  doctrines  of 
Protestantism  are  cotnl)ine(l  wiili  great  political  freedom  an<l  a  most  democratic  stale  of 
society:  ami  nowhere  are  young  women  surrendered  so  early  or  so  completely  to  their 
own  guidance." 

Married,  tl)eir  parts  are  changed,  their  habits  are  different;  but 
their  earlv  culture  survives,  and  thov  contract  the  conjugal  tie 
vcjluiitarily,  having  h-anied  bv  the  use  of  their  indej)endence,  to 

relinquish  it  without  a  luunmir: 

'Tlic  Americans  are  at  the  same  time  a  purilanical  peojile  and  a  commercial  nation: 
their  reliL'iou^  Dpiuions,  :is  well  a-;  their  trading  liabits,  consefpieiitly  lead  tliem  to 
retjiiire  niiidi  abneiratioii  on  tlie  part  of  woman,  anil  a  constant  sacrilice  of  lier  pleasures 
to  her  duties  whicli  is  seldom  demanded  of  her  in  Europe." 

Til  iMiglaiid,  ho  says,  pul)]ic  malire  is  constantly  attacking  the 
frailti<'s  of  women,  l)ut: 

'In  America,  all  books,  noveK  not   exrepted,  sui)pose  women  to  be  chaste,  and  no 

one  thinks  of  relating  alTairs  of  L'allanlry." 

^  Democracy  in  America:  Tocqueville. 


266  SECOXD    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

And: 

'Although  the  travellers  who  have  visited  North  America  differ  on  a  great  number  of 
points,  they  all  agree  in  remarking  that  morals  are  far  more  strict  there  than  elsewhere. 
It  is  evident  that  on  this  point  Americans  are  very  fur  superior  to  their  progenitors,  tlie 
English.- 

The  position  of  woman  in  society  is  determined  by  the  existing 
state  of  civilization.  The  one  may  be  accepted  as  the  measure 
of  the  other,  which,  b}'  reaction,  it  promotes.  A  f]uropean  may 
affect  to  be  the  slave  of  woman,  although  '  he  never  sincerely 
thinks  her  his  equal.'     But: 

'III  the  United  States  men  seldom  compliment  women,  but. they  daily  show  how 
much  they  esteem  them.  They  constantly  display  an  entire  coutidence  m  the  under- 
standing of  a  wife,  and  a  profound  respect  for  her  freedom;  they  have  decided  that  her 
mind  is  just  as  fitted  as  that  of  a  man  to  discover  the  plain  truth,  and  her  heart  as  firm 
to  embrace  it." 

England  is  slow  and  staid,  sad  by  comparison  with  singing  and 
dancing  France;  yet  ringing  and  cheerful  by  comparison  with 
America,  it  would  seem: 

•I  thought  that  the  English  constituted  the  most  serious  nation  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  but  I  have  since  seen  the  Americans,  and  have  changed  my  opinion.' 

American  life  is  a  moving  })ageant.  The  aspect  is  animated,  but 
its  prevailing  type  is  monotonous.  The  reason  is,  that  the  ruling 
passion  is  the  love  of  riches: 

'The  love  of  wealth  is  therefore  to  be  traced,  either  as  a  princii)al  or  an  accessory 
motive,  at  the  bottom  of  all  that  the  Americans  do:  this  gives  to  all  their  passions  a  .sort 
of  family  likeness,  and  soon  renders  the  survey  of  them  exceedingly  wearisome.' 

This,  we  are  told,  chiefly  explains  why,  in  the  midst  of  a  univer- 
sally ambitious  stir,  there  is  so  little  grandeur  of  aim.  All  aim 
to  rise,  but  few  entertain  hopes  of  great  magnitude: 

'  What  chiefly  diverts  the  men  of  democracies  from  lofty  ambition  is  not  the  scanti- 
ness of  their  fortunes,  hut  the  vehemence  of  the  exertions  they  daily  make  to  improve 
them.  They  strain  their  faculties  to  the  utmost  to  achieve  paltry  results,  and  this 
cannot  fail  speedily  to  limit  their  discernment  and  to  circumscribe  their  powers.  They 
miglit  be  much  poorer  and  still  be  i^reater.' 

Tf,  while  the  social  condition  becomes  more  ecjual,  commerce  and 
industry  afford  but  a  slow  and  arduf)tis  way  to  fortune,  the  aspir- 
ants rush  into  politics  as  a  profession,  to  relieve  their  necessities  at 
the  cost  of  the  public  treasury,  and  oflice-seeking  becomes  a  rasre. 
But  the  gf)vei'nment  whicli  encotirages  this  tendencv,  imperils  its 
own  tfan(|uillily.  It  siiould  teach  subjects  the  art  of  j)roviding 
for  themselves: 

'I  shall  not  remark  that  the  uiiivcrv^al  and  inordinate  desire  for  place  is  a  great 
fdcial  evil :  that  it  (le>troys  the  spirit  of  in<lei)endence  in  tlie  citizen,  and  diffuses  a  venal 


THE   LETTER   AND  THE  SPIRIT.  267 

and  servile  humour  throughout  the  frame  of  society;  that  it  stifles  the  manlier  virtues; 
nor  shall  I  be  at  the  pains  to  demonstrate  that  this  kind  of  trafBc  only  creates  an  unpro- 
ductive activity  which  ajjitates  the  country  without  adding  to  its  resources;  all  these 
things  are  obrious.' 

The  conclusion  appears  to  be  that  America,  in  spite  of  the 
ocean  which  intervenes,  is  not  to  be  sundered  from  Europe;  that 
her  people  are  a  portion  of  the  English  —  Norse  pirates  mellowed 
into  civility  —  commissioned  to  explore  the  wilds  of  the  New 
World;  that  the  doctrine  of  equality  has  suggested  to  them 
certain  laws,  and  given  them  a  certain  political  character;  that 
this  democratic  state  lias  engendered  among  them  feelings  and 
opinions  unknown  among  the  elder  aristocratic  nations;  that  It 
has  modified  or  destroyed  the  relations  which  before  existed,  and 
established  others  of  a  novel  kind;  that  literature  and  art  will  be 
correspondingly  affected. 

£.elig^OIl. — Mankind  will  return,  in  thought,  to  the  first  years 
of  this  century  as  to  a  great  fructifying  season  of  the  race.  The 
conflict  of  interests  and  the  storm  of  ideas  left  Truth  and  Right 
more  powerful  than  they  were  before  the  battle  began.  Wrote 
Robert  Hall,  a  dissenter,  in  1801: 

'To  an  attentive  observer  .  .  it  will  ai)i)earone  of  the  most  extraordinary  phenom- 
ena of  this  eventful  crisis,  that  amid  tlie  ravages  of  Atheism  and  infidelity,  real  religion 
is  evidently  on  the  increase.' 

The  precepts  of  Christianity  were  sensibly  pervading  the 
moral  atmosphere.  The  faith  was  felt  to  be  not  a  doctrine,  but 
a  life.  Thoughtful  minds  were  affected  with  a  'noble  discon- 
tent,' instruction  was  acquiring  an  improved  tone,  the  light  was 
penetrating  the  darkness,  and  touching  it  with  colors  of  ideal 
promise.      In  1820  he  could  write: 

'Evangelical  truth  lias  been  administered  in  a  purity  and  abundance  in  which  pre- 
ceding ages  bear  no  proportion.  And  here,  in  justice  to  the  establisbeil  clergy  of  the 
realm,  I  cannot  Init  remark  the  great  advance  in  piety  and  diliirence  which  they  have 
exhibited  during'  tin-  la^t  half-century.  Tliey  have  gone  forth  in  numbers,  rekindling 
the  lamp  of  lieavenly  tnitli  where  before  it  had  bMrne(l  with  a  <Iim  and  sickly  ray.  They 
have  explored  and  (uUivated  many  a  neglected  spot,  into  which  other  laborers  could  not 
(for  various  reasons i  i;ain  admission  with  equal  facilities  of  intluence,  and  far  lie  it  from 
any  of  their  dis-eniing  l)ri'thren  to  regard  their  success  with  any  other  than  a  fjoitly 
jealousy,  a  holy  t'lnulation." 

Ainoiig  tht>  'sjo'iiis  of  tlio  times '  ho  notes  the  growing  disposi- 
tion to  estimate  opinion  by  the  .sincere  rule  of  the  private  heart, 
the  diffusion  of  a  milder,  more  candid,  and  charitable  t(Mn)ier: 

'.\t  last  the  ceiilral  princi))le  of  union  beirins  to  be  exten-^i\ cly  felt  and  acknowl- 
edired:  amid  all  tlu'  diversities  of  external  discipline  or  suliordinate  opinion,  the  seed 


268  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

of  God,  the  principle  of  spiritual  and  immortal  life  implanted  in  the  soul,  is  recognized 
by  the  sincere  followers  of  the  Lamb  a;;  the  transcendent  point  of  mutual  attraction  in 
the  midst  of  minor  differences.' 

Foster,  pleading,  in  1834,  for  the  dissolution  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church  as  a  State  institution,  says  of  the  Dissenters, 
among:  whom  the  Methodists  are  the  most  aggressive: 

'  In  a  survey  of  the  country  there  are  brought  in  our  view  several  thousand  places  of 
worship,  raised  at  their  exiiense,  many  of  them  large,  many  of  them  smaller  ones  under 
the  process,  at  any  given  time,  of  being  enlarged,  with  the  addition  of  many  new  ones 
every  year.  And  1  believe  a  majority  of  them  are  attended  by  congregations  which  may 
be  described  as  numerous  in  proportion  to  their  dimensions  and  the  population  of  the 
neighborhood.  So  that  if  the  dissenters  be  somewhat  too  sanguine  in  assuming  that 
their  number  would  already  be  found,  on  a  census  of  the  whole  country,  fully  equal  to 
the  attendants  of  the  churches  of  the  establishment  (in  most  of  the  great  towns  tliey  far 
exceed),  there  is  every  probability  that  their  rapid  augmentation  will  very  soon  bring 
them  to  an  equality.' 

In  the  National  Church,  however,  there  were  now  no  Wycliffes, 
no  Latimers,  no  Taylors,  no  Butlers,  whom  plenitude  of  Divine 
Presence  had  made  possible  in  ages  of  genius  and  piety.  The 
curates  were  ill  paid,  the  prelates  overpaid.  The  abuse  was 
converting  bishops  into  surpliced  merchants.  Said  Brougham 
in  the  House  of  Commons: 

'How  will  the  reverend  bishops  of  the  other  House  be  able  to  express  their  due 
abhorrence  of  tlie  crime  of  perjury,  who  solemnly  declare  in  the  presence  of  God,  that 
when  they  are  called  upon  to  accept  a  living,  perhaps  of  four  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
at  that  very  instant  they  are  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost  to  accept  the  ofhce  and  adminis- 
tration thereof,  and  for  no  other  reason  whatever?' 

The  old  structures  were  kept  in  repair,  l)ut  the  spirit  that  once 
dwelt  in  them  had  gone  out  to  animate  other  activities.  The 
P^stablishment  was  the  church,  not  of  the  poor,  but  of  the  gentry, 
tlie  well-l)red,  whose  worship  was  a  quotation  and  a  ceremonial. 
Hence  to  Sidney  Smith  Methodism  was  foolishness.  Its  preachers 
gained  popularity  by  arts  which  the  regular  clergy  were  'too 
dignitled'  to  employ.  Yet  the  convulsionary  sect  was  producing 
a  moral  rcvolutifju;  an  upsetting  of  the  physical  machine,  some 
would  call  it;  a  mad  fermentation,  he  would  say: 

'  That  it  has  rapidly  increased  within  these  few  years,  we  have  no  manner  of  doubt; 
and  we  confess  we  ciinnot  see  what  is  likely  to  impede  its  i)rogress.  The  party  which 
it  lia>  formed  in  the  Legislature;  and  the  artful  neutrality  with  which  they  give  respecta- 
l)ility  to  their  small  number, —  the  talents  of  some  of  tliis  i)arty,  and  the  unimpeaclied 
excellence  of  tlieir  ciiaractirs,  all  make  it  probable  that  fanaticism  will  increase  rather 
than  diminish.  Thi'  Methodists  linve  made  an  alarming  inroa<l  into  the  Church,  and 
they  are  attacking  the  army  and  navy.  The  principality  of  Wales,  and  the  East  India 
•  'ompany,  they  have  already  acquired.  All  mines  and  subterraneous  i)laces  belong  to 
them:  they  creep  into  hospitals  and  small  schools,  and  so  work  their  way  upwards.  .  .  . 
We  mo^t  sincerely  depn'cate  sucti  an  ivcnt;  l)ut  it  will  excite  in  us  no  manner  of  sur- 


POETRY.  269 

prise  if  a  period  arrives  when  tiic  churches  of  the  sober  and  orthodox  part  of  the  Engllah 
clergy  are  completely  deserted  by  the  middling  and  lower  classe*  of  the  community.' 

The  morning  that  spread  upon  the  mountains  was  shedding  its 
glory  upon  the  plains. 

The  religious  element,  with  whose  European  antecedents  we 
may  here  assume  a  general  acquaintance,  was  dominant  in  the 
initial  idea  and  impulse  of  the  colonies;  it  was  mighty  and  per- 
vasive through  the  whole  colonial  period;  and  among  the  forces 
which  have  entered  into  American  development,  it  must  be 
regarded  as  the  first  in  time,  the  steadiest  in  mode,  and  the  most 
potent  in  energy: 

'It  must  never  be  forgotten  that  religion  gave  birtli  to  Anglo-American  society.  In 
the  United  States,  religion  is  tlierefore  commingled  with  all  the  habits  of  the  niition, 
and  all  the  feelings  of  patriotism;  whence  it  derives  a  peculiar  force.  To  this  powerful 
reason,  another  of  no  less  intensity  may  be  added:  in  America,  religion  has,  as  it  were, 
laid  down  its  own  limits.  Ueligious  institutions  liavc  remained  wholly  di!<iinct  from 
political  institutions,  so  that  former  laws  have  been  easily  changed,  while  former  belief 
has  remained  unshalcen.  Cliristianity  lias  therefore  retained  a  strong  hold  on  the  public 
mind  in  America;  and  it  should  be  particularly  remarked  that  its  sway  is  not  only  that  of 
a  philosophical  doctrine,  which  has  been  adopted  upon  iiuiuiry,  but  of  a  religion,  which 
is  believed  without  discussion.  In  the  United  States,  Christian  sects  are  infinitely  diver- 
sifled  and  perpetually  modified;  but  Christianity  itself  is  a  fact  so  irresistibly  estab- 
lished, that  no  one  undertakes  either  to  attack  or  to  defend  it." 

Religion,  in  this  country,  is  by  common  consent  a  distinct 
sphere.  Nowiiere  is  it  invested  with  fewer  forms,  figures,  and 
observances.  By  a  judicious  respect  for  democratic  tendencies, 
moreover,  it  has  sustained  an  advantageous  struggle  with  that 
spirit  of  individualism  wliich  elsewhere,  at  certain  epochs,  has 
proved  to  be  a  most  dangerous  antagonist.  It  may  here  be  a 
confirmed  habit,  or  there  a  tender  memory;  l)ut  it  is  not  an  insti- 
tution—  a  something  planteil  and  fi.ved,  which  would  thwart  or 
.stav  the  spiritual  laws  of  human  nature. 

Poetry. — With  the  sudden  concour.se  of  extraordinary  events, 
the  huiiiaii  mind  flowered  anew.  Amidst  the  visible  ])rogri'ss  and 
the  general  ennobling  of  the  public  was  manifested  the  moving 
sentiment  of  the  age,  at  once  generous  and  rebellious, — disconftMit 
with  the  })re.s(Mit,  aspiration  for  the  future.  We  have  seen  it  in 
the  fervor  aixl  iiiiserv  of  Burns,  in  the  overcharged  sotd  of 
Covvper;  we  iiiav  se(>  it  in  the  j>assionate  unrestraint  of  the 
Byronic  school;  in  the  dissenting  principles,  in  the  liniiiaiiitarian 
dreams,  in  tlit"  restless  explorations,  of  the  school  of  Wordsworth. 

The    heart,   in   weariness  of   the   precise  art    that    fettered    it. 


270  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD —  FEATURES. 

clamored  for  pulsation  and  utterance.  Already  the  nation  had 
returned  to  the  fresh  wild  strains  of  its  youth,  and  Percy's 
Heliques  had  fed  the  enthusiasm  which  it  accompanied  and  indi- 
cated. Other  omens  of  the  change  were  Warton's  Anglo-Saxon 
Poetry,  and  the  imitations  or  forgeries  of  Macpherson  and  Chat- 
terton,  all  which  materially  strengthened  the  new  reviving  love 
for  the  romantic  past.  This  was  the  historical  impulse,  which 
reproduced  on  the  literary  stage  at  this  moment  the  conceptions 
and  manners  of  the  Middle  Age,  the  ideals  of  the  Renaissance, 
and  the  vanished  civilizations  of  the  East.  A  second  impulse  — 
the  philosophical  —  was  communicated  over  the  whole  of  Europe 
from  Germany,  whose  literature  from  this  date  onward,  bold, 
speculative,  profound,  has  been  gaining  ground  in  both  England 
and  America,  and  has  become  the  most  vigorous  of  European 
forces.  Of  the  political  excitement  which  carried  discussion  and 
commotion  everywhere;  of  the  social  circumstances  which  refined 
experience,  enfranchised  the  intellect,  and  stimulated  hope,  we 
have  spoken.  In  this  period  of  converging  tendencies,  conserva- 
tive and  revolutionary,  the  useful,  the  beautiful,  and  the  worth- 
less struggled  together  for  survival  and  preeminence.  The  era 
does  not  reach  the  elevation  of  the  Elizabethan,  but  its  produc- 
tions are  more  varied,  and  only  less  magnificent.  Poetry  —  nar- 
rative, dramatic,  lyric,  didactic  —  is  clearly  its  distinguishing 
feature.  Among  the  minor  poets  who  rank  as  its  renovators,  is 
Crabbe  (1754-1832),  a  gloomy  painter  of  every-day  life,  uniting 
great  power  of  delineation  to  great  fondness  for  nature,  but  lack- 
ing ideality,  and  very  unequal;  often  exciting  admiration,  too 
frequently  provoking  derision.  His  Tales  of  the  Hall  has  a  more 
regular  plan  and  a  more  equable  strain  than  any  of  his  other 
works.  Two  brothers,  meeting  late  in  life  at  the  hall  of  their 
native  village,  relate  to  each  other  passages  of  their  past  experi- 
ence. After  many  years,  the  elder  discovers,  as  he  says,  the  lost 
object  of  his  idolatry  living  in  infamy: 

'  Will  you  not  ask,  how  I  beheld  that  face. 
Or  read  that  iniTul,  and  read  it  in  that  jilace? 
I  have  tried,  Richard,  ofttiines,  and  in  vain, 
To  tniee  my  thoughts,  and  to  review  their  train  — 
If  train  tliere  were  — that  meadow,  \ix^)\(-,  and  stile, 
The  frii.'ht,  the  escape,  her  sweetness,  and  her  smile; 
Years  since  elapsed,  and   hope,  from  year  to  year, 
To  find  her  free  — and  then  to  find  her  here! 
But  is  it  she'-  — o:  yes:  tlic  rose  is  dead. 


POETRY— CRABBE.  271 

All  beauty,  fragrance,  fres'hnes!',  glory,  fled; 
But  yet  "tis  she  —  the  same  and  not  the  same  — 
Who  to  my  bower  a  heavenly  being  came ; 
Who  waked  my  souTs  first  thought  of  real  bliss. 
Whom  long  I  sought,  and  now  1  find  her  — this.' 

She  offers  her  hand,  sees  his  troubled  look,  bids  him  discard  it, 
then,  while  he  stands  gazing  and  perplexed,  sings: 

'  My  Damon  was  the  first  to  wake 
The  gentle  flame  that  cannot  die: 
My  Damon  is  the  last  to  take 
The  faithful  bosom's  softest  sigh: 
The  life  between  is  nothing  worth, 
O!  cast  it  from  thy  thought  away; 
Think  of  the  day  that  gave  it  birth. 
And  this  its  sweet  returning  day. 

Buried  be  all  that  has  been  done. 
Or  say  that  nought  is  done  amiss; 
For  who  the  dangerous  path  can  shun 
In  such  bewildering  world  as  this  ? 
But  love  can  every  fault  forgive, 
Or  with  a  tender  look  reprove; 
And  now  let  nought  in  memory  live. 
But  that  we  meet,  and  that  we  love." 

He  is  moved  to  i)ity: 

'Softened,  I  said,  "Be  mine  the  hand  and  heart. 
If  with  your  world  you  will  consent  to  part." 
She  would,— she  tried.    Alas!  she  did  not  know 
How  deeply-rooted  evil  habits  grow.' 

In  vain  ;  the  fateful  presence  is  there,  and  the  resisting  soul 
yields,  sinks,  then  wastes  to  the  end  : 

'There  came  at  lensth  request 
Tluit  I  would  see  a  wretch  with  grief  oppressed. 
By  guilt  affrighted,— and  I  went  to  trace 
Once  more  the  vice-worn  features  of  that  face, 
That  sin-wrecked  being:  and  I  saw  her  laid 
Where  never  worldly  joy  a  visit  paid: 
That  world  receding  fast!   the  world  to  come 
('oncealed  in  terror,  iiruorance,  and  gloom; 
Sin,  sorrow,  and  neglect;  with  not  a  spark 
Of  \ilal  hope,- all  horrible  and  dark. 
It   friLTliteiied  nie  I     I  thought,— and  sliall  not  I 
Tluis  feel  '!   thus  fear  ?   tliis  danger  can  I  tly  '? 
Do  1  ^o  wisely  live  that  I  can  calmly  die?' 

Living  ill  two  eras,  he  wrote  in  two  stylr.s  ;  (h-aiing  in  the  tlr.st 
ratlier  witli  the  surface,  in  tlio  second  more  with  th(>  heart,  of 
things.  Hut  in  g(Mieral  ho  was  too  classical,  and  has  hoen  nick- 
named '  Po])c  in  worsted  stockings.'  Here,  in  a  glimpse  of  the 
unpromising  scene  of  his  nativity,  is  a  specimen  of  his  rough 
eiiergv  of  (lescrii)tioii  : 


272  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'Lo!  where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake  grown  o"er 
Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  nciglilK)ring  poor; 
From  thence  a  length  of  burning  gaud  appears?, 
Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  witliered  ears; 
Rank  weeds  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 
Reign  o'er  the  land,  and  rob  the  blighted  rye: 
There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar, 
And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war; 
There  poppies  nodding  mock  the  hope  of  toil ; 
There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil; 
Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf 
The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 
O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a  shade, 
And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade; 
With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound. 
And  a  sad  splendor  vainly  shines  around.' 

Another  who  enters  the  new  seliool  without  abandoning  his 
lialf  classical  but  noble  style,  is  Campbell  (1777-1844),  a  High- 
lander in  blood  and  nature,  dreamy  and  meditative,  of  delicate 
taste  and  pure  sentiment,  calm,  uniform,  and  mellitiuous  in  the 
general  tone  of  his  verse.  iVt  eleven  he  begins  to  compose,  and 
at  twenty-one,  in  a  dusky  lodging  of  Edinburgh,  writes  the 
Pleasures  of  Hope,  writes  much  of  it  several  times  over,  writes 
it  in  sections,  then  arranges  them  in  proper  order;  writes  the 
opening  last,  revises  it  again  and  again,  because  he  appreciates 
the  importance  of  a  good  beginning,  then,  Avhen  it  bears  no 
resemblance  to  the  original  draught,  captivates  us  with  this 
exquisite  picture: 

'At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  elliereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hill  below. 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  snnbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
Moif  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near? 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view. 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,   wi-  linger  tf>  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way, 
Tims,  from  afar,  each  dim-discovered  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  thi"  past  liatli  been. 
And  i\(ry  form,  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  i,'lows  divinely  there' 

Hardly  less  fclicitotis  arc  th(>  following  lines: 

'Till   Hymen  lirouL'lit  his  love-delishted  hour, 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower! 
In  v:iiM   the  viewless  serajjh  lingerinir  there. 
At  starry  ini<lniL'ht  eliarm'd  the  silent  air: 
In  vain  the  wild-bird  caroll'd  on   ttie  steep. 
To  hail   the   -nn.   ^low  wlieeling  from   the  deep: 


POETRY  —  CAMPBELL.  273 

In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  i^hade. 

Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  play'd; 

The  summer  wind  that  shook  the  spangled  tree. 

The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  In-e; 

Still  slowly  pass'd  the  melancholy  day. 

And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  stray. 

The  world  was  sad!   the  garden  was  a  wild! 

And  man,  the  hermit,  sigh'd  — till  woman  smiled!' 

When  the  guardian  deities  forsook  mankind,  Hope  remained. 
When  Epimetheus  indiscreetly  opened  Pandora's  jar,  all  the  ills 
which  have  since  afflicted  humanity  were  let  loose,  and  the  lid 
was  replaced  only  in  time  to  prevent  the  escape  of  Hope.  What 
emotion  is  so  beneficent?  Limited  to  no  age,  no  clime,  no  con- 
dition, it  is  strength  to  the  weary,  courage  to  the  desponding, 
promise  to  the  desolate,  life  to  the  dying: 

'Angel  of  life  I  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loveliest  bounds,  and  ocean's  widest  shore.' 

When  reason  deserts  her  empire,  Hope  takes  her  seat  upon  the 
vacant  throne,  as  the  radiant  angels  sat  upon  the  stone  by  the 
door  of  the  empty  sepulchre: 

'Hark!   the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 
That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail:  .  .  . 
Oft  when  yon  moon  has  climb'd  the  midnight  sky. 
And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry, 
Piled  on  the  steej),  her  blazing  faggots  burn 
To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return; 
And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 
That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep." 

Hope  illumes,  for  the  dying,  the  dread  unknown,  and  on  the 
tombs  of  tlie  departed  it  hangs  the  unfading  garlands  of  a  blessed 
immortality.  No  cheerless  creed  of  materialism  can  wed  us  to 
the  dust: 

'All  nic!    the  laurcll'd  wreath  that   Murder  rears. 
Blood-nursed,  and  water'd  by  the  widow's  tears. 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,   'iiid  so  dread. 
As  waves  tlie  niuht-sliade  rouiid  the  sceptic's  head.  .  .  . 
If  Chance  awaked,  inexorable  power. 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  liour: 
Dcxini'd  o'er  tlie  world's  precarious  scetie  to  sweep. 
Swift  MS  the  tenipesl   travels  on  the  deep. 
To  know   Delight  but  by  lier  partincr  smile. 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while; 
Tlien  melt,  ye  elements,   that   forni'il  in  Miiri 
This  troubled  pulse,  and  visiiiiiary  brain! 
Kadi',  ye  wild  llowers,  iiietnoriMJs  of  my  dcpoin. 
And  -ink.  ye  stars,   that   HlMiI  me  to  the  iDiiib" 
18 


274  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Only  less  important  than  the  beginning  is  the  ending: 

'Eternal  Hope!  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Peal'd  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began, —  but  not  to  fade. 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decay'd; 
When  wrapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below; 
Tliou,  undismay'd,  shall  o"cr  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile.' 

Campbell's  fame  is  secure  in  quotation.      Many  of  his  lines  have 
become  household  words.     For  example: 

'"Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view.' 

''Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  east  their  shadows  before.' 

'What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been, 
Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between?' 

In  the  stories  of  the  Border  he  has  more  freedom;  as  in 
LochieVs  Warning,  0'' Conner's  Child,  and  Lord  UUin's  Daugh- 
ter, with  which  every  school-boy  is  familiar.  Of  the  same  roman- 
tic type  is  Gertrude  of  Wyoining,  A  Tale  of  Pennsylvania, 
founded  on  a  tragedy  of  the  Revolution,  and  sanctified  by  the 
usual  ideal  loveliness.  The  heroine,  falling  in  a  general  massacre, 
dies  in  her  husband's  arms: 

'Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate!  while  I  can  feel  the  dear  caress; 
And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat, —  oh!  think. 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess. 
That  thou  iiast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh!  l)y  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs  —  when  I  am  laid  in  dust! 

Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart. 

The  scene  tliy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart. 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 

Witli  thee,  as  with  an  angel  through  the  grove 

Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  lieaven;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ? 

Xo!  I  shall  love  tiiee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past.' 

Another,  of  stcriK-r  tone  and  fuller  swing,  is  Southey  (1774- 
184-3),  voluniinou.s  and  learned;  a  poet,  scholar,  antiquary,  critic, 
historian,  leader;  beginning  as  a  Socinian  and  a  Radical;  ending 
as  a  decided  Anglican  and  an  intolerant  Conservative;  in  point 
of  taste,  however,  a  revolutionist,  who  violently  breaks  with   tra- 


POETRY — 80UTHEY  —  MOORE.  275 

dition,  finds  his  models  in  the  great  masters  of  the  Epic,  and  his 

themes  in  the  wild  and  supernatural;  gorgeous  and  sublime  in 

imagery,  but  too  fanciful,  too  remote,  and  wanting  in  sympathy 

and  dramatic  art.     His  most  elaborate  performance  is  the  (Jurse 

of  Kehama,  founded  upon  the  Hindu  mythology;  a  theatre  of 

horrors,  whose  hero  is  a  second  Dr.   Faustus.     The  description 

of  Padalon,  or  the  Indian  Hades,  is  Miltonic: 

'Far  other  light  than  that  of  day  there  shone 
Upon  the  traveller;-,  entering  Padalon. 
They,  too,  in  darkness  entering  on  their  way, 
But  far  before  the  car 
A  glow,  as  of  a  fiery  furnace  light, 
Filled  all  before  them.     "Twas  a  light  that  made 
Darliuess  itself  api)ear 

A  thing  of  comfort;   and  the  sight,  dismayed. 
Shrank  inward  from  the  molten  atmosphere. 
Their  way  was  through  the  adamantine  rock 
Which  girt  the  world  of  woe;  on  either  side 
Its  massive  walls  arose,  and  overhead 
Arched  the  long  passage;  onward  as  they  ride, 
With  stronger  glare  the  light  around  them  spread  — 
And,  lo:   the  regions  dread  — 
The  world  of  woe  before  them  opening  wide, 
There  rolls  the  fiery  fiood, 
Girding  tlie  realms  of  Padalon  around. 
A  sea  of  flame  it  seemed  to  be. 
Sea  without  bound: 
For  neither  mortal  nor  immortal  sight 
Could  pierce  across  through  that  intensest  light.' 

Equally  fond  of  decorations  and  scenery,  equally  factitious, 
but  more  radiant,  is  Moore  (17T0-185'-2);  witty  and  worldly, 
gay,  nimble,  and  airy;  a  lively  and  pungent  satirist;  a  writer  of 
patriotic  songs  for  his  native  Ireland,  and  of  sacred  lyrics  for 
two  hemispheres.  Ilis  national  airs  were  sung  everywhere,  from 
the  jialace  to  the  highway.  Judge  from  a  single  example  the 
secret  of  their  jiopularity: 

'When  he  who  M<lores  thee  has  left  but  the  nauii' 

Of  lii>  f:uilt  and  his  sorrows  behind. 
Oh,  say,  wilt  tlmu  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that   for  tlite  was  resigned? 
Ytv<,  weci),  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn. 

Thy  tears  sliall  efface  their  decree; 
For  Heaven  can  witness,   tlionirh  ijiiilty  to  them, 

I   liave  been  but  Kio  f.-iithful  to  thee! 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love; 

Every  thouirlit  of  my  reason  was  thine: 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  S])irit  above. 

Thy  name  shall  be  mimrled  with  mine  I 
Oh,   bli--t  are  the  lovers  and  frieiuls  who  shall  live 


276  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see: 
But  the  next  ileai'est  blessing  that  Heaven  ean  give. 
Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee  I' 

Rarely  has  there  been  such  an  artist  of  harmony.  The  same 
wonder-working  gift  is  exhibited  here: 

'Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea: 
•Jehovah  hath  triumphed;   his  people  are  free. 
Sing;   for  the  might  of  the  tyrant  is  broken; 
His  chariots,  his  liors-emen,  so  splendid  and  brave, 
How  vain  was  their  boasting!   the  Lord  hath  but  spoken. 
And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave." 

And  in  the  following: 

'I  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 

A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on; 
I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining  — 

The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 
And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  promise. 

So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known; 
Each  wave  that  we  danced  on  at  morning  ebbs  from  us. 

And  leaves  us  at  eve  on  the  bleak  shore  alone.' 

Having  risen  to  the  ascendant  in  this  his  proper  region,  he  fol- 
lows the  rest,  and  produces  a  romance, — Lalla  liookJi,  composed 
of  four  tales, —  the  Veiled  Prophet,  Fire -WorsJiippers,  Paradise 
and  the  Peri,  and  the  Liglit  of  the  Harem.  A  tissue  of  prose 
narrative,  gracefully  told,  connects  them;  for  they  are  all  recited 
for  the  entertainment  of  Lalla  Rookh  while  she  is  journeying  to 
wed  her  affianced  lord.  Here  is  an  instance,  from  the  second,  of 
his  rich  Orientalism: 

'How  calm,  how  beautiful,  comes  on  Sparkles,  as  'twere  the  lightiiing-gem 

The  stilly  hour  when  storms  are  gone;  Whose  liquid  (lame  is  born  of  them: 

When  warring  winds  have  died  away,  Wlien  "stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze. 

And  clouds,  beneatli  the  glancing  ray.  There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs. 

Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea  And  each  a  differcut  perfume  bears,— 

Sleeping  in  bright  tranfiuillity,—  As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 

Fresh  as  if  Day  aL'aiii  were  born,  Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  t)wn 

Again  njion  the  la|)  of  Morn!  To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone, 

When  the  light  blossiims,  nidcly  torn  And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs! 

And  scattered  at  tlic  wbiilwiiid's  will,  When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall, 

Hang  floating  in  tlic  \)\wv  air  still.  In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all; 

FilliiiL'  it  all  with  jirccioiis  Imlin,  And  even  that  swell  the  tempest  leave« 

In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  cahn  :  —  Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 

And  cvrry  dro])  the  Iliundcr— liowers  Of  lovers"  liearts  when  newly  blest. 

Have  left   upon   the  gra>s  and  flowers  Too  newly  t"  be  quite  at   rest.' 

The  third  —  p('rh;i])s  tlic  simplest  and  host  —  describes  the  efforts 
of  WW  exiled  fairy  to  reg;iiri  admission  t'>  Heaven.  She  offers  suc- 
cessively the  last  drop  of  blood  of  ;i  patriot,  the  last  sigh  of  a 
devoted  lover,  then  the  tear  of  a  penitent: 


POETRY  —  COLERIDGE.  277 

'Joy,  joy  forever!   my  task  is  done. 
The  gates  are  jnissed,  and  Heaven  ic  won ! 
Oh!   am  I  not  happy?  I  am,  I  am. 

To  thee,  sweet  Eden !  how  dark  and  sad 
Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Shadukiam, 

And  the  fragrant  bowers  of  Amberabad! 

Farewell,  ye  odors  of  eartli,  that  die 

Passing  away  like  a  lover"s  sigh; 

My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  Tree, 

Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  eternity! 

Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 

In  my  fairy  wreath,  so  bright  and  brief; 

O!   what  are  the  brightest  that  e"er  have  blown. 

To  the  lote  tree,  springing  by  Allu's  throne. 

Whose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf! 

Joy,  joy  forever!   my  task  is  done. 

The  gates  are  passed,  and  Heaven  is  won!" 

The  most  undeniable  and  wide-ranging-  genius  of  this  extraor- 
dinary and  agitated  period  is  Coleridge  ( 1T7"^-1S34);  at  three, 
able  to  read  the  Bible;  at  eight,  solitary,  fretful,  passionate,  tor- 
mented by  the  boys,  flattered  and  wondered  at  by  all  the  old 
women;  till  fourteen,  a  playless  day-dreamer;  at  fifteen,  a  fluent 
master  of  the  classics  and  a  lover  of  metaphysics  ;  perusing 
Virgil  '  for  pleasure,'  but  unable  to  give  a  ride  of  svntax  save  in 
his  own  way;  alternating  (»reek  antl  Latin  medical  books  with 
Voltaire's  Plilfosojihictd  Dictionanj  ;  in  college  a  voracious  and 
desultory  reader,  his  room  the  resc^rt  of  the  gowned  politicians, 
himself  the  life  and  lire  of  debate  as  the  champion  of  democracy; 
first  a  Unitarian,  then  convinced  that  L'nitarianism  was  nidi  and 
void  ;  projector  of  a  second  Eden  on  the  banks  of  the  Sus(jue- 
hanna, —  a  Pantisocracy  whose  l)lessings  were  to  extend  from 
})ards  to  donkeys;  now  j)rcacliing.  now  editing;  now  scheming 
stupendous  epics,  now  troubled  and  trembling-  to  propitiate  'the 
two  Giants,  Bread  and  Cheese';  a  thinker  and  a  dreamer,  poet 
and  critic,  a  talker  at  whose  feet  sat  men  of  fame,  like  chililren 
round  a  wizard  ;  deep,  exhaustless,  inscrutable;  of  gifts  so  varied 
and  so  great  that  j^atient  and  wise  use  would  have  put  him  among 
tlie  few  masters,  l)ut  of  naturally  vacillating  tcMuper,  enhanced  in 
earlv  life  l)y  lack  of  disciplim^,  and  later  l)y  indulgence  in  opium; 
falling  at  last  into  j)itifid  imbecility,  receiving  from  friends  iliar- 
itv,  and  craving  from  Heaven  forgiveness.  llis  Ix'st  poems  are 
TIk  Aiir'ii  lit  Miirliii  i\('lirl.<tiih<l,\\\\i\  l\ii},l,i  h'/nm,  in  all  wliic-h 
the  suiternatural  and  fantastic  are  touched  with  mateid(>ss  skill. 
The   first    is  it  iihantasmagoria    of   mystery  and   sul)limity,    liuuicd 


278  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

forth  in  magical  and  meteoric  tints.     What  a  wild,  weird  picture 
is  this: 

'The  upper  air  burst  into  life! 
Aud  a  hundred  flre-flagti  sheen; 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud; 

The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 

The  moon  was  at  its  side; 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 

A  river  steep  and  wide." 

Consider  the  still  and  awful  grandeur  in  these  lines  : 

'Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 

Up  to  the  moon  is  cast.' 


And  the  inexpressible  beauty  in  these: 


'Daj'  after  day,  day  after  day. 

We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion. 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  pai7ited  ocean/ 

Where  shall  we  look  for  such  a  marvellous  piece  of  imaginative 
painting  as  this?  — 

'One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  moon.  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, — 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  .=igli.  Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea! 

Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang,  And  never  a  saint  took  i)ity  on 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye.  My  soul  in  agony. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men,—  The  many  men  so  beautiful! 

And  1  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan,—  And  they  all  dead  did  lie: 

With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump.  And  a  thousand,  thousand  slimy  things 

They  dropped  down  one  by  one.  Lived  on,  and  so  did  L 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  lly, —  I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  I  And  drew  my  eyes  away; 

And  every  soul  it  passed  me  by  T  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
Like  the  whiz  of  my  crossbow.  .  .  .  And  there  the  dead  men  lay." 

Such  strains  will  sound  in  the  ears  of  latest  generations.  (Jhrista- 
h( I  is  a  fragment,  a  romantic  supernatural  tale  of  chilliest  horror, 
(ieraldine  is  a  fiend-lady,  beautiful  and  bright,  who  illustrates 
tlie  dangerous  spoil  f)f  Satanic  malice  under  the  garb  of  fair 
innocence: 

'A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 

And  the  lady's  cyrs  they  shrank  in  her  head. 


POETRY  —  COLERIDGE.  279 

Each  shrank  up  to  a  serpent's  eye; 

And  with  somewhat  of  malice  and  more  of  dread 
At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance.  .  .  . 
The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 

I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise, 
So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 

That  look,  those  shrunken,  serpent  eyes. 
That  all  her  features  were  resign  d 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind. 
And  passively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate.' 

Here  occurs  that  fine  and  familiar  passage  on  broken  friendship: 

'Alas!   they  had  been  friends  in  youth; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above; 

And  life  is  thorny;   and  youth  is  vain: 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love. 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain.  .  .  . 

Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 

And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother: 
They  parted,— ne'er  to  meet  again  1 

But  never  cither  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  i)aining: 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder: 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 
The  marks  of  thai  which  once  hath  been." 

I\itbla  Khnn  is  the  record  of  a  gorgeous  dream,  and  a  miracle 
of  music.  'The  most  wonderful  of  all  poems,'  says  Swinburne, 
who  revels  in  melodious  words.  What  a  thrilling  landscape  is 
here: 

^But  oh,  that  de^p  romantic  chasm  irhxch  slanted 
Doirn  the  (jreen  hill,  athwart  a  ceilarn  cover! 
A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  liencalh  a  naninij  moon  teas  haunted 
By  woman  irailinfj  for  her  demonlorer ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  niiL'lity  fountain  niomciilly  was  forced; 
Aniiil  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Hnire  frairnients  vaulted  like  reboniulinir  hail. 
Or  chiilTy  ^'rain  beneath  the  thrasher's  flail: 
.And  "mid  lliese  <lanciiiL,'  rucks,  at  oner  and  ever, 
Tr  fliuiL:  U))  nionuiilly  the  sacred  riviT, 
Fire  mites  meandering  with  a  hazy  motion. 
Ttirntiiih  nooil  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measiirelr-ss  to  man. 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean.' 

In   a  different  mood  and   niaiinor  is  Lore.      How  traiicingly  rolls 
its  melody : 


280  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'All  thoughts,  all  paiasioiiM,  all  delights, 

Whatever  stirs'  this  mortal  frame, 
Aro  all  but  ministers  of  love. 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 

Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 

Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o"cr  the  scene. 

Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 

My  own  dear  Genevieve  I ' 

Who  shall  estimate  the  wild  beatings  and  the  widowed  long- 
ings of  the  heart  of  genius  ?  Sad,  yet  inevitable,  that  the  sigh 
of  regret  or  the  moan  of  despair  should  mingle  with  its  music: 

'■When  I  was  young?    Ah,  woful  when! 
Ah,  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  airy  cliffs  and  glittering  sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along.  .  .  . 

Flowers  are  lovely;  Love  is  flower-like; 

Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 

O  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like. 

Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old! 

Ere  1 2ras  old  ?    Ah  woful  Ere, 

Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here! 

O  Youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 

'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one ; 

ril  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit, — 

It  cannot  be  tliat  thou  art  gone!  .  .  . 

Ijfe  If:  bill  thought:   so  think  I  will 

That  Youth  and  I  are  housemates  still.' 

Was  never  poet  more  radiant  in  genius,  more  rich  in  promise, 
than  the  short-lived  Keats'  (179G-1821);  of  fragile  frame  and 
delicate  features  ;  eyes  mellow  and  glowing,  large,  dark,  and 
sensitive,  sulTused  with  tears  at  the  recital  of  a  noble  act  or  a 
beautiful  thought;  adverse  to  every  kind  of  restraint,  resolved  to 
be  free  from  all  critical  trammels  ;  studi(>d  Italian,  read  Ariosto, 
devoured  classical  mythology,  worsliijijied  the  Elizabethans, — 
above  all,  Sjiensor;  nobly  ambitious,  longing  for  fame,  but  long- 
ing first  to  deserve  it,  pressing  on  assiduouslv  with  birth  and 
health  against  him,  feeling  that  what  he  did  was  to  be  done 
swiftlv:  talked  down  l)v  inferiors  who  chanced  to  have  the  advan- 
tage  of    position  :    conscious    of    tli(>   unpruned   savagery  in   the 

'Son  of  an  :l^s^^tunt  in  a  liverv  stable. 


POETRY  —  K  KATS.  281 

tangled  forest  of  his  verse,  and  suffering  from  the  vulgarities  of 
hostile  criticism  in  proportion  as  his  ideal  was  high.  In  the 
winter  of  18:20  he  was  chilled  in  riding  on  the  top  of  a  stage- 
coach. On  coming  home  he  was  persuaded  to  retire,  and  in  get- 
ting between  the  cold  sheets  coughed  slightly.  'That  is  blood  in 
my  mouth,'  he  said:  'bring  me  the  candle;  let  me  see  this  blood.' 
Then,  looking  up  with  sudden  calmness:  'I  know  the  color  of 
that  blood  ;  it  is  arterial  blood  ;  I  cannot  be  deceived  in  that 
color.  That  drop  is  my  death-warrant;  I  must  die.'  In  vain  he 
repaired  to  Naples,  and  thence  to  Rome.  Shortly  before  his 
death  he  told  his  friend  that  'he  thought  the  intensest  pleasure 
he  had  received  in  life  was  in  watching  the  growth  of  flowers'; 
and  once,  after  lying  peacefully  awhile,  he  said,  'I  feel  the 
flow^ers  growing  over  me.'  On  a  grassy  slope,  in  a  secluded  spot, 
amid  the  verdurous  ruins  of  the  Honorian  walls,  he  sleeps,  his 
simple  headstone  inscribed  with  his  name,  age,  and  the  epitaph 
dictated  by  himself, — 

'Uere  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water.' 

No  tree  or  shrub  is  there,  but  the  faithful  daisies,  mingling  with 
the  fresh  herbage,  crown  the  mound  of  their  buried  lover  with  a 
galaxy  of  their  innocent  stars,  'making  one  in  love  with  death,' 
says  Shelley,  so  soon  to  rest  his  own  ashes  beside  him,  'to  think 
that  one  should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a  place.' 

Intensity  of  conception  was  his  bliss  and  his  bane.  Kn^hiinion 
has  the  rankness  of  tropic  vegetation.  Images  are  heaped  in 
grotesque  and  tiresome  profusion;  Init  in  passages  iik(^  the  invo- 
cation to  Pan  —  the  All  —  we  see  the  divine  faculty,  the  control 
of  the  finer  sense  wliich  underlies  the  sensuous: 

'O  thou,  who<('  miLrlity  pahitc  roof  doth  liaim 
From  ,iiii:!,'C(l  trunks,  and  ov(<r<hii(lc>\vctli 
Etiriial  whisixTs,  glooms,  tho  birth,  lifr,  di-uth. 
Of  unseen  (lowers  in  heavy  peacefiilness:  .  .  . 
Be  still  the  nnimatciiiable  lodgf 
F'or  solitary  thinkinirs;    such  as  dodu'e 
Conreption  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain:    be  still  the  leaven. 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth. 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal,  -a  new  l)irth: 
Be  .''till  It  Kytiihnl  or'  )»im"iixil!/: 
A  nnniimcut  rcfifclfil  in  a  ■■tea; 
An  element  fillinsr  the  space  between: 
An  unknown,  — but  no  more:    we  humbly  .screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending. 


282  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending. 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Psean, 
t'pon  thy  Mount  Lycean!" 

One  line  is  current  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken: 
'A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever.' 

Hyperion  is  more  evenly  tempered;  a  noble  fragment,  lofty  and 
clear-aired,  showing  the  unerring  instinct  for  fine  words  and  the 
poetic  uses  of  things.  Byron  thought  it  inspired  by  the  Titans. 
Note  the  antique  grace  of  the  following: 

'■Beep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale. 
Far  sunlien  from  the  healthy  breath  of  mom. 
Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 
Sat  grey-halr'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone. 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair; 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head. 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there. 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass. 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest.' 

You  will  never  open  a  page  without  lighting  on  the  loveliest 
imagery  or  the  most  eloquent  expression.  Thus,  from  the  J^ve 
of  St.  Agnes : 

'Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died: 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panted  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide; 
Nor  utter'd  syllable,  or  "Wo  betide!" 
But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  voluble 
Paining  ivith  eloquence  her  balmy  side: 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  sivtll 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die  heart-stifled  in  her  dell.' 

Turn  again  and  hear  the  sweet  voice  when  mortal  illness  is  clos- 
ing  upon  its  accents.  The  concrete  is  elevated  into  the  typical; 
melody  and  meaning  float  together,  'accordant  as  swan  and 
shadow.'  From  his  house  on  the  border  of  the  fields  he  hears 
the  plaintive  anthem  of  the  nightingale: 

'Fa(ie  far  away,  dissolve,  and  (piite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit,  and  hear  eacli  other  groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs; 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  si)cftre-tliiii,  and  dies. 
Where  but  tii  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs.  .  .  . 

/  cannot  set-  trh'it  floners  are  at  my  feet. 
Nor  irhaf  soft  inrein^e  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 


POETRY  —  SHELLEY.  283 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  icild ; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine.  .  .  . 

Darkling  I  listen;   and,  for  many  a  time, 
I  have  been  half  in  hoe  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy!  .  .  . 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird.' 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down.' 

He  died  too  soon  to  develop  a  well-outlined  character,  but  did 
enoug'h  to  show  the  world  all  it  had  lost  in  him.  How  many 
flowers  perish  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  how  many  are  blighted 
in  the  bud  ! 

'The  splendors  of  the  Armament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb. 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil." 

When  a  soul  of  superlative  power  appears,  all  the  breadth  of 

human  faculty  is  required  to  know  it,  and  men,  in  proportion  to 

their  intellect,  will  admit   its  transcendent   claims.     The  poetic 

elements  in  Shelley  (1702-1822)  were  superabundant;  the  son 

of  a  rich  baronet,  sweet,  "generous,  tender,  beautiful,  and  born  a 

bard;'  from  his  birth  ap^low  with  the  transcendental  rapture,  and 

painting  for  tlie  ideal  Good, — 

'Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane." 

So  sensitive  that  he  could  — 

'  Hardly  bear 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour.' 

At  school  harshly  treated  by  his  instructors  and  mates;  at  Eton 
suffered  revolting  cruelty  from  the  boys  and  his  masters;  judged 
societv  by  the  oppression  lie  underwent,  rebelled  against  author- 
ity and  opinion,  began  to  form  socialistic  Utopias,  nnd  found 
himself,  by  the  very  compass  of  his  humanity,  at  war  with  exist- 
ing institutions: 

'1  do  remember  well  tlie  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep:    a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was, 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 
And  wept,  I  knew  not  why:    until  there  rose 

'  Sec  Queen  Mali,  composed  at  eighteen. 


284  SECOND   CREATIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

From  the  near  i?chool-room  voices,  that,  alas! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes,— 
The'hnrsh  and  grating  tslrife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

And  then  I  clapped  my  hands  and  looked  around, 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny  ground,— 
So,  without  shame,  I  spake:  "I  will  be  wise, 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  i)ower,  for  I  grow  weary  to  bcluold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."  .  .  . 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore, 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armor  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind." 

He  incessantly  speculated,  thought,  and  read;  began  with  Lucre- 
tius, and  ended  with  Plato;  avowed  himself  a  republican  and  a 
sceptic;  wrote  novels  at  fifteen,  and  verses  earlier;  issued  a  sylla- 
bus of  Hume's  Essays  when  only  seventeen,  and  challenged  the 
authorities  of  Oxford  to  a  public  controversy;  published  a  tract 
0)1  the  Necessity  of  Atheism,  and  was  expelled  from  the  univer- 
sit}','  yet  an  honest  unbeliever,  loving  truth  with  a  martyr's  love, 
and  willing  to  die  to  do  the  world  a  service;  at  nineteen  married 
a  fair  maid  of  inferior  birth,  and  was  exiled  from  his  father's 
presence;  abandoned  her,  believing  that  husband  and  wife  should 
continue  vmited  only  so  long  as  they  love  each  other  ;  was  then 
de])rived,  as  being  unworthy,  of  the  custody  of  his  two  children, 
by  a  decree  of  the  Lord  Chancellor,  whom  he  cursed  — 

'By  all  the  happy  sec  in  children'.s  growth, 
That  undeveloped  flower  of  budding  years. 
Sweetness  and  sadness  interwoven  both. 
Source  of  the  sweetest  hopes  and  saddest  fears  1' 

Meanwhile  he  had  left  for  the  Continent,  in  company  with  a 
lady  who  afterward  became  his  second  wife,  who  could  '  feel  poetry 
and  understand  philosophy';  returned  and  settled  on  tiie  banks 
of  the  Tliames.  Consumption  came,  and  he  repaired  to  Italy, 
where  he  contiiuied  to  pour  out  his  inspirations,  whether  men 
would  listen  or  no.  There,  it  will  be  remembered,  he  was 
ingulfed  in  the  sea,  his  wave-beaten  body  burned,  and  the  ashes 
buried.  So  ended  a  miracle  of  thirty  years, —  a  romance  of 
mystery  and  grief,  passing  at  the  moment  when  the  stormy  dawn 
was  yielding  to  the  noonday  calm. 


POETRY  —  SHELLEY.  285 

Never  was  poetry  a  more  vivid  expression  of  personal  experi- 
ence and  aspiration.  A  unique  spirituality  pervades  it  all.  The 
first  touches  of  his  wild  poem  of  Queen  Mab  announce  the 
dreamer  and  the  idealist: 

'  IIow  wonderful  i.-»  tloath,— 
Death  and  his  brother  Sleep! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 
With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 
The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When,  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 
It  blushes  o'er  the  world: 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful! 
Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Wliicli  steal  like  streams  along  a  lield  of  snow. 
That  lovely  outline,  wliich  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish?' 

His  impassioned  eloquence,  the  witchery  of  his  music,  his  conso- 
lations in  nature,  the  yearning-  for  the  spirit  of  loveliness,  his 
burning  desire  to  pierce  the  inner  shrine  of  being,  are  conspicu- 
ous in  Alastor,  a  youth  enamored  of  solitude,  who  wanders  long 
and  fondly  in  quest  of  the  unattainable  Vision,  then  dies  in  the 
Caucasian  wilderness.  Nature  is  to  him  something  living  and 
divine.  Her  bloom  is  but  the  sheen  of  the  peaceful  Soul.  He 
has  felt  her  great  heart  throb,  and  in  every  existence  sees  the 
secret  essence.     How  tenderly  he  speaks  to  her: 

'Eartli,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood! 
If  our  great  Mother  nave  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your  love,  and  recompense  tlie  boon  with  mine; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and  even 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 
And  solemn  midnights  tingling  silentness, — 
If  autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood, 
And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 
Of  starry  ice  the  gray  grass  and  bare  bouglis,— 
If  spring's  voluptuous  panlings  wlien  she  breathes 
Her  first  sweet  kisses,— liave  been  dear  to  me, — 
If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 
I   consciously  have  injured,  liut  still  loved 
And  cherislied  tliese  my  kindred,— tlien  forgive 
Tliis  lioast,  beloved  bretliren,  and  withdraw 
?vo  i)ortion  of  your  wonted  favor  now  1 " 

Plow  has  ho  craved  to  penetrate  behind  all  phenomena  to  the 
inmost  sanctuarv: 


28^  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

'Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world! 
Favor  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 
Thee  ever,  and  thee  only;  I  have  watched 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  steps, 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my  bed 
In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black  death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from  thee. 
Hoping  to  still  these  obstinate  questionings 
Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost. 
Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are.      In  lone  and  silent  hours. 
When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its  own  stillness, 
Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchemist 
Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope. 
Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 
With  my  most  innocent  love,  until  strange  tears. 
Uniting  with  those  breathless  kisses,  made 
Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 
To  render  up  thy  charge.' 

Alastor  drinks  deep  of  the  fountain  of  knowledge,  and  is  still 
insatiate;  has  lingered  long  in  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild 
his  home,  and, — 

'His  wandering  step. 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old: 
Athens  and  Tyre  and  Balbec,  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers  ' 

Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids.  .  .  . 
Among  the  ruined  temples  there. 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  wliere  marble  demons  watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  irallg  around. 
He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth.' 

At  length,  far  within  a  lonely  dell,  where  odorous  plants  entwine 
a  natural  bower,  the  wanderer  stretches  his  weary  limbs.  A 
vision  visits  him,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  yet  had  flushed  liis 
cheek.  For  one  tranced  moment  it  has  breath  and  being,  then  is 
swallowed  up  in  night: 

'  Lost,  lost,  forever  lost. 
In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep. 
That  beautiful  shape ! ' 

He  wanders  on,  impelled  by  the  bright  memory  of  that  ineffable 
dream, — 

'Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours. 
Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 
That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame." 

Urged  by  a  restless  impulse,  he  bends  his  steps  to  the  sea-shore, 


POETRY  —  SHELLEY.  287 

embarks  in  a  stray  shallop  floating  near,  and  speeds  as  before  a 
whirlwind  — 

'Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  »ca.' 
On  flees  the  straining  boat,  safely, — 

'As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form 
Had  been  an  elemental  god.' 

On,  driven  by  the  boiling  torrent,  while  crags  close  round  it  their 
black  and  jagged  arms: 

'A  cavern  there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding  depths 
Ingulfed  the  rushing  sea.    The  boat  fled  on 
With  unrelaxing  speed.     "Vision  and  Love  I" 
The  ix)et  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.    Sleep  and  death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long."  ' 

On  amid  the  windings  of  the  cavern,  now  hurled  by  the  battling 
tides,  now  moving  slowly  where  the  'fiercest  war'  is  calm.  Now 
it  pauses  'shuddering'  in  a  pool  of  treacherous  quiet,  then, — 

'With  gentle  motion  between  banks 
Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream. 
Beneath  a  woven  grove,  it  sails.  .  .  . 
The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar 
With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical  woods.' 

Has  anyone  painted  more  magnificently  a  primeval  landscape? — 

'The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  njjon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magniliconce 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.    Tliere  huge  caves, 
Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  those  airy  rocks. 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  forever 
The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  poet's  path,  as,  led 
By  love  or  dream  or  god  or  mightier  Death, 
lie  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt  some  bank. 
Her  cradle  and  liis  scpulclire.    More  dark 
And  dark  tlic  shades  accumulate;  the  oak, 
Exi)anding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms. 
Embraces  tlie  light  beech.     Tlio  pyramids 
Of  ttie  tall  cedar,  overarching,  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  witliin,  and  far  below. 
Like  clouds  susiiendod  in  an  emerald  sky, 
The  asli  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 
Tremulous  aiul  pale.     Like  restless  serpents,  clotlied 
In  rainbow  and  in  lire,  the  parasites. 
Starred  willi  ten  tliousand  l)lossouis,  flow  around 
The  gray  trunks,  and,  as  gamesome  infants"  eyes 
With  gentle  meanings  and  most  innocent  wiles 
Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love. 
These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs 


288  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Uniting  their  close  union;  ttie  woven  leaves 

Make  network  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day, 

And  the  night's  inoontide  clearness,  mutable 

As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.    Soft  mossy  lawns 

Beneath  these  canoiiies  extend  their  swells, 

Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed  with  blooms 

Minute,  yet  beautiful.' 

Farther  on  a  gradual  change  ensues,  yet  ghastly: 

'On  every  side  now  rose 
Rocks,  which  in  unimaginable  forms 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
'Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs,  and  yawning  caves, 
Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various  tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.    Lo!  where  the  pass  expands 
Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks. 
And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags, 
To  overhang  tlie  w'orld:   for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams, 
Dim  tracts  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-colored  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.' 

On  the  threshold  of  a  green  recess,  that  seemed  to  smile  in  the 

lap  of  horror,  the  wanderer,  feeling  that  death  is  on  liini,  resigns 

himself  *to  images  of  the  majestic  past,'     As  the  liorned  moon, 

"with   whose  dun   beams  inwoven   darkness   seemed   to  mingle,' 

sinks  behind  the  jagged  hills,  his  blood, — 

'That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 
With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler  still; 
And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light  alone 
Gleamed  through  tlie  darkness,  the  alternate  gasp 
Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 
The  stagnate  night,— till  the  minutest  ray 
Was  quenched,  the  pulse  yet  lingered  in  his  heart. 
It  paused, —  it  fluttered.    But  when  heaven  remained 
Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 
,\n  image  silent,  cold,  and  motionless 
As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant  air. 
Even  as  a  vapor  fed  with  golden  beams 
That  ministered  on  sunliglst,  ere  the  west 
Eclipses  it,  was  now  that  wondrous  frame, — 
No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity.' 

His  benevolence,  his  passion  to  solve  the  riddle  of  the  universe, 
to  lose  himself  in  tlie  Spirit  of  Beauty,  reappear  in  Prometheus 
(liihoiDifl,  a  tragedy  fashioned  after  the  Greek  models,  its  high 
idral  the  renovation  of  man  and  tlie  world.  No  analysis  will  be 
atteinptod;  yet  we  cainiot  omit  an  illustration  of  the  marvellous 


POETRY  —  SHELLEY.  289 

fineness  of  his  powers.     What  a  lightness  of  touch,  what  a  wild, 
inimitable  grace  in  the  flight  of  the  Hours: 

'The  rocks  arc  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 
I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds, 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds:   in  each  there  stiinds 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fieiida  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars: 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  tlieir  own  speed. 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And  now,  even  now,  they  clasp  it.     Their  bright  locks 
Stream  like  a  comets  flashing  hair:   they  all  sweep  onward.' 

How  truly  iiuaginutive  is  the  song  with  which  Panthea  hails  her 
sister  Asia: 

'Life  of  Life  I   thy  lips  enkindle 
With  their  love  the  breath  between  them. 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 
^hikc  the  cold  air  Are:   then  screen  them 
In  those  locks  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

ChiKI  of  Light!   thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them. 

As  tlie  radiant  Hues  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them. 

And  tliis  atnuispliere  divinest 

Slirouds  thee  wheresoever  thou  shiuest.' 

How  exquisitely  })oautiful  the  r(>.sj)oii.so: 

Mij  soul  is  an  enchanled  bout, 

W/iir/i,  like  a  slefpintj  siia/i,  dolli.  float 

I'ltoii  Ike  silver  nxii-e-i  of  thij  sireet,  siiujing; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  ungtl  sit 

Ikside  the  helm  coitdncting  i'. 

While  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  se<'ms  to  float  evei,  forever, 

I'pon  tliat  many  winding  river, 

Hctwien  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A   paradise  of  wildernesses! 

Til),  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 

liorne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 

//do  (I  sea  proj'onad  of  erer-spreudi/i/j  sound.' 

Onc(^  oulv  was  lie  cotiteiit  to  leave  that  iutorstcllar  rei>-i()n  which 
was  his  hoiiic,  and  paint  men  and  women.  'V\iv  Ciiici,  tlark  ;irid 
gloom V,  founded  on  an  Italian  tragedy  of  i-eal  life,  may  ohnl- 
lenge  comparison  with  any  dramatit-  work  since  Otway.  A  single 
passage  will  suggest  his  wonderful  descriptive  power,  his  con- 
stant  idealization,  as  well  as  the  sombre  character  of  the  whole: 

•1   renu-iiilur. 
Two  uiiles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  tile  road 
1!> 


290  SECOND   CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Crosses  a  deep  ravine;  'tis  rough  and  narrow, 
And  winds  with  siiort  turns  down  the  precipice; 
And  in  its  deptli  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  lias  from  nniniaginable  years 
Sustained  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and,  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings,  scenes  slowly  coming  down; 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul,  hour  after  hour. 
Clings  to  the  mass  of  life,  yet  clinging,  leans, 
And,  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall, —  beneath  this  crag. 
Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness. 
The  melancholy  mountain  yawns;  below 
You  hear,  but  see  not,  an  impetuous  torrent. 
Raging  among  tlie  caverns,  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm;  and  high  above  there  grow. 
With  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag. 
Cedars  and  yews,  and  pines,  whoso  tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noonday  here 
'Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night.' 

And  the  final  words  of  the  daughter,  who  is  g'oing  forth  with  her 
mother  to  execution,  could  not  easily  be  surpassed  for  natural- 
ness, force  of  simplicity,  and  moral  sweetness: 

'Farewell,  my  tender  brother!    Think 
Of  our  sad  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now: 
And  let  mild  pitying  tlioughts  lighten  for  thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  liarsli  despair. 
But  tears  and  |)aticnce.    One  thing  more,  my  child: 
For  tliiiie  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  love 
Thou  bcarest  us;  and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Though  wrapped  in  a  strange  cloud  of  crime  and  shame. 
Lived  ever  holy  and  unstained.    And  though 
111  tongues  shall  wound  mo,  and  our  common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stamped  on  tliine  innocent  brow. 
For  men  to  point  at  as  tlicy  pass,  do  thou 
Forbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 
Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their  graves. 
So  mayc^st  tliou  die  as  I  do;  fear  and  pain 
Being  subdued.    Farewell  I    Farewell  I    Farewell!' 

And: 

'Hero,  mother,  tie 
My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 
In  any  sinii)le  knot;  ay,  tliat  does  well. 
And  yours,  1  see,  is  coming  down.     IIow  often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another!' 

The  deep  undertone  of  all  his  poetry  is  the  sadness  of  the  dark 
grave  and  of  tlie  limitless  ocean,  to  which  the  poor,  weak  mortal 
iiiust  descend,  with  no  unfaltering  assurance  of  a  Personality  to 
rest  upon  in  the  wide,  wide  realm  of  change: 

'Wo  are  as  clouds  that  vail  the  midniglit  moon; 
How  restlessly  they  speed,  and  gleam,  and  quiver. 


And: 


POETRY — SHELLEY.  291 

Streaking  the  darkness  radiantly! — yet  soon 
Night  closes  round,  and  they  are  lost  forever; 

Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whose  dissonant  strings 
Give  various  response  to  each  varying  blast. 
To  whose  frail  frame  no  second  motion  brings 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  last." ' 

'Wlio  telleth  a  tale  of  unspeaking  death* 
Wlio  lifteth  tlie  vail  of  what  is  to  come? 
Who  paintelh  the  shadows  tliat  are  beneath 
The  wide-winding  caves  of  the  peopled  tomb? 
Or  uniteth  the  hoi)es  of  wliat  shall  be 
With  the  fears  and  the  love  for  that  which  we  see?"  * 

Later,  under  the  influence  of  Platonic  ideas,  he  finds  a  sort  of 
central  peace  in  a  Spirit  of  Love  and  Beauty  as  the  animating 
principle  of  the  universe: 

'While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin, 

And  starlight  wood,  witli  fearful  steps  pursuing 

Hopes  of  liigh  talk  with  tlie  departed  dead. 

I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is  fed; 

I  was  not  heard;   I  saw  them  not; 

Wlien  musing  deeply  on  tlic  lot 

Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

Jsews  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Siidtlon  tliy  stuuiow  fell  on  me; 

I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy!"' 

It  is  in  his  lyrics  that  we  have  Shelley  at  his  best.  It  is  in 
these  that  he  lays  hold  of  the  real  sentiments,  the  unchanning" 
emotions,  of  man.  Mark  the  splendor  of  imagery  and  the  magical 
music  of  these  lines: 

'I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  llowers 

From  tlie  seas  and  the  streams: 
1  l)(:u-  li>;lit  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  ni>   wings  arc  shaken  the  dews  tliat  waken 

Tlie  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  slie  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  tlie  tlail  of  the  lashing  bail. 

.\iid  wliiten  the  green  i)laiiis  under: 
And  then  again  1  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  liuigh  as  1  pass  in  thunder.  .  .  . 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  Ids  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  llie  moniini,'  star  shines  dead.  .  .  . 

^Mijtnhllihj.  ■■'  On  Death.  ^llymu  to  InicUc't'Ki!  Hcvify. 


292  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

That  or'jecl  maiden,  with  white  flro  laden, 

Wlioni  ni6rtal»  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece -like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn.  .  .  . 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  witli  a  girdle  of  pearl; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  the  stars  reel  and  swim. 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl.  .  .  . 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
1  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die.' ' 

All  things  are  made  to  pulsate,  all  to  breathe  and  yearn.  The 
verses  seem  to  have  been  composed  at  a  white  heat  of  fervor. 
How  rapturously  he  soars  into  the  empyrean  with  the  Skylark, 
as  if  delighting  to  dissolve  himself  in  its  triumphal  chant: 

'Hail  to  tliec,  blithe  spirit! 
Rird  thou  never  wort. 
That  from  lieaven,  or  near  It, 
Pourost  thy  full   heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springes't 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest,  » 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  tliee? 

From  raint)ow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see. 

As  from  tliy  i)resence  showers  a  rain  of  melody.'' 

Then  the  cvcr-hauntiiig  melancholy: 

'Waking  or  asleep, 
Thou  of  deatli  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  iiot: 

Our  sinccrcst  laughter 

With  some  ])!iin  is  fraught: 

(jiir  i<ii(etfKt  liOiKjf.  are  (hose  (hat  tell  of  s:addfs(  t?iough(.'  ^ 

The  mysticism,  the  haziness,  which  obscure  much  of  his  poetry 
—  as  the  Iievolt  of  /s/atn,  the  Sensitive  Plant,  the  Tri^imph  of 
Life  —  spring  from  these  thrills  of  desire,  this  straining  after 
something  seen  afar,   the   dreamy  ecstasy  too    high   for   speech. 

'  The  Cloud.  2  To  a  Skylark. 


POETRY  —  DRAMA.  293 

Such  men  supply  our  need  of  wings.  They  bring  us  freedom 
and  ideality.  They  forecast  the  possibilities  of  the  race,  and 
they  rise  in  esteem  in  proportion  as  souls  are  refined.  Art  and 
eloquence  are  vain  to  weep  their  loss: 

'It  is  a  woe  too  deep  for  tears,  when  all 
Is  reft  at  once,—  when  some  surpassing  spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it,  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind  nor  sobs  nor  groans. 
The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranciuillity, 
Nature's  vast  frame,  (he  web  of  human  things, 
Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were." 

It  3'et  remains  to  notice  the  chief  of  those  who,  while  reflect- 
ing the  light  and  shadow  of  their  environment,  communicated 
heat  and  lustre  to  this  revolutionary  period, —  Scott,  "Words- 
"worth,  and  Byron. 

In  America  there  was  yet  no  national  type,  and  the  situation 
was  adverse  to  art.  We  were  cultured  at  the  outset;  but  ideality 
is  retarded  In'  the  necessities  of  a  new  land  which  absorb  passion 
in  the  contest  with  Nature.  Imaginative  ju'oductiveness,  after  the 
legendary  stage  is  passed,  follows  material  security  and  wealth. 

Drama. —  The  dramas  now  produced  were  a  compound  of 
the  characteristics  of  previous  schools,  excepting  the  profligacy 
of  the  Restoration.  Nearly  all,  while  possessed  of  literary  merit, 
were  wanting  in  the  (jualities  requisite  for  successfid  presenta- 
tion. The  first  writers  of  the  age  —  Scott,  Byron,  Shelley,  Cole- 
ridge, Wordsworth  —  adopted  the  dramatic  form,  but  only  to 
prove  how  rare  a  gift  is  popular  dranuitic  art, —  tlu;  art  of  por- 
traying actual  life  and  passion  in  interesting  situations.  In  the 
dearth  of  su<H-('ssful  i>laywrights,  plays  were  iiitroduceil  from 
Germany,  full  of  exaggeration  and  horror, —  the  very  antipoiles 
of  the  sentimental;  i)ut  after  a  run  of  unexampled  succ«>ss  they 
ceased  to  attr.-icr  attention.  To  tli'MU,  however,  we  probaI)Iy  owe 
the  live  volumes  of  .Miss  Baillie,  of  which  only  oiu>  piece  lias  Ix'cn 
acted,  though  all  have  been  largely  read,  .rerrold's  Bhidc-*  ijkI 
l^n^an  n>(>('iv(Ml  a  brie  f  but  cordial  welcome  Talfourd's  /"//  and 
Miss  Mit  ford's  Iltinx!,  though  tlicy  made  a  stage  suc(H'ss,  wrw 
of  a  (lav  whose  fashion  has  gone  \)\.  .\mid  the  many  tragmHes 
which  are  better  fitted  for  reading  than  for  acting,  anii<l  the 
many  in  whicii  Duliu'ss  lavs  tiie  gliost  of  Wit,  one  shines  out 
like   the   stars   of    heaven,   nior(>   liery  liy   night's    Idackiiess,- —  t!ie 


294  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

Virginius  of  James  Sheridan  B[no"wles,  the  most  successful 

of  modern  tragic  dramatists. 

At  the  opening  of  this  period,  Mrs.  Siddons,  the  greatest 
tragic  actress  of  the  English  theatre,  had  passed  her  prime. 
Before  its  close,  both  she  and  her  brotlier,  Kemble,  had  with- 
drawn from  the  boards.  Kean  died  in  1833.  Macready  was  left 
to  transmit  to  a  few  some  of  the  traditions  which  had  passed 
from  hand  to  liand,  from  mouth  to  mouth,  within  the  lineal  artis- 
tic descendants  of  Garrick  and  Betterton. 

Periodical. — A  department  of  literature  now  absorbing  the 
productive  energy  of  mind — as  well  as  an  influence  destructive 
to  the  drama  by  superseding  the  band  of  critics  who  had  been 
its  body-guard  —  was  the  newspaper  press.  Now,  also,  as  an 
inevitable  necessity,  was  founded  the  dynasty  of  the  Reviews, 
—  the  EcUnhu7'gh,  the  London  Quarterly,  the  N'orth  American, 
and  DlackwoocVs  Magazine.  The  first  ushered  in  the  century, 
as  the  organ  of  the  Whigs, —  the  organ  of  a  progressive  and 
liberal  literary  and  political  party.  Its  zeal  led  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  next  and  the  last  by  the  Tory  or  Conservative 
party.  Soon  the  ^Vestnn)tster  appeared  as  a  medium  for  the 
representation  of  Radical  o}>inions.  These,  it  is  needless  to  add, 
were  made  the  exemplars  of  numerous  similar  publications.  The 
primary  object  of  most  was  to  furnish  thorough  criticisms  of 
books,  and  careful  ])apers  on  the  current  topics  of  politics  and 
reform.  As  their  scope  enlarged,  contributions  were  received  on 
any  subject  to  which  the  writer  had  devoted  special  attention. 
Their  limits  and  ])opular  ])urposo  required  that  the  articles  should 
be  condensed  and  spirited.  Hence  a  peculiar  style, —  brief,  ])ithy, 
trenchant,  often  eloquent,  but  always  positive.  .lefTrcy,  Sidney 
Smith,  and  Macaulav  were  master  spirits  in  the  first;  Gilford  and 
Southey,  in  the  second;  the  Peabodys  and  the  Everetts,  in  the 
third;  Lockhart  and  Wilson,  in  the  fourth. 

The  first  Daily  in  the  TJnited  States  a])peared  in  Philadelphia 
in  1784, —  \\\o  Araerirdu  Daily  Adrcrtif^cr.  The  first  newspaper 
in  the  Northwest  a])j)eared  in  Cincinnati  in  1T!)3, —  the  Sentinal 
of  tJic  JVorthiri  M(:r)i  Territory  !  The  Morning  Post  —  the  first 
penny  })aper  of  any  jiretensions  —  was  started  in  1833,  with  two 
hundrod  dollars  ca])ita]  and  a  douiitfnl  credit,  Mr.  (ireolfv  being 
one   of   the   jjartners,  printers,  and   publishers.      In  1833   the  first 


PROSE  —  THE    ESSAY.     '  295 

number  of  the  Sun  was  issued,  with  a  circulation  of  three  hun- 
dred, and  comprising  twelve  columns,  each  ten  inches  in  length. 
In  after  years  (1851)  the  editor  and  originator  said: 

'In  1835  I  introduced  steam  power,  now  so  necessary  an  appendaj^e  lo  almost  every 
newspaper  office.  At  that  time  all  the  Napier  presses  in  the  city  were  turned  by  crank- 
men,  and  as  the  Sun  was  the  only  daily  of  large  circulaiion,  so  it  seemed  to  be  the  only 
establishment  where  steam  was  really  indispensable.' 

The  American  press  had  as  yet  hardly  emerged  from  its  swad- 
dling clothes.  There  can  be  no  surer  proof  that  the  general 
mind  is  seeking  higher  aliment,  that  tlie  love  of  knowledge  is 
spreading  through  all  classes  of  the  community,  than  the  growth 
of  periodical  literature. 

Essay. — The  miscellaneous  literature  of  the  period  took 
mainly  the  form  of  long  essays,  most  of  which  first  appeared  in 
the  Reviews  and  Magazines.  Among  the  many  who  thus  distin- 
guished themselves  a  few  stand  forth  preeminent.  Highest  in 
the  file  is  the  name  of  Jeffrey  (1773-1850),  an  eminent  barris- 
ter, a  versatile  writer,  and  a  brilliant  critic.  His  style  is  flowing, 
spirited,  and  symmetrical,  embellished  with  a  copious  felicity  of 
illustration,  as  in  the  following  observations  on  the  steam-engine: 

'It  has  become  a  thing  stupendous  alike  for  its  force  and  its  flexibility,— for  the 
prodigious  power  which  it  can  exert,  and  the  ease,  and  precision,  and  ductility  with 
which  it  can  be  varied,  distributed,  and  applied.  The  tr\ink  of  an  elephant,  tliat  can  pick 
up  a  pin  or  rend  an  oak,  is  as  notliing  to  it.  It  can  engrave  a  seal,  and  crush  masses  of 
obdurate  metal  before  it, —  draw  out,  without  breaking,  a  thread  as  fine  as  gossamer,  and 
lift  up  a  ship  of  war  like  a  bauble  in  the  air.  It  can  embroider  muslin  and  forge  anchors, 
cut  steel  into  ribl)ons,  and  impel  loaded  vessels  against  the  fury  of  the  winds  and  waves.' 

At  times,  indeed,  his  diction  is  very  poetical,  as  in  the  following 

tribute  to  Sliakespeare: 

'Although  his  sails  are  purple  and  perfumed,  and  his  prow  of  beaten  gold,  they  wsft 
him  on  his  voyage,  not  less,  but  more  rapidly  and  directly,  than  if  they  had  been  com- 
posed of  baser  materials.  All  his  excellences,  like  those  of  Nature  herself,  are  thrown 
out  together;  and  instead  of  interfering  with,  su|)p()rt  and  recommend  each  other.  His 
flowers  are  not  tied  up  in  garlands,  nor  his  fruits  crushed  into  baskets,  but  spring  living 
from  the  soil,  in  all  the  dew  and  freslmess  of  youth;  while  the  graceful  foliage  in  which 
they  lurk,  and  the  ami)le  branches,  the  rough  and  vigorous  stem,  and  the  wide-spreading 
roots  on  which  tlicy  depend,  are  present  along  with  them,  and  share,  in  their  places,  the 
equal  care  of  their  creator.' 

In   his  early  davs  he  seems  to  have  been   betrayed   occasionally 

into  undue  severity;  but  in  his  latter,  to  have  made  criticism  a 

careful,    conscientious,    discriminating    task.      Of    /fi/pirf'o?i,    he 

said,  with  genial  candor,  but  too  late  to  cheer  the  dying  j)()et: 

'Mr.  Keats  is,  we  understand,  still  a  very  young  man;  and  his  whole  works,  indeed, 
bear  evidence  enough  of  the  fact.    They  manifestly  require,  therefore,  all  the  indulgence 


296  SECOND    CllEATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

that  can  be  claimed  for  a  first  attempt;  but  we  think  it  no  less  plain  that  they  deserve 
it;  for  they  are  flushed  all  over  with  the  rich  lights  of  fancy,  and  so  coloured  and 
hestrown  witli  the  flowers  of  poetry,  that,  even  while  perplexed  and  bewildered  in  their 
labyrinths,  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  intoxication  of  their  sweetness,  or  to  shut  our 
hearlo  to  the  enchantments  they  so  lavishly  present.' 

He  nobly  endeavored  to  'combine  ethical  precepts  with  literary 
criticism,  and  earnestly  sought,'  as  he  says,  'to  impress  his  read- 
ers with  a  sense  both  of  the  close  connection  between  sound 
intellectual  attainments  and  the  highest  elements  of  duty  and 
enjoyment,  and  of  the  just  and  ultimate  subordination  of  the 
former  to  the  latter.'  Hence  the  moral  suggcstiveness  of  his 
critical  writings,  as  in  the  following  remarks  on  the  transitoriness 
of  poetical  fame: 

'When  an  army  is  decimated,  the  very  bravest  may  fall ;  and  many  poets,  worthy  of 
eternal  remembrance,  have  been  forgotten,  merely  because  there  was  not  room  in  our 
memories  for  all. 

By  such  a  work  as  the  Spechnens,  however,  this  injustice  of  fortune  may  be  partly 
redressed,  some  small  fragments  of  an  immortal  strain  may  still  l)c  rescued  from  oblivion, 
and  a  wreck  of  a  name  preserved,  which  time  appeared  to  have  swallowed  up  forever. 
There  is  soniething  ))ioiis,  we  thinlc,  and  endearing,  in  the  oftice  of  thus  gathering  up  the 
aslies  of  renown  that  has  passed  away;  or  rather,  of  calling  back  the  departed  life  for  a 
transitory  glow,  and  enabling  those  great  spirits  which  seemed  to  be  laid  forever,  still  to 
draw  a  tear  of  i)ity,  or  a  throl)  of  admiration,  from  the  hearts  of  a  forgetful  generation. 
The  body  of  their  poetry,  ])robabiy,  can  never  be  revived;  but  some  sparks  of  its  spirit 
may  yet  be  i)reserved,  in  a  narrower  and  feebler  frame.  .  .  . 

There  never  was  nn  age  so  prolific  of  popular  poetry  as  that  in  which  we  now  live; 
and  as  wealth,  population,  and  education  extend,  the  produce  is  likely  to  go  on  increas- 
ing. The  last  ten  years  have  iiroduced,  we  think,  an  annual  sui)ply  of  about  ten  thousand 
lines  of  good  staple  poetry  — poetry  from  the  very  first  hands  tliat  we  can  boast  of —  that 
runs  quickly  to  three  or  four  large  editions  —  and  is  as  likely  to  l)e  permanent  as  present 
success  can  make  it.  Now,  if  this  goes  on  for  a  hundred  years  longer,  what  a  tusk  will 
await  the  poetical  readers  of  19191  Our  living  poets  will  then  be  nearly  as  old  as  Pope 
and  Swift  are  at  i)resent,  but  there  will  stand  between  them  and  lliat  generation  nearly 
ten  times  as  much  fresh  and  fasliionable  poetry  as  is  now  interposed  between  us  and 
those  writers;  and  if  Scott,  and  Byron,  and  Campbell  have  already  cast  Pope  and  Swift  a 
good  deal  into  the  shade,  in  what  form  and  dimensions  are  they  themselves  likely  to  be 
presented  to  the  eyes  of  their  great-grandchildren^  ' 

One  of  the  most  popular  and  influential  writers  of  the  period 
was  the  Rev.  Sidney  Smith  (1771-1845);  manly,  fearless, 
independent;  scorning  hypocrites,  pedants,  and  Tories;  some- 
times ton  ilip]:)aiit,  sometimes  too  dogmatical,  often  a  little  unjust 
to  his  adversaries,  but  always  frank,  always  himself,  using  his  pen 
to  enforce  practical  views  in  the  cause  of  human  improvement, 
and  bringing  to  tlie  aid  of  logical  argument  fertility  of  fancy  and 
breadth  of  humor.  Almost  everything  which  he  has  written  is 
characteristio.      Thus: 

'Daniel  Webster  struck  me  like  a  steam-engine  in  trowsers.' 


PROSE  —  THE    ESSAY.  297 

Also: 

•No,  I  don't  like  dogs;  1  always  expect  them  to  go  mad.  A  lady  asked  me  once  for 
a  motto  for  her  dog  SiJOt.    I  proposed,  "Out,  damned  Spot!"  but  she  did  not  think  it 

sentimental  enough.' 

Again : 

'1  do  not  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  but  the  attempt  of  tlie  Lords  to  stop  the  progress 
of  reform  reminds  me  very  forcibly  of  llie  great  slormof  f^idniouih,  and  of  ilie  conduct  of 
the  excellent  Mrs.  Partington  on  that  occasion.  In  the  winter  of  \S:iA  there  .>^et  in  a  great 
flood  upon  that  town  — the  sea  rose  to  an  incredible  height  — tlic  waves  rushed  ni  ni>on 
the  houses- and  everything  was  tlireatened  with  destruction.  In  the  nndst  of  this 
sublime  slorm.  Dame  Pnriiugton,  who  lived  ui)ou  the  beacli.  was  seen  at  ihe  door  of  her 
house  with  mop  and  pattens,  trundling  her  mop,  and  squeezing  out  the  seawalcr,  and 
vigorously  pusliiug  away  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  The  Atlantic  was  roused.  .Mrs.  Pariing- 
t')n"s  spirit  was  up;  but  1  need  not  tell  you  that  the  contest  was  unec|ual.  The  Atlantic 
Ocean  beat  Mrs.  Partington.  She  was  excellent  at  a  slop  or  puddle,  but  she  should  not 
have  meddled  with  a  tempest.' 

We  see  that  this  wit,  which  has  something'  of  levity,  is  neverthe- 
less earnest.  There  is  a  grave  thought  at  the  bottom,  worth 
remembering  for  its  own  sake  —  something  to  reflect  upon  after 
we  have  laughed.     Thus: 

'I  like  pictures,  without  knowing  anything  about  them;  but  I  hate  coxcombry  in 
the  fine  arts,  as  well  as  in  anytliing  else.  I  got  into  dreadful  disgrace  with  Sir  George 
Beaumont  once,  who,  standing  before  a  picture  at  Bowood.  excliiimed,  turning  to  me, 
"immense  breadth  of  light  and  shade  I"  I  innocently  said,  "  Yes;  about  an  inch  and  a 
half."     lie  gave  me  a  look  that  ought  to  have  killed  me." 

And: 

'Yes,  he  is  of  the  Utilitarian  school.  That  man  is  so  hard  you  might  drive  a  broad- 
wheeled  wagon  over  him,  and  it  would  produce  no  iiuitression  ;  if  you  were  to  bore  holes 
in  liim  witli  a  gimlet,  I  am  convinced  sawdust  would  come  out  of  him.  That  school 
treats  mankind  as  if  tliey  were  mere  macliiues:  the  feelings  or  alTeclious  never  enter 
into  their  calculations.  If  everything  is  to  be  saciiliced  to  utility,  why  do  you  bury  your 
grandinotluT  at  all?  why  don't  you  cut  her  into  small  pieces  at  once  and  make  portable 
soup  of  her? ' 

He  has  healthy  views  of  life,  and  concentrates  thein  into  cut  and 

polished  diamonds: 

'Take  short  views,  hope  for  the  l)est,  and  trust  in  God.' 

'Some  very  excellent  pc'0|)le  tell  you  they  dare  not  hope.  To  me  it  seems  much  more 
impious  to  dare  to  despair.' 

'True,  it  is  most  pninrul  not  to  meet  the  kindness  and  affection  you  feel  you  liave 
deserved,  and  have  a  riLrht  to  e.xiiect  from  others:  but  it  is  a  mistiike  to  complain  of  it, 
for  it  is  of  no  use;  you  cannot  extort  friendship  with  a  cocked  pistol." 

'Moralists  tell  you  of  ihe  evils  of  wealth  and  station,  and  the  happiness  of  poverty. 
I  have  l)een  very  poor  the  greatest  part  of  my  life,  and  have  borne  it  as  well,  1  believe,  as 
most  people,  but  I  can  safely  say  that  I  have  been  happier  every  guinea  I  have  gained.' 

These  marked  individual  features  are  deliglitful.  In  thorn,  as  in 
a  glass,  is  mirrored  the  personality  of  tlie  writer,  and  we  meet  a 
companion  where  we  expect  a  book. 


298  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

A  prominent  figure  of  the  period   was  William  Sazlitt' 

(1778-1830),  son  of  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  first  a  painter,  then 
an  author  by  profession  —  a  critic  of  art  and  of  literature;  a 
liberalist  in  opinion,  a  lover  of  paradox,  an  enthusiastic  student 
of  the  early  dramatists;  of  rich  imagination,  of  delicate  but  not 
well-balanced  tastes;  vivid,  pungent,  and  picturesque  in  style; 
moody  and  somewhat  bigoted,  having  refinement  and  eloquence, 
but  wanting  that  quality  which  is  the  girdle  and  safeguard  of  all 
the  rest, —  which  it  is  the  characteristic  of  rightly  trained  minds 
in  all  things  to  prefer,  and  of  common  minds  to  reject, —  modera- 
tion, self-restrained  liberty.     The  following  are  cases  in  point: 

'  The  indefatigable  readers  of  books  are  like  the  everlasting  copiers  of  pictures,  who, 
when  they  attempt  to  do  anything  of  their  own,  find  they  want  an  eye  quick  enough,  a 
hand  steady  enough,  and  colors  bright  enough,  to  trace  the  living  forms  of  nature.  Any 
one  who  has  passed  through  the  regular  gradations  of  a  classical  education,  and  is  not 
made  a  fool  by  it,  may  consider  himself  as  having  had  a  very  narrow  escape.' 

And: 

'Women  have  often  more  of  what  is  called  good  sense  than  men.  They  have  fewer 
pretensions,  are  less  implicated  in  theories,  and  judge  of  objects  more  from  their  imme- 
diate and  voluntary  impression  on  the  mind,  and,  therefore,  nTDre  truly  and  naturally. 
They  cannot  reason  wrong,  for  they  do  not  reason  at  all.  They  do  not  think  or  speak 
by  rule,  and  they  have  iu  general  more  eloquence  and  wit,  as  well  as  sense,  on  that 
account.  By  their  wit,  sense,  and  eloquence  together,  they  generally  contrive  to  govern 
their  husbands.' 

Also: 

■  L'neducated  people  have  most  exuberance  of  invention,  and  the  greatest  freedom 
from  prejudice.  Shakespeare's  was  evidently  an  uneducated  mind,  both  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  his  imagination  and  in  the  variety  of  his  views,  as  Milton's  was  scholastic  in  the 
te.xture  both  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  Shakespeare  had  not  been  accustomed  to 
write  themes  at  school  in  favor  of  virtue  or  against  vice.  To  this  we  owe  the  unaffected 
but  healthy  tone  of  his  dramatic  morality.  If  we  wish  to  know  the  force  of  human 
genius,  we  should  read  Shakespeare.  If  we  wish  to  see  the  insignificance  of  human 
learning,  we  may  study  his  commentators." 

The  lesson  is  useful,  but  must  be  received  with  caution;  it  has 
a  certain  truth,  but  is  not  wholly  true.  Less  critically,  more 
sincerely,  more  happily: 

'No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die.  .  .  .  There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity  in 
youth  which  makes  us  amends  for  everything.  To  be  young  is  to  be  as  one  of  the  Im- 
mortals. ...  As  infants  smile  and  sleep,  we  are  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  our  desires,  and 
hushed  into  fancied  security  by  the  roar  of  the  universe  around  us;  we  quaff  the  cup  of 
life  with  eager  thirst  without  draining  it,  and  joy  and  hope  seem  ever  mantling  to  the 
brim  ;  objects  press  around  us,  filling  the  mind  with  their  magnitude  and  with  the  throng 
of  desires  that  wait  upon  them,  so  that  there  is  no  room  for  the  thoughts  of  death.' 

Of  a  quite  different  temper  was  Charles  Liamb  (1775-18.34); 

'  His  host  known  works  are:  Table  Talk,  Tlif  Rour^d  Table,  English  Poets  and  Comic 
Writers,  Elizabethan  Dramatists,  Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays. 


PROSE  —  THE    ESSAY.  299 

a  wayward  and  eccentric  humorist,  occasionally  and  in  a  lower 
key  a  poet,  beloved  by  all  his  contemporaries,  somewhat  quaint 
and  antique  in  style,  but  natural  and  graceful;  preeminently 
human,  mingling  the  simplicity  of  the  child  with  the  learning 
of  the  scholar,  seeking  his  materials  ch'efly  in  the  common  paths 
of  life, —  often  in  the  humblest.  His  Letters  and  Essays  of  Elia, 
fanciful  and  meditative  sketches,  gay,  serious,  brilliant,  or  tender, 
have  a  strong  individuality,  and  reflect,  as  in  a  mirror,  his  quick, 
penetrative,  and  genial  nature.  One  or  two  detached  sentences 
can  but  faintly  suggest  that  diffusive  quality  of  humor  which  so 
eminently  distinguishes  his  manner: 

'Absurd  images  are  sometimes  irresistible.  I  will  mention  two.  An  elephant  in  a 
coacli  office  gravely  coming  to  have  his  trunk  booked;  a  mermaid  over  a  fish-kettle 
cooking  her  own  tail.' 

And: 

'  Dost  thou  love  silence  deep  as  that  "  before  the  winds  were  made '"?  go  not  out  into 
the  wilderness;  descend  not  into  the  profundities  of  the  earth;  shut  not  up  thy  case- 
ments, nor  pour  wax  into  the  little  cells  of  thine  ears,  with  littlefaithed,  self-mistrusting 
Ulysses:  retire  with  me  into  a  Quakers'  meeting.' 

This  characteristic  is  illustrated  at  great  length  in  the  famous 
Dissertation  on  Roast  Pig.  In  all  humor  there  is  an  influx  of 
the  moral  nature.  Through  the  mask  shine  the  features  of  the 
man, —  the  broad,  swimming  eyes  of  love,  or  the  sad  earnestness 
into  which  the  mind  relaxes  when  it  has  stammered  out  its  joke: 

'We  willingly  call  phantoms  our  fellows,  as  knowiiii;  we  shall  soon  be  of  their  dark 
companionship.  Therefore  we  chori^li  dreams.  Wo  try  to  spoil  in  them  the  alphabet  of 
the  invisible  world;  and  think  wo  know  already  how  it  shall  be  with  us.  Those  uncouth 
shapes,  which  while  we  clung  to  Hesh  and  blood  affrighted  us,  have  become  familiar. 
We  feel  attenuated  into  their  meagre  essences,  and  have  given  the  hand  of  halfway 
approach  to  incorporated  being.  Wo  once  thought  life  to  be  something;  but  it  has  unac- 
countably fallen  from  ns  l)ofore  its  time.     Therefore  we  choose  to  dally  with  vi,-iong.' 

Few  have  soanMl  into  regions  of  the  vast  and  vague  with  so 
uniform  and  easy  a  flight  as  the  variously-gifted  ThomaS  De 
Quincey  (1785-1S50);  in  hoyhofid  morbidly  sensitive  ami  ])r('- 
cociouslv  active,  a  trtiaiit  from  school,  and  a  vagrant  through 
England  and  Wales,  setting  out  with  a  parrel  under  his  arm,  an 
English  |)oet  in  one  jxx-ket,  and  tlii'  plays  of  Euripides  in  llie 
other;  lodging  at  fanii-liouses  or  siil)sisting  on  ro;id-side  berries 
as  he  tramped  his  way,  and  in  rettirn  for  casual  liospitaiity 
writing  letters  of  business  for  cottagers,  or  letters  of  love  for 
maids  ;  in  manlif)od  a  writer  of  prodigious  iiidiistrv,  ami  an 
intimate  of  literarv  celeV)rities  ;   like  Coleridge,  a  slave  to  opiiiiri. 


300  SECOND   CREATIVE   PERIOD — FEATURES. 

from  which,  after  years  .of  indulgence,  he ,  liberated  himself  only 
by  agonizing  struggles  ;  a  philosophic  inquirer,  a  critic  of  no 
common  delicacy,  an  honest  and  fearless  investigator ;  fitful, 
occasionally  ungenial,  at  times  unjustly  depreciative,  at  others 
absurdly  eulogistic;  in  faculty  uniting  to  metaphysical  acuteness 
poetical  taste  and  sensibility;  in  style  affluent,  graphic,  richly 
colored.  His  charm,  liis  merit,  indeed,  is  not  so  much  in  the 
novelty  of  his  thoughts  as  in  the  dazzling  fence  of  his  rhetoric, 
his  word-painting,  his  rhythm,  his  majestic  swells  and  dying  falls, 
which  are  to  his  bare  ideas  as  autumn's  gorgeous  dyes  to  the 
landscape.     Thus : 

'Yes,  reader,  countless  are  the  mysterious  handwritings  of  grief  or  joj-  which  have 
inscribed  themselves  successively  upon  the  palimpsest'  of  your  brnin;  and  like  the 
annual  leaves  of  aboriginal  forests,  or  the  undissolving  snows  on  the  Himalaya,  or  light 
falling  upon  light,  the  endless  strata  have  covered  i\\)  eacli  other  in  forgeifuliiess.  But 
by  the  hour  of  death,  but  by  fever,  but  by  the  searchings  of  opium,  all  these  can  revive 
in  strength.  .  .  .  The  romance  has  perished  that  the  young  man  adored;  the  legend  has 
gone  by  that  deluded  the  boy:  but  the  deep,  deep  tragedies  of  infancy,  as  when  the 
child's  hands  were  unlinked  forever  from  his  mother's  neck,  or  his  lips  forever  from  his 
sister's  kisses,— these  remain  lurking  below  all.  and  these  lurk  to  the  last.' 

Not  seldom  is  the  meaning  lost  in  a  mere  vague  of  music,  as  if 
clear  and  consecutive  vision  had  swooned  in  the  piling  up  and 
excess  of  imagery  and  sound.  The  minuteness  and  tenacity  of  his 
memory  lead  him  into  frequent  and  undue  parentheses,  into  long 
digressions  from  which  he  never  comes  back  to  his  theme;  some- 
times, however,  apt  and  luminous,  and  generally  sure  to  be 
instructive  or  entertaining.      Thus  : 

'Entering  I  closed  the  door  so  softly  that,  although  it  opened  upon  a  hall  which  as- 
cended through  all  the  stories,  no  echo  ran  along  the  silent  walls.  Then  turning  around 
I  souirht  my  sister's  face.  But  the  bed  had  been  moved,  and  the  back  was  now  turned. 
Kothintr  met  my  eyes  but  one  large  window  wide  open,  through  which  the  sun  of  mid- 
summer at  noonday  was  showering  down  torrents  of  splendor.  The  weather  was  dry, 
the  sky  was  cloiulliss,  the  blue  depths  seemed  to  e.\press  types  of  infinity:  and  it  was 
not  possible  for  eye  to  behold  or  for  heart  to  conceive  any  symbols  more  pathetic  of  life 
and  the  glory  of  life. 

Let  me  pause  for  one  instant  in  approiichiiig  a  remembrance  so  aflfccting  and  revo- 
lutionary in  my  own  mind,  and  one  whicli  (if  any  earthly  remembrance)  will  survive  for 
me  in  the  hour  of  death,  to  remind  some  readers  and  to  inform  others  that  in  the  original 
Opium  Coiifcssious  I  endeavored  to  e.xi)lain  the  reason  why  death,  C(etenii  paribuf!,  is 
more  firofoiindly  iiffeetinu  in  summer  than  in  other  i)arts  of  the  year;  so  far  at  least  as 
it  is  liable  to  any  modification  at  all  from  accidents  of  scenery  or  season.  The  reason, 
as  I  there  suggested,  lies  in  the  antagonism  between  the  tro|)ical  redundancy  of  life  in 
summer  and  the  dark  sterilities  of  the  grave.' - 

'.\  parchment  from  wliirh  tlie  oriirinal  writins:  has  been  obliterated  in  order  to 
receive  new.  which  in  turn  li:is  hecri  obliler;iled,  so  that  the  first  drauirht  stnnds  revealed. 

'•'  l)e  Qnincey's  most  v:iliKible  uritiuL's  are  perhajjs  to  be  found  in  the  Con/esnions  of 
an  Op'"t)/i  [■yilfir  mv\  the  Mini'flhnx'i-iiix  /■'.■<>"n/>i.  In  tiie  latter  are  ./o««  of  Arc.  the  Mait- 
rrinrli.  anil  M>iriler  I'nmfUlercd  d"  On i'  of  the  Five  Art h,  which  it  is  the  custom  to  call  a 
fitie  piece  of  'grim  humor,"  but  which  to  us  has  always  seemed  a  moody  i)erformance. 


PROSE  —  THE    ESSAY.  301 

But  the  Nimrod  of  literary  criticism  was  Thomas  B.  Ma- 

Caulay   (1800-1859),  poet,  essayist,  liistoriaii,  legislator,  jurist, 

orator.     When  three  years  old,  books  were  his  companions.     At 

four  he  replied  to  a  condolence,  'Thank  you,  madam,  the  agony 

is  abated.'     At  seven,  left   for  a   week  with   Hannah   More,  he 

stood  on  a  chair  and  preached  sermons  to  people  broug-ht  in  from 

the  fields.     At  eight,  with  the  whole  of  Marmion  in  his  head,  he 

began  to  imitate  Scott's  verse.    At  fourteen  he  appeared  in  print. 

To  retentive  memory  was  added  a  quick  wit.     Mathematics  he 

detested.     At  eighteen  he  wrote  to  his  mother: 

'  I  can  scarcely  bear  to  write  on  mathematics  or  mathematicians.  Oh,  for  words  to 
express  my  abomination  of  that  science,  if  a  name,  sacred  to  the  useful  and  embellishing 
arts,  may  be  applied  to  the  perception  and  recollection  of  certain  properties,  numbers, 
and  figures!  Oh,  that  I  had  to  learn  astrology,  or  demonology,  or  school  divinity!  Oh, 
that  I  were  to  pore  over  Thomas  Aquinas,  and  to  adjust  the  relation  of  entity  with  the 
two  predicaments,  so  that  I  were  exempted  from  this  miserable  study!  Discipline  of 
the  mind!  Say  rather  starvation,  confinement,  torture,  annihilation!  Dut  it  must  be. 
I  feel  myself  a  personification  of  algebra,  a  living  trigonometrical  canon,  a  walking  table 
of  logaritliins.  All  my  perceptions  of  elegance  and  beauty  gone,  or  at  least  going.  By 
the  end  of  the  term  my  brain  will  be  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit  after  a  voyage.' 

The  classics  he  loved.  He  cried  over  Homer,  laughed  over  Aris- 
tophanes, and  could  not  read  De  Corona,  even  for  the  twentieth 
time,  without  striking  his  clenched  fist  once  a  minute  t)n  the  arms 
of  his  easy-chair.  From  this  power  of  realizing  the  past  proceeds 
his  skill  in  the  delineation  of  character.  Hence  his  energetic, 
impassioned  tone.  From  his  vast  and  well-digested  reading 
proceed  the  al)ounding  ma.ss  and  weight  of  his  .style, —  a  river 
of  ideas  and  facts,  urged  forward  by  tlie  internal  heat.  He  is  so 
opulent  that  he  makes  criticism  almost  a  creative  art,  and  tlie 
author  or  work  reviewed  becomes  a  hint  for  the  construction  of 
picturcstjue  dissertations,  magnificent  comparisons,  and  glowing 
dialectic.      At  twenty-four  he  writes  on  Milton,  and  savs: 

'The  I'uritau  was  madi-  up  of  two  dilTerent  men,  tlio  one  all  self-al)aseincnt,  jwni- 
tence,  gnititiuU',  passion;  the  oilier  i)roM(l,  calm,  inllexible,  sagacious,  lie  prostrated 
himself  in  the  dust  before  liis  Maker:  but  he  set  his  fool  on  tlie  neck  of  his  king.  In  his 
devotional  retirement,  he  jirayed  with  eonvnisions  and  gro.'ins  and  tears.  He  was  lialf- 
maddciifd  by  trlorious  or  Icrrilile  illu>i()ns.  lie  heard  tlie  lyres  of  ani.'els  or  llie  teuipliiig 
wliis|»Ts  of  fu'iiils.  Ilr  caiiglit  a  gleam  of  the  ISealific  Vision,  or  woke  scrcaniiiiu  from 
dream--  of  cverla-tiiiL;  lire.  I.iki-  Aaiie,  hi'  IlinuLrht  himself  intrusted  with  the  -ccplre  of 
tlie  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in  the  bitterness  of  his  .-(ml  llial  Cud  h.ld 
hid  His  face  from  him.  ISnt  v.heii  he  look  his  seat  in  the  eoiun'il,  or  girt  ou  his  sword 
for  war,  these  tempesliious  workimr-'  of  the  soul  had  left  no  pereeplilili-  trace  behind 
them.  I'eople  who  saw  iiothiiig  of  the  godly  but  their  uncoiitli  \i-.'iL:e>,  and  heard 
nothing  from  them  but  their  groans  and  their  wliininir  hymns,  miu'lii  laugh  at  llu-m.  Hui 
those  had  little  rea-^oii  to  laugh  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the 
field  of  baltlc.' 


302  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Then  he  becomes  a  story-teller,  in  splendid  metaphors: 

'Arios*to  tells  a  pretty  story  of  a  fairy,  who,  by  some  mysterious  law  of  her  nature, 
was  condemned  to  appear  at  certain  seasons  in  the  form  of  a  foul  and  poisonous  snake. 
Those  who  Injured  her  during  the  period  of  her  disguise  were  forever  excluded  from 
participation  in  the  blessings  which  she  bestowed.  But  to  those  who,  in  spite  of  her 
loathsome  aspect,  pitied  and  protected  her,  she  afterwards  revealed  herself  in  the  beau- 
tiful and  celestial  form  whicli  was  natural  to  her,  accompanied  their  steps,  granted  all 
their  wishes,  tilled  their  houses  witli  wealth,  made  them  happy  in  love  and  victorious  in 
war.  Such  a  spirit  is  Liberty.  At  times  she  takes  the  form  of  a  hateful  reptile.  She 
grovels,  she  hisses,  she  stings.  But  woo  to  those  who  in  disgust  shall  venture  to  crush 
her  I  And  happy  are  those  wlio,  having  dared  to  receive  her  in  her  degraded  and  fright- 
ful shape,  shall  at  length  be  rewarded  by  her  in  the  time  of  her  beauty  and  her  glory ! ' 

At  forty,  professedly  reviewing  Ranke's  History  of  the  Popes, 
he  dismisses  the  writer  in  two  paragraphs,  and  straightway  enters 
upon  an  examination  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church: 

'  No  other  institution  is  left  standing  which  carries  the  mind  back  to  the  times  when 
the  smoke  of  sacrifice  rose  fromthe  Pantheon,  and  when  camelopards  and  tigers  bounded 
in  the  Flavian  ampliitlv^'atre.  The  proudest  royal  houses  are  but  of  yesterday,  when  com- 
pared with  tiie  line  of  the  Supreme  Pontiffs.  That  line  we  trace  back  in  an  unbroken 
series,  from  the  Pope  who  crowned  Napoleon  in  llie  nineteenth  century,  to  the  Pope 
who  crowned  Pepin  in  the  eiglith;  and  far  beyond  the  time  of  Pepin  the  august  dynasty 
extends,  till  it  is  lost  in  the  twilight  of  fable.  The  republic  of  Venice  came  next  in 
antiquity.  But  the  republic  of  Venice  was  modern  wlien  compared  with  the  Papacy;  and 
the  republic  of  Venice  is  gone,  and  the  Papacy  remains.  The  Papacy  remains,  not  in 
decay,  not  a  mere  antique;  but  full  of  life  and  youthful  vigour.  The  Catliolic  Church  is 
Btill  sending  fortli  to  the  furthest  ends  of  the  world  missionaries  as  zealous  as  those  who 
landed  in  Kent  with  Augustine;  and  still  confronting  hostile  lyings  witli  the  same  spirit 
with  which  she  confronted  Attila.  The  number  of  her  cliildren  is  greater  than  in  any 
former  age.  Her  acquisitions  in  the  New  World  have  more  tlian  compensated  her  for 
wluit  she  lias  lost  in  the  Old.  Her  spiritual  ascendancy  extends  over  tlie  vast  countries 
wliich  lie  between  the  plains  of  the  Missouri  and  Cai>e  Horn;  countries  which,  a  century 
hence,  may  not  improbably  contain  a  population  as  large  as  that  whicli  now  inhabits 
Europe.  Tlie  members  of  lier  community  are  certainly  not  fewer  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  millions;  and  it  will  be  difhcult  to  sliow  that  all  the  other  Christian  sects  united 
amount  to  a  hundred  and  twenty  millions.  Nor  do  we  see  any  sign  which  indicates  that 
the  term  of  licr  long  dominion  is  approaching.  She  saw  the  commencement  of  all  the 
governnienis.  und  of  all  the  ecclesiastical  establishments,  that  now  exist  in  the  world; 
and  we  feel  no  assurance  that  she  is  not  destined  to  see  the  end  of  them  all.  She  was 
great  an<l  respected  before  the  Saxon  had  set  foot  on  Britain,  before  the  Frank  had 
passed  the  Khine, —  when  Grecian  eloquence  still  flourished  at  Antioch,  when  idols  were 
still  worsliipped  in  the  temide  of  Mecca.  And  she  may  still  exist  in  nndiminislied  vigour 
when  some  traveller  from  N(?w  Zealand  sliall,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  solitude,  take  liis 
stand  on  a  broken  anil  of  Loudon  Bridge  to  sketcti  tlie  ruins  of  St.  Paul's.' 

These  sinole  ])assages  present  an  abstract  of  his  talent  —  opu- 
lence of  ilki.stratioii  and  adornment,  antithesis  of  ideas,  regular 
sef(uenco  of  thouglit,  harmonious  construction,  and  incomparable 
lucidity.  JeiTrey,  iti  acknowledging  the  maiuiscript  of  Milton, 
said,  'The  more  T  think,  the  less  1  can  conceive  where  you  picked 
up  that  stvlc.'  it  was  tlie  prevalent  opinion  of  literary  friends, 
that  he  wrote  rapidly  and  made  few  corrections,  so  spontaneous 


PROSE  —  THE    ESSAY.  303 

seemed  his  manner,  (hi  the  contrary,  he  was  minutely  studious 
of  every  sentence,  would  often  rewrite  paragraphs  and  chapters 
to  improve  the  arrang-ement  or  expression.  Again  would  he 
correct,  and  his  marmscripts  were  covered  with  erasures.  He 
was  equally  attentive  to  proof-sheets.  'He  could  not  rest  until 
the  lines  were  level  to  a  hair's  breadth,  and  the  punctuation 
correct  to  a  comma;  until  every  paragraph  concluded  with  a 
telling  sentence,  and  every  sentence  flowed  like  running  water.' 
Excellence  is  not  matured  in  a  day.  Montesquieu,  in  allusion  to 
one  of  his  works,  says  to  a  correspondent,  *  You  will  read  it  in  a 
few  hours,  but  tlie  labor  expended  on  it  has  whitened  my  hair.' 

f>anklin  and  Edwards,  the  one  a  philosopher  and  the  other  a 
theologian,  were  not  of  the  literary  guild  in  any  strict  sense  of 
the  term.  Our  veteran  Chief  of  Letters  was  the  amiable  and 
gifted  Irving  (1T83-1859),  in  whom  the  creative  vigor,  that, 
breathing  and  burning  in  the  bosom  of  the  nation,  had  found 
issue  in  action,  blossomed  into  art.  All  his  life  a  desultory 
genius,  reading  much,  but  studying  little.  In  boyhood  a  rover, 
familiar  with  every  spot  where  a  murder  or  robbery  had  been 
committed,  or  a  ghost  seen;  neglecting  the  exercises  of  the 
school  for  books  of  voyage  and  travel,  gazing  wistfully  after  the 
parting  shi})S  whose  lessening  sails  wafted  his  imagination  to 
distant  climes.  He  knew  and  loved  the  sublime  and  b(\autiful  of 
natural  sconerv,  but  more  potent  were  tiie  charms  of  historic 
ruins,  of  storied  and  ])oetical  association: 

'  I  longed  to  wandor  over  the  sci'Tics  of  rcnownt'd  acliii'vomcnt  —  to  tread,  as  it  were, 
in  the  footsteps  of  antiiiiiity — to  loiter  about  the  ruined  castle— to  meditate  on  tlie  falling 
tower — to  escape,  in  short,  from  tlie  commonplace  realities  of  the  present,  and  lose 
myself  among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  Ilie  past.' 

Perhaps  no  other  American  ever  met  with  so  hearty  a  welcome 
abroad  from  men  of  all  classes  and  nati(>iialitit>s,  as  he  during 
the  twciitv  odd  years  he  jiassed  in  Europe.  There  he  bt^o-aii  his 
literarv  career  under  the  kind  and  cordial  auspices  of  Scott,  and 
nearly  all  tlie  leading  writers  of  the  day  were  among  iiis  I'ricnils. 
At  home  lie  Asas  evcrvwherc  honored,  and  the  gate  of  his  |>r<'tty 
domain  on  the  Hudson,  though  hf  was  wifeless  and  cluidlfss, 
was  forever  opening  to  visitors.  Never  obsecpiious  to  tlie  great, 
honest  and  grateful,  kind,  aiTal)Ie,  g(Mierous,  gentle,  afTectioiiat(\ 
self-denying, —  above  all,  an  ex(Mnplar  of  gcnxlness,  whose  last 
words,  characteristically  embodying  the  supreme  concern  of   this 


304  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

life,  might  consistently  have  been:  Be  good.  May  we  not  pre- 
dict a  style  which  is  an  inborn  elegance  of  mind,  and  a  pleasure 
which  is  almost  witching  yet  always  refining? 

In  his  History  of  New  York  we  have  at  length  something  all 
our  own,  not  copied  from  London,  nor  borrowed  from  Paris. 
The  elements  of  his  art  are  here,  its  admirable  grace  and  temper, 
in  this  his  early  work;  and  his  peculiar  talent,  ever  reverting 
instinctively  to  tlhe  lights  and  shadows  that  play  upon  the  surface 
of  social  life,  as  in  the  following  unique  account  of  the  tradition- 
ary manners  of  the  Dutch  settlers.  Of  their  architecture  he  says, 
like  one  who  has  lived  among  the  objects  he  describes  : 

'The  houses  of  the  higher  class  were  generally  constructed  of  wood,  excepting  the 
gat)le-end,  which  was  of  small  black  and  yellow  Uiilcli  bricks,  and  always  faced  on  the 
street;  as  our  ancestors,  like  their  descendants,  were  very  much  given  to  outward  show, 
and  were  noted  for  putting  the  best  leg  foremost.  The  house  was  always  furnished 
with  abundance  of  large  doors  and  small  windows  on  every  floor;  the  date  of  its  erection 
was  curiously  designated  by  iron  figures  on  the  front;  and  on  the  top  of  the  roof  was 
perched  a  fierce  little  weather-cock,  to  let  the  family  into  the  important  secret  which  way 
the  wind  blew.  These,  like  the  weather-cocks  on  the  tops  of  our  steeples,  pointed  so 
many  diflfercnt  ways,  that  every  inaii  could  have  a  wind  to  his  mind;  and  you  would  liave 
thought  old  .Eolus  had  set  all  Ins  bags  of  wind  adrift,  pell-mell,  to  gambol  about  this 
windy  metropolis;  the  most  staunch  and  loyal  citizens,  however,  always  went  according 
to  the  weather-cock  on  tlic  top  of  the  governor's  house,  which  was  certainly  the  most 
correct,  as  he  had  a  trusty  servant  employed  every  morning  to  climb  up  and  point  it 
whichever  way  the  wind  blew.' 

Of  their  home-life: 

'As  to  the  family,  they  always  entered  in  at  the  gate,  and  most  generally  lived  in  the 
kitchen.  To  have  seen  a  numerous  household  assembled  around  the  fire,  one  would  have 
Imagined  that  he  was  transported  back  to  those  happy  days  of  primeval  simi)licity  which 
float  through  our  imaginations  like  golden  visions.  The  fire-places  were  of  a  truly  patri- 
archal magnltiule,  where  the  whole  family,  old  and  young,  master  and  servant,  black  and 
while,  nay,  even  the  \  ery  cat  and  dog,  enjoyed  a  community  of  jirivilege,  and  had  each  a 
l)ri'scriptive  right  to  a  corner.  Here  the  old  burgher  would  sit  in  i)erfect  silence,  puffing 
his  pipe,  looking  in  the  fire  with  half  shut  eyes,  and  thinking  of  nothing  for  hours 
together;  his  (joetle  iroinr  on  the  opposite  si(l<'  would  emi)loy  herself  diligently  iii  spin- 
ning her  yarn  or  knitting  stockings.  The  young  folks  would  crowd  around  the  hearth, 
listening  with  breathless  attention  to  some  old  crone  of  a  negro  who  was  the  oracie  of 
the  family,  and  who,  perched  like  a  raven  in  the  corner  of  the  chimney,  would  croak 
forth  for  a  long  winter  afternoon  a  string  of  incredible  stories  about  New  England 
witches,  grisly  ghosts,  horses  without  heads,  and  hairbreadth  escapes,  and  bloody 
encounters  among  the  Indians." 

Of  their  coiiviviiilit  v: 

'These  fashionable  parties  were  generally  confined  to  the  higher  classes  or  noblesse, — 
that  is  to  say,  such  as  kept  their  own  cows  and  drove  their  own  wagons.  The  company 
roMimonly  assembled  at  three  o'clock,  and  went  away  about  six,  unless  it  was  in  winter- 
time, wlicii  the  fashionable  hours  were  a  little  earlier,  that  the  ladies  might  get  home 
before  dark.  1  do  not  liiid  that  they  ever  treated  their  coini)any  to  iced  creams,  jellies, 
or  syllaluilis.  or  riL.';iled  thciu  \\  ith  musty  almonds,  mouldy  raisins,  or  sour  oranges,  as  is 
often  done  in  tin-  pri'sent  aL'e  of  refnieinent.  Our  ancestors  were  fond  of  more  sturdy, 
pubstantial  fare.     The  tea-table  was  crowned  with  a  huge  earthen  dish,  well  stored  with 


PROSE  —  THE   ESSAY.  305 

slices  of  fat  pork,  fried  brown,  cut  up  into  niorsiels,  and  swimming  In  gravy.  The  com- 
pany being  seated  around  the  genial  board,  and  eacli  furnished  with  a  fork,  evinced  their 
dexterity  in  launching  at  the  fattest  pieces  of  this  mighty  dish,  in  much  the  same  man- 
ner as  sailors  harpoon  porpoises  at  sea,  or  our  Indians  spear  salmon.  Sometimes  the 
table  was  graced  with  immense  apple-pies,  or  saucers  full  of  preserved  peaches  and  pears; 
but  it  was  always  sure  to  boast  of  an  enormous  dish  of  balls  of  sweetened  dough  fried 
in  hog's  fat  and  called  dough-nuts  or  oly  koekg;  a  delicious  kind  of  cake,  at  present 
scarce  known  in  this  city,  except  in  genuine  Dutch  families.' 

This  playfulness  never  betrays  him  from  decorum.  It  is  the 
gayety  and  airiness  of  a  light,  pure  spirit,  pleased  witli  men  and 
things,  and  fancying  others  equally  pleased,  or  iiniocent  of  their 
displeasure.     He  continues: 

'The  tea  wa;;  served  out  of  a  majestic  delf  tea-pot,  ornamented  with  paintings  of 
fat  little  Dutch  sliepherds  and  shepherdesses,  tending  pigs,  with  boats  sailing  in  the  air, 
and  houses  built  in  the  clouds,  and  sundry  other  ingenious  Dutch  fantasies.  The  beaux 
distinguished  themselves  by  their  adroitness  in  replenishing  this  pot  from  a  huge  copper 
tea-kettle,  which  would  have  made  the  pigmy  macaronies  of  these  degenerate  day» 
sweat  merely  to  look  at  it.  To  sweeten  the  beverage,  a  lump  of  sugar  was  laid  beside 
each  cuj),  and  the  ct)mpany  alternately  nibbled  and  sipped  with  gr<at  decorum,  until  an 
improvement  was  introduced  by  a  shrewd  and  economic  old  lady,  which  was  to  suspend 
a  large  lump  directly  over  the  tea-table  by  a  string  from  the  ceiling,  so  that  it  could  he 
swung  from  mouth  to  mouth, —  an  ingenious  expedient,  which  is  still  kept  up  by  some 
families  in  Albany,  but  which  prevails,  without  exception,  in  Communipaw,  Bergen, 
Flat-Bu!^h,  and  all  our  uncontaminaieil  Dutch  villages.' 

How  easy,  simple,  and  sprightly,  as  of  one  -who  catches  his  tints 
direct  from  nature,  always  fresh  and  felicitous.  Thus  he  com- 
pletes the  picture: 

'No  flirting  nor  coquetting,  no  gambling  of  old  ladies,  nor  hoyden  chattering  and 
romping  of  young  ones,  no  self-satisfied  struttings  of  wealthy  gentlemen  with  their  brains 
in  their  pockets,  nor  amusing  conceits  and  monk<'y  divortisfmeiits  of  smart  young 
gentlemen  with  no  brains  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  young  ladies  seated  themselves 
demurely  in  tlieir  rush- bottomed  chairs,  and  knit  their  own  woollen  stockings;  nor  ever 
opened  their  lips  excepting  to  say,  '  Yah,  Mynheer,"  or  'Yah,  ya  X'louw.'  to  any  question 
that  was  asked  them;  behaving;  in  all  things  like  decent  well-educated  damsels.  .\s  to 
the  gentlemen,  eacti  of  Iheni  tran(|uilly  smoked  liis  i)i|)e,  and  seemed  lost  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  blue  and  white  tih's  with  which  the  lire-places  were  decorated.  .  .  . 

Tlie  iKirlies  hroke  u))  \\  il  bout  noise  and  without  confusion.  They  were  carried  home 
by  llieir  o«  n  cai  riaires,— that  is  to  say.  liy  the  vehicle-;  nature  ha<l  proviiled  theui,  except- 
ing such  of  tlie  weallliy  a<  could  alTurd  to  keep  a  wagon.  The  irentlemen  gallantly 
attended  their  fair  ones  lo  Iheir  respective  alioiies,  and  took  leave  of  them  with  a  hearty 
smack  at  the  <loi)r:  which,  as  it  was  an  established  i)iece  of  eticpiette,  done  in  perfect 
siiuplicity  and  lioiie-ly  of  heart,  occasioned  no  scandal  at  tliat  time,  nor  should  it  at  the 
jjre-^eiit;  if  our  great  Lrranilfatliers  ap))roved  of  the  custom,  it  would  argue  a  great  want 
of  rr\erei!ce  in  lluir  (le~cendants  to  say  a  word  against  it." 

But  the  I)(>st  example  of  his  powers  is  the  Skitch  linok,  mild, 
cheerful,  ftiiiciful,  thoughtful,  humorous.  T/tc  Wif''\  Tftr  Pridr 
of  the  Vilhi(j<\,  and  'llu  Broken  Ileurt,  are  gt'iiis  of  sentiment 
and  description.  Rip  Yan  Winkle  tiiid  SIkjii/  ILillnir  are  Jiiiioiig 
the  finest  ])ieees  of  ticticjn  to  l>e  fonnd  in  any  lileratiire.  As  we 
'JO 


306  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

read,  we  are  all  drawn  to  beauty,  gentleness,  sunshine,  elevating 
seriousness,  or  chastening  sorrow.  It  is  fundamentally  the  fas- 
cination of  the  ^nan.  We  are  captivated  by  the  poetic  graces 
of  his  fancy  and  the  liquid  music  of  his  style;  but  behind  all, 
under  all,  pervading  all,  is  the  deeper  charm  of  the  genial  and 
sensitive  soul  in  sympathy  with  the  human  heart.  Here,  in  a 
few  random  sentences,  is  his  essential  self, —  the  modest  and 
thoughtful  saunterer  in  his  meditations,  the  simple  but  polished 
artist  in  the  scenes  which  he  sets  before  us,  filled  Avith  interest 
and  passion  by  the  magic  infusion  of  mind: 

'I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter-railing,  or  climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a  calm  day, 
and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea;  to  gaze  upon  the 
piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon,  fancy  them  some  fairy  realms, 
and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my  own;  to  watch  the  gentle,  undulating  billows, 
rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores.' ' 

'A  tarttemper  never  mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool 
that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.'  ^ 

'As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage  about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted 
by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when  the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round 
it  with  its  caressing  tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs ;  so  is  it  beautifully  ordered 
by  Providence  that  woman,  who  is  the  mere  dependant  and  ornament  of  man  in  his  hap- 
pier hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smitten  with  sudden  calamity;  winding 
herself  into  the  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly  supporting  the  drooping  head, 
and  binding  up  the  broken  heart.' ' 

'  If  ever  Love,  as  poets  sing,  delights  to  visit  a  cottage,  it  must  be  the  cottage  of  an 
English  peasant.'  < 

'Other  men  are  known  to  i)osterity  only  through  the  medium  of  history,  which 
i.s  continually  growing  faint  and  obscure:  but  tlic  intercourse  between  the  author  ami 
his  fellow  men  is  ever  new,  active,  and  immediate.  He  has  lived  for  them  more  than 
for  himself;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding  enjoyments,  and  shut  himself  up  from  the 
delights  of  social  life,  that  he  might  the  more  intimately  commune  with  distant  minds 
and  distant  ages.  Well  may  the  world  cherish  his  renown;  for  it  has  been  purchased, 
not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  l)l(>()d,  but  l)y  the  diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.'^ 

How  easily  might  this  inimitable  description  be  tran.sferred  to 
canvas: 

'Hard  by  tlie  farmhouse  was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have  served  for  a  church: 
every  window  and  (  rcvjcc  of  whicli  seemed  bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the 
farm:  the  Hail  was  l)U>ily  resounding  witliin  it  fnini  morning  to  niglit;  swallows  and 
martins  skimmed  iwitlcrini;  about  the  caves:  and  riiw-^  of  jiigeons,  some  with  one  eye 
turned  up,  as  if  watching  the  weather,  some  witli  tlieir  lutads  under  their  wings,  or  buried 
in  their  l)os()ms.  and  otl)er>  swelliiiLT,  and  cooing,  and  bowing  about  tlieir  dames,  were 
enjoying  tlie  sunshine  on  tlie  roof.  Sleek,  unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  rei)ose 
and  abundance  of  tlieir  inns;  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then,  troojis  of  sucking  pigs, 
as  if  tf)  snuff  the  air.  A  >!ately  r^qnadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining 
l)on<l,  convoying  whole  Heels  of  ducks:  regiments  of  turkeys  were  gobbling  through  the 
farm  yard,  and  L'uinea-fowls  fretting  al)out  it,  liki'  ill-tempered  housewives,  with  their 

i  The  Voi/nq,:.        ^/!i/t  \'/i»  Whi/.l/'.         ^  Tlie  Wife.         *  Rural  Life  in  Englaml. 
:■  Wt^  at  minster  Abbey. 


PUOSE  —  THE    NOVEL.  307 

peevish,  di^'cc)nteIlted  cry.  Before  tlie  barn  dtwr  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern 
of  a  husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping  his  burnished  wings,  and  crowing 
in  the  pride  and  gladness  of  his  heart,  sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and 
then  generously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and  children  to  enjoy  the  rich 
morsel  which  he  had  discovered.'' 

Where  beyond  the  Atlantic  will  you  find  anything  happier? 
And  in  this  gallery  of  delightful  pictures,  what  more  happily 
conceived  and  executed  than  the  following? 

'The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked  upon  this  sumptuous  promise  of 
luxurious  jjinter  fare.  In  his  devouring  mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roast- 
ing pig  running  about  with  a  pudding  in  his  belly  and  an  apple  in  his  mouth;  the  pigeons 
were  snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortal)le  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust;  the 
geese  were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy;  and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like 
snug  married  couples,  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion  sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw 
carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy,  relishing  ham;  not  a  turkey  but  he 
beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a  necklace 
of  savory  sausages;  and  even  bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  on  his  back, 
in  a  side-dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit 
disdained  to  ask  while  living."  ^ 

What  author  has  succeeded  so  well  as  he  in  making  literature 
delicious  f 

No"Vel. — We  have  seen  the  germs  of  fiction  existing  every- 
where in  the  earliest  ages,  and  expanding  into  the  verse  or  prose 
of  feudalism  and  chivalry  as  naturally  as  the  grass  grows  upon 
the  surface  of  the  soil.  We  have  seen  it  pass  beyond  tlie  romantic 
into  the  realistic  development,  as  an  advancing  society  demanded 
more  and  more  the  narration  of  what  is  probable  under  the  laws 
of  poetic  justice.  Little  cultivated  from  Chaucer  to  Queen  Anne, 
we  have  seen  it  undergo  a  revolution  in  the  hands  of  observers 
and  moralists,  becoming  in  I)e  Foe  and  Ivichardson  the  novel  of 
charactei',  holding  the  minor  up  to  Nature,  and  aiming  to  ele- 
vate while  it  informed  th(!  mind.  Lik(>  painting  and  scidpture, 
it  wa.><  to  appeal  liciuu^forth,  in  its  liighest  products,  to  universal 
human  experience. 

After  a  long  d(>clension,  when  the  |)()eticai  light  was  waning, 
this  branch  of  literature  acquired  an  unprecedenteci  lustre  in  the 
masterpieci's  of  Scott,  who  enlarged  the  scope  of  its  to]Mcs,  and 
gave  it  a  hiii'her  fiiiisii  of  execution.  Illustrative  of  English  his- 
torv,  dev()t(Ml  in  the  l)est  instatices  to  the  glorilication  of  virtue 
and  tlie  ehastiseiuent  of  vice,  it  nf)w  l)ecame  wliat  tlie  drama  in  its 
palmv  summer  ha<l  l)een.  Before  and  around  the  ]\  ari  r/ci/  wer«> 
the  Ciiltb    \ViUini))!<  of  CJodwin.  the   l*i  /•.•iun.^lon  of   Miss  Austen, 


308  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

the  Scottish  Chiefs  of  Miss  Porter,  and,  in  particular,  the  Irish 
tales  of  Miss  Edgeworth, —  all  of  which  are  directed  in  one  way 
or  another  to  utility,  all  seeking  the  amelioration  of  man,  all 
realistic  and  moral. 

The  master's  splendid  illumination  of  the  new  path  naturally 
drew  into  it  a  throng  of  competitors,  the  most  illustrious  of  whom 
was  our  own  countryman,  James  Fenimore  Cooper  (1789- 
1851),  one  of  the  most  original  and  national  of  American  writers. 
His  favorite  elements  were  the  sea  and  the  forest;  his  favorite 
characters  were  the  sailor  and  the  hunter,  the  pioneer  and  the 
Indian,  These  were  no  vivified  pictures,  but  seeming  realities, — 
like  Lonjr  Tom  Coffin  and  Leatherstocking.  He  has  had  few 
rivals  in  this  power  of  breathing  into  phantoms  of  the  brain  the 
breath  of  life.  His  fame  in  the  description  of  natural  scenery 
under  new  and  striking  aspects  is  world-wide.  His  portraiture, 
without  warm  and  varied  coloring,  is  remarkable  for  fidelity  and 
strength.     Thus: 

'On  all  sides',  wherever  the  eye  turned,  nothing  met  it  but  the  mirror-like  surface 
of  the  lake,  the  placid  view  of  heaven,  and  the  dense  setting  of  woods.  So  rich  and 
fleecy  were  the  outhnes  of  the  forest,  tluit  scarce  an  opening  could  be  seen;  the  whole 
visible  earth,  from  the  rounded  inouutaiii-top  to  the  water's  edge,  presenting  one 
unvaried  line  of  unbroken  verdure.  As  if  vegetation  were  not  satisfied  with  a  triunipli 
so  complete,  the  trees  overhung  tlie  lake  itself,  shooting  out  towards  the  light:  and  there 
were  miles  along  its  eastern  shore  where  a  boat  might  have  pulled  beneath  the  branches 
of  "dark  Rembrandt-looking  hemlocks,  quivering  aspens,  and  melanclu)ly  pines.  In  a 
word,  the  hand  of  man  had  never  yet  defaced  or  deformed  any  part  of  Hiis  native  scene, 
which  lay  bathed  in  the  sunlight,  a  glorious  picture  of  affluent  forest  grandeur,  softened 
by  the  balminess  t)f  June,  and  relieved  by  the  beautiful  variety  afforded  by  the  presence 
of  so  broad  an  expanse  of  water." 

Of  his  numerous  works,  the  best  are  TJie  Pilot,  The  Red  Rover, 
The  Spi/,  The  Pioneers,  and  The  Last  of  the  Jlohiccais.  His 
attempts  at  sentiment  were  calamitous.  The  titles  indicate  that 
the  field  of  his  success  was  luirrow  and  objective, —  romantic 
rather  tiian  psychological.  His  most  appreciative  readers  have 
been  found,  not  among  those  of  a  sedentary  and  studious  bent, 
but  among  the  young  and  those  of  an  active  turn,  who  like  an 
exciting  and  picturesque  story,  having  little  concern  with  the 
analysis  of  motives  and  the  iinier  conflicts  of  feeling.  Cooper 
will  hold  a  permanent  place  for  his  vivid  reflection  of  scenes  and 
characters  which  have  passed,  or  are  passing,  forever  away.  Over 
his  native  landscape  he  has  cast  a  glamour,  similar  to  that  which 
was  tlirown  over  Scotland  bv  the  'Wizard  of  the  North.' 


PROSE — HISTORY.  309 

History. — Among  historians  during  the  last  hundred  years, 
we  have  seen  the  indications  of  a  more  critical  judgment  of  his- 
torical facts,  and  an  increasing  comprehensiveness  of  view, —  the 
disposition  to  explain  phenomena  by  their  principles  and  laws. 
Long  series  of  uncritical  narratives,  like  the  Universal  History, 
have  been  reduced  to  rubbish  by  the  method  which  took  a  dis- 
tinct and  recognized  form  under  the  shaping  genius  of  Voltaire, 
Hume,  Gibbon,  and  Niebuhr.  It  was  this  last,  a  Prussian,  who 
accomplished  a  revolution  in  the  jirevailing  ideas  respecting  early 
Rome.  Other  writers,  notably  Thomas  Arnold'  (1795-1842) 
and  George  Grote'  (1194-1871),  traversed,  iii  his  spirit,  the 
same  and  other  fields  of  ancient  history,  eliminating  the  fabulous 
and  legendary  elements,  and  toning  down  to  a  juster  estimate 
the  exaggerated  conceptions  of  men  and  events. 

It  seems  unnecessary  to  add  that,  in  becoming  more  critical 
and  exact,  history  has  become  more  humane  and  democratic. 
Two  characteristics  are  especially  worthy  of  notice  in  the  tenden- 
cies of  the  period  under  consideration.  One  is  a  growing  interest 
in  early  English  history.  The  indefatigable  Palgrave  and  the 
ambitious  Turner  did  valuable  work  in  these  dark  mines.  An- 
other is  the  mingling  of  maimers  with  events,  of  portrait  with 
narrative.  Less  importance  is  attached  to  the  fortunes  of  princes 
and  tlie  issues  of  campaigns  ;  more  to  the  condition  of  the  middle 
and  lower  classes,  how  the  people  actually  lived,  their  habits  of 
thought,  modes  of  feeling,  surroundings,  domestic  details,  the 
daily  aspect  of  their  liv(>s.  Such  is  the  charm  of  Macaulay's 
History  of  Enyland,  whose  purpose  is  declared  at  the  outset: 

'I  should  very  imperfectly  execute  the  task  wliieli  I  have  umlertiikeii  if  I  were  merely 
to  treat  of  battles  and  siejjes,  of  tlie  rise  and  fall  of  adiiiiiiistralioiis,  of  iiitriirues  in  the 
palace,  and  of  del)ales  in  the  parliament.  It  will  he  my  en<lenvor  to  relali'  the  history  of 
the  people  as  well  as  the  history  of  the  tcoviTunient,  to  trace  the  i)roL'ress  of  useful  and 
ornanieiilal  arts,  to  descrihe  the  rise  of  religious  sects  and  the  chanires  of  literary  taste, 
to  portray  the  manners  of  successive  generations,  and  not  to  pass  by  with  neu'lect  even 
the  reMiliUions  wliich  have  taken  place  in  dress,  furniture,  rel)asts.  and  i»ublic  amuse- 
ments. I  shall  cheerfully  bear  the  reproach  of  having  descended  belou  the  diiruity  of 
history,  if  I  can  succeed  in  placing  before  the  English  of  the  nineteenth  ci  nlnry  a  true 
picture  of  thi-  life  of  their  ancestors.' 

All  tills,  under  his  lively  consciousness  of  causes,  forms  a  har- 
monious whole.  Hence  the  readablencss,  the  interest,  of  this 
work.      He   brought   to   it   a    marvellous   memory,   vast   erudition, 

^IJ'istorij  of  Rome,  and  Lfcturex  on  Modem  I/istonj.  -  Iliflory  of  Greece. 


310  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

eloquence,  rhetoric;  a  talent  for  demonstration,  for  development; 
the  faculty  of  the  orator  "for  expounding  and  pleading,  the  gift  of 
the  poet  to  resuscitate  the  dead. 

Before  him,  the  acute  and  learned  Hallam  (1778-1859)  had 
said  of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  a  historian  : 

'The  philosophy  of  history  embraces  far  more  than  the  wars  and  treaties,  the  factions 
and  cabals  of  common  political  narration ;  it  extends  to  whatever  illustrates  the  character 
of  the  human  species  in  a  particular  period,— to  their  reasonings  and  sentiments,  their 
arts"  and  industry.' 

But  Macaulay  is  an  advocate,  a  pleader.  Hume  writes  of  trial 
and  suffering,  of  heroism  and  faith,  with  a  continued  sneer  at 
religious  fervor  and  belief  ;  Gibbon  drops  the  seeds  of  death  from 
his  gorgeous  robes  of  damask  and  gold  ;  and  history  in  all  its 
forms,  ancient  or  modern,  is  liable  to  he  jxo'tisan.  Hallam,  how- 
ever, with  breadth  and  accuracy  of  knowledge,  has,  like  M. 
Guizot,  the  calm  judgment  and  the  impartial  emotion  of  a  philos- 
opher. These  are  the  qualities  which  mark  his  3Iidclle  Ages, 
Constitutional  History  of  jEn gland  and  Literature  of  Europe. 
Tried,  moreover,  by  the  underlying  principle  of  his  performance, 
the  merit  of  a  trustworthy  guide  must  be  conceded  to  him : 

'The  trite  metaphors  of  light  and  darkness,  of  dawn  and  twilight,  are  used  carelessly 
by  those  who  touch  on  the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  suggest  by  analogy  an 
uninterrupted  progression,  in  which  learning,  like  the  sun,  has  dissipated  the  shadows 
of  barbarism.  But  with  closer  attention,  it  is  easily  seen  that  this  is  not  a  correct  repre- 
sentation; that,  taking  Kurope  generally,  far  from  being  in  a  more  advanced  stage  of 
learning  at  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century  than  two  hundred  years  before,  she 
had  in  many  respects  gone  backwards,  and  gave  little  sign  of  any  tendency  to  recover 
her  ground.  There  is,  in  fact,  no  security,  so  far  as  the  past  history  of  mankind  assures 
us,  that  any  nation  will  be  uniformly  i)rogressive  in  science,  arts,  or  letters;  nor  do  I 
perceive,  whatever  may  be  the  current  language,  th'U  we  can  expect  this  with  much 
greater  confidence  of  the  whole  civilized  world.' 

Historical  literature  in  America  finds  its  most  eminent  repre- 
sentative in  the  brilliant  and  genial  Prescott  (1T9G-1859),  who, 
surpassed  bv  others  in  vigor  and  profundity,  is  rarely  equalled  in 
power  to  win  the  fancy  and  to  touch  the  heart.  An  aspiring 
student,  with  ample  means  for  needful  travel  and  illustrative 
material,  lu^  cliose  an  unappropriated  and  romantic  theme,  spent 
eleven  years  in  research  and  comjiosition,  ht^aring  documents  and 
authorities,  dictating  notes,  whicli  he  aftiM'wards  repeated  orally 
till  the  important  details  were  photographed,  then  arranging 
them  consecutively,  harmoniously,  and  pul)lishing  in  1837  the 
///,s'/ory  of  lurdinaml  and  Isabella.  The  work  was  immedi- 
atelv   rendered    into   five    European    languages.       His    reputation 


PKOSE — HISTORY.  311 

was  still  further  extended  by  The  Conqnest  of  Mexico.  Not 
less  successful  was  The  Conquest  of  Peru.  Visiting  England, 
he  was  received  with  the  utmost  distinction.  Oxford  conferred 
upon  him  the  degree  of  LL.D.  His  Philij)  II  was  left  unfin- 
ished. From  the  first  of  the  following  passages  you  will  judge 
that  he  excels  in  description;  from  the  second,  that  he  is  master 
of  the  art  of  narrative  ;  from  both,  that  his  talents  are  more 
artistic  than  philosophical: 

'Their  progress  was  now  comparatively  easy,  and  they  inarched  forward  with  a 
buoyant  step,  as  they  felt  they  were  treading  the  soil  of  Montezuma.  They  had  not 
advanced  far  when,  turning  an  angle  of  the  Sierra,  they  suddenly  came  on  a  view  which 
more  than  compensated  the  toils  of  the  preceding  day.  It  was  that  of  the  valley  of 
Mexico,  or  Tenochtitlan,  as  more  commonly  called  by  the  natives;  which,  with  its 
picturesque  assemblage  of  water,  woodland,  and  cultivated  plains,  its  shining  cities 
and  shadowy  hills,  was  spread  out  like  some  gay  and  gorgeous  panorama  before  them. 
In  the  highly  rarefied  atmosphere  of  these  upper  regions  even  remote  objects  have  a 
brilliancy  of  colouring  and  a  distinctness  of  outline  which  seem  to  annihilate  distance. 
Stretching  far  away  at  iheir  feet  wen;  seen  noble  forests  of  oak,  sycamore,  and  cedar, 
and  beyond  yellow  fields  of  maize,  and  the  towering  maguey,  intermingled  with  orchards 
and  blooming  gardens:  for  flowers,  in  such  demand  for  their  religious  festivals,  were 
even  more  abundant  in  this  iwpulous  valley  than  in  other  parts  of  .\nahuac.  In  the 
centre  of  the  great  basin  were  beheld  the  lakes,  occupying  then  a  much  larger  portion  of 
its  surface  than  at  present,  their  borders  thickly  studded  with  towns  and  hamlets;  and 
in  the  midst  — like  some  Induin  enijjress  with  her  coronal  of  jiearls  — the  fair  city  of 
Mexico,  with  her  white  towers  and  pyramidal  temples,  reposing,  as  it  were,  on  the  bosom 
of  the  waters, —  the  far-famed  "Venice  of  the  .\ztecs."  High  over  all  rose  the  royal  hill 
of  Chapoltepec,  the  residence  of  flic  Mexican  monarchs,  crowned  with  tlie  same  grove 
of  gigantic  cypresses  which  at  this  day  fling  their  broad  shadows  over  the  land.  In  the 
distance,  beyond  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake,  and  nearly  screened  by  intervening  foliage, 
was  seen  a  shining  speck,  the  rival  capital  of  Tezcueo;  and  still  furllieron,  tlie  dark  belt 
of  porphyry,  girdling  the  valley  around,  like  a  rich  setting  which  nature  had  devised  for 
the  fairest  of  her  jewels.  Such  was  the  beautiful  vision  which  broke  on  the  eyes  of  the 
conquerors.  And  even  now,  when  so  sad  a  change  has  come  over  the  scene:  wlien  the 
stately  forests  have  been  laid  low,  and  the  soil,  unsheltered  from  the  fierce  radiance  of 
a  tropical  sun,  is  in  many  places  al)andoned  to  sterility:  when  the  waters  have  retired, 
leaving  a  broad  and  ghastly  margin  wliile  with  llie  iiuriistations  of  salts,  wliilo  the  cities 
and  hamlets  on  their  borders  have  mouldered  into  rums;  —  even  now  that  desolation 
broods  over  the  landscape,  so  indestructible  are  the  lines  of  beauty  whicli  nalnrc  has 
traced  <iu  its  features,  that  no  travellrr,  liowever  cold,  can  gaze  on  them  witli  any  otlier 
emotions  Ili:in  tliose  of  a^toiiislitnent  [\m\  rapture.  What,  tlieii,  mu>t  liavc;  been  tlie 
emotiiiMs  of  the  Spaniards,  wiieii,  after  working  tlicir  toilsome  way  into  tlie  upper  air, 
the  cloudy  labiTiKulc  putted  liefore  tlicir  eyes,  and  they  belield  these  fair  se>'inv  in  all 
their  pri^tiiir  iii.iLriiilieciice  and  brauty!  It  was  like  the  spectacle  which  grei'tcd  tlie  eyes 
of  Moses  from  the  suniiiiit  of  I'isgah,  and  in  the  warHi  glow  of  their  feelings  they  cried 
out :   ••  It  is  the  iiroiiiised  land  '.  "  ' 

And  : 

'Tlie  parties  closed  with  tlie  desperate  fury  of  men  who  h;id  no  hope  but  in  victory. 
Quarter  was  neither  asked  nor  given;  and  to  tly  was  iiiipossilile.  The  eciu'e  of  the  area 
was  uniiroteeted  by  i)arapet  or  battleuieut.  The  least  slip  would  be  fatal;  and  the  coui- 
batants,  as  they  ^trl'.<_'Lrled  in  mortal  agony,  were  soiiietiines  seen  to  roll  ovit  the  sheer 
sides  of  the  precipice  together.  Cortes  hiiuself  is  said  to  lia\e  had  a  narrow  e-eaiie  from 
this  dreadful  fate.     Two  warriors,  of  strong,  muscular  frame.  >ii/.ed  on  him,  :!ud  were 


312  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

dragging  him  violently  toward?  the  brink  of  the  pyramid.  Aware  of  their  intention,  he 
stnigglfd  Willi  all  his  force,  and,  before  they  could  accomplish  their  purpose,  succeeded 
in  tearing  himself  from  their  grasp,  and  hurling  one  of  them  over  the  walls  with  his  own 
arm.  The  story  is  not  improbable  in  itself,  for  Cnrtes  was  a  man  of  uncommon  agility  and 
strength.    It  has  been  often  repeated,  but  not  by  contemporary  history. 

The  battle  lasted  with  unintermitting  fury  for  three  hours.  The  number  of  the 
enemy  was  donble  that  of  the  Christians;  and  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  a  contest  which 
must  be  determined  by  numbers  and  brute  force,  rather  than  superior  science.  Hut  it 
■was  not  so.  The  invulnerable  armour  of  the  Spaniard,  his  sword  of  matchless  temper, 
and  his  skill  in  the  use  of  it,  gave  him  advantages  which  far  outweighed  the  odds  of 
physical  strength  and  numbers.  After  doing  all  that  the  courage  of  despair  could  enable 
men  to  do,  resistance  grew  fainter  and  fainter  on  the  side  of  the  Aztecs.  One  after 
another  they  had  fallen.  Two  or  three  priests  only  survived  to  be  led  away  in  triumi)li  by 
the  victor.?.  Every  other  combatant  was  stretched  a  corjjse  on  the  bloody  arena,  or  had 
been  hurled  from  the  giddy  heights.  Yet  the  loss  of  the  Spaniards  was  not  inconsider- 
able: it  amounted  to  forty-five  of  their  best  men;  and  nearly  all  the  remainder  were 
more  or  less  injured  in  the  desperate  conflict. 

The  victorious  cavaliers  now  rushed  towards  the  sanctuaries.  The  lower  story  was  of 
stone,  the  two  upper  were  of  wood.  Penetrating  into  their  recesses,  they  had  the  morti- 
fication to  find  the  image  of  the  Virgin  and  Cross  removed.  But  in  the  other  edifice  they 
etill  beheld  the  grim  figure  of  lluitzilopotchli,  with  his  censer  of  smoking  hearts,  and  the 
walls  of  his  oratory  reeking  with  gore, —  not  improbably  of  their  own  countrymen.  With 
Bhouts  of  triumph  the  Christians, tore  the  uncouth  monster  from  his  niche,  and  tumbled 
him,  in  the  presence  of  the  horror-struck  Aztecs,  down  the  steps  of  tiie  teocalli.  They 
then  set  fire  to  the  accursed  building.  The  flame  speedily  ran  up  the  slender  towers, 
sending  forth  an  ominous  light  over  city,  lake,  and  valley,  to  the  remotest  hut  among  the 
mountains.  It  was  the  funeral  pyre  of  paganism,  and  proclaimed  the  fall  of  that 
sanguinary  religion  which  had  so  long  hung  like  a  dark  cloud  over  the  fair  regions  of 
Anahuac' 

Tlieolog^. — In  Gibbon,  Deism  had  changed  its  form  —  its 
point  and  mode  of  attack.  The  one,  from  being  a  priori  moral, 
became  historic;  instead  of  denying  facts,  it  felt  bound  to  e.xj)lairi 
them:  the  other,  from  being  a  fear  and  hatred  of  Christianity, 
became  a  philosophical  contempt.  The  latter,  in  its  prevalent 
satire  and  ironv,  marks  the  influence  of  French  infidelity.  This 
influence  is  reproduced  more  ccjnspicuously  in  Paine,  a  politi- 
cian, a  creature  of  the  Revolution,  who  derives  his  doctrines  from 
the  English  diMsts,  his  ribaldry  from  Yoltaire,  and  liis  politics 
from  Rousseau.  Derived  in  some  respects  by  direct  lineage  from 
him,  are  the  socialist  schemes  of  Owen,  who,  desirous  to  improve 
the  condition  of  tlie  industrial  classes,  and  aiming  to  modify  or 
remove  temjitat  ions,  jirojioses  equalitv  of  jiropertv  and  facilitation 
of  divorce.  Tli(>  I' rcnch  sjnrit  animates  literature  in  the  ]ioetry 
of  Ijvron  and  .^liclloN',  the  one  a  tvpe  of  tlie  scepticism  of  (,les})air, 
the  other  (jf  the  madness  of  enthusiasm;  the  one  drawn  down  to 
earth,  the  other  lifted  into  the  ideal. 

N(j\v  rose  iiilo  importance  and  power  the  philosophic  German 
genius,    origiiuil    and    universal,    to    fertilize    and    renew    human 


PKOSE  —  THEOLOGY.  313 

thought.  As  far  bai-k  as  1T80,  Gorman  ideas  }iad  been  making 
their  way  into  England.  Intimate  relations  of  the  English  royal 
family  to  Germany,  English  patronage  of  German  universities, 
English  alliance  with  the  German  States  to  arrest  F>ench  arms, 
aided  the  movement.  A  result  was  the  science  of  criticism,  a 
method  of  analysis,  in  which  philosophy  and  history  were  jointly 
employed  in  the  investigation  of  every  branch  of  knowledge. 
Thence  English  rationalism  in  its  several  forms  of  philosophical, 
literary,  and  critical:  the  first  supplying  reason  with  a  fund  of 
speculative  objections  to  Revelation,  and  cither  utilitarian,  as  in 
Sentliain,  or  intuitional,  as  in  Coleridge;  the  former  relying 
on  sensation,  the  latter  on  primitive  cognitions,  as  the  ultimate 
test  of  truth;  the  second,  more  imaginative,  appealing  for  its 
proof  to  the  faculty  of  insight,  regarding  the  inner  consciousness 
as  able  to  evolve  a  religion,  tending  either  to  pantheism  or  to 
naturalism,  and  expressing  itself,  not  analytically,  in  the  region 
of  science,  but,  as  in  Carlyle,  .sentimentally,  in  the  region  of 
of  literature;  the  thinl,  of  later  growth,  directly  attacking  the 
historical  and  inspired  basis  of  faith,  the  orthodo.x  view  of  mira- 
cles and  atontMueiit,  by  the  deductions  of  physics,  language,  and 
ethnology.  Already  are  manifest  the  tendencies  which  mark 
the  unbelief  of  to-day, —  a  more  radical  anti-supernaturalism,  and 
a  more  earnest  ell'ort  to  give  to  Cliristianity  a  natural  origin,  to 
account  for  it  as  one,  as  the  highest,  of  those  spiritual  products 
wliicli  liav(>  si)rung  from  the  dejiths  of  tlie  soul. 

\\  itliout  iiulicating  the  special  iiiodilications  of  doctrinal  the- 
olog-y,  it  may  t)e  said  in  general  that  criticism  was  setting  it  free 
from  those  accessories  which  are  so  often  mistaken  for  its  essence, 
giving  it  (){)|)i)i tunity  for  ncnv  departures,  to  prove  its  immortal 
contiiiuitv  1)V  developments  in  fresh  directions. 

Til  America  it  was  the  heroic  age  of  that  fertih^  protest  against 
Calvinism  which  has  given  to  Boston  Tlieology  a  name  in  Europe. 
It  was  tlic  ilushful  morning-  of  I'nitarianism,  born  of  evangelical 
relio'ioM  on  the  on(^  side,  and  of  rationalistic  criticism  on  the  other. 
There  wen»  anticijiations  of  it  at  and  before  tlie  IJerormation, 
but  he  who  first  liroiiirht  it  under  the  notice  of  the  world  was  the 
ilhistrious  Dr.  Clianning,  of  whom,  pure,  ardent,  philanthropic, 
and  brilliant,  none  should  allow  himself  to  speak  except  with 
reverence.      -Vuainst   the   j)n>val(Mit   faith,  which    prostrates   itself 


314  SECOND   CREATIVE   PERIOD — FEATURES. 

in  the  dust,  and  darkens  creation  in  order  to  bring  out  the  splen- 
dor of  the  Creator,  he  asserts  the  free  agency  and  moral  dignity 
of  man,  especially  the  greatness  seen  in  — 

'The  intellectual  energy  which  discerns  absolute,  universal  truth,  in  the  idea  of  God, 
in  freedom  of  will  and  moral  power,  in  disinterestedness  and  self-sacrifice,  in  the  bound- 
lessness of  love,  in  the  aspirations  after  perfection,  in  desires  and  affections,  which  time 
and  space  cannot  confine,  and  the  world  cannot  fill.  The  soul,  viewed  in  these  lights, 
should  fill  us  with  awe.  It  is  an  immortal  germ,  wliich  may  be  said  to  contain  now  within 
itself  what  endless  ages  are  to  unfold.  It  is  truly  an  image  of  the  infinity  of  God,  and  no 
words  can  do  justice  to  its  grandeur.' 

Loftiness  of  conception  raised  him  and  his  disciples  into  the 
region  of  art;  and,  with  much  that  was  produced  in  the  charged 
atmosphere  of  Unitarian  revolt,  their  discourses,  overleaping  the 
boundaries  of  sect,  form  additions  to  American  literature.  While 
denying  the  divinity  of  Christ,  he  adhered  to  the  inspiration  of 
Scripture.  A  bolder  thinker  appeared,  a  strong  and  impulsive 
nature,  courageous  to  defend  the  weak  against  the  strong,  and 
prompted  by  a  deep  and  unselfish  love  of  man.  Parker,  passing 
the  limitations  set  by  his  master,  constructed  an  absolute  religion, 
a  system  drawn:  (1)  from  the  intuition  of  the  Divine,  a  conscious- 
ness that  there  is  a  God;  (2)  from  the  intuition  of  right,  a  con- 
sciousness that  tlierc  is  a  moral  law;  (3)  from  the  intuition  of  the 
immortal,  a  consciousness  that  the  soul  never  dies.  Rarely  has  a 
clergyman  drawn  his  society  so  closely  to  himself.  You  will  not 
be  surprised  that  he  should  become  the  object  of  passionate  devo- 
tion whose  heart,  out  of  its  very  abundance,  inspires  reflections 
like  these: 

'The  greatest  star  is  that  at  the  little  end  of  the  telescojje,  the  star  that  is  looking, 
not  looked  after  or  looked  at." 

'  The  orbit  of  the  mind  is  wider  than  creation's  utmost  rim ;  nor  ever  did  centrii)etal 
and  centrifugal  forces  describe  in  their  sweep  a  comet's  track  so  fair-proportioned  as  th(! 
cweepof  human  life  round  tluse  two  foci,  the  mortal  here,  and  the  immortal  in  flic  world 
not  seen." 

'Last  autumn,  in  some  of  the  pastures,  fire  ran  along  the  wall,  and  left  the  ground 
black  witli  its  cijliciiHTal  cliarctxil,  where  now  the  little  wind-flower  lifts  its  delicate 
form  and  bends  its  sli  luler  neck,  and  blushes  with  its  own  beautv.  gathered  from  the 
black  ground  out  of  wliich  it  grew:  or  some  trilliiim  opens  its  |)aiiited  ciij),  and  in  due 
tiiiii'  will  show  its  fruit,  a  bcaiitifiil  berry  there.  So  out  of  liuiiian  soil,  blackened  l)y 
another  fire  which  has  -wrpl  dmt  it,  in  iliic  time  great  flowers  will  come  in  llie  form  of 
spiritual  beauty  not  yet  seen,  and  oilier  fruit  grow  there  whose  seed  is  in  itself,  and 
which  had  not  ripi-mnl  but  out  of  ilial  lilack  ground.  Tims  the  lilies  of  i)eace  cover  the 
terrible  fields  of  Waterloo,  and  out  of  the  graves  of  our  dear  ones  there  spring  up  such 
(lowers  of  spiritual  loveliness  as  you  and  1  else  had  never  known.  It  is  ii.-)t  from  the  tall 
crowded  warehouse  of  pros))crity  that  men  first  or  clearest  see  the  eternal  stars  of 
heaven.  It  is  often  from  the  bumble  spot  w  here  we  have  laid  our  dear  ones  that  we  find 
our  best  observatory,  which  gives  us  glimpses  into  the  far-off  world  of  never-ending 
time.' 


PROSE  —  ETHICS.  315 

Sthics. — Assuming  an  acquaintance  on  the  part  of  the 
reader  with  the  discussions  of  this  subject  in  previous  chapters, 
it  would  seem  quite  unnecessary  to  do  more,  now  and  hereafter, 
than  to  classify  ethical  philosophers  with  respect  to  the  two 
great  schools  of  morals, —  the  rational  or  intuitive,  which  con- 
siders the  idea  of  good  to  be  an  a  priori  conception  of  reason, 
an  original  principle,  in  which  the  idea  of  obligation  is,  apart 
from  all  consequences,  essentially  and  necessarily  implied;  the 
inductive  or  utilitarian,  which,  denying  that  we  have  anv  such 
natural  perception,  maintains  that  the  notions  of  merit  and 
demerit  are  derived  solely  from  an  observation  of  the  tendency 
of  actions  to  promote  pleasure  or  to  cause  pain,  and  holds,  more- 
over, that  pleasure  and  pain  are  the  only  possible  objects  of 
choice,  the  only  motives  that  can  determine  the  will.  The 
former  are  the  fundamental  tenets  of  Stewart,  Hamilton, 
and  Coleridge;  the  latter,  of  Bentham,  wlio  declares  that,  if 
we  '  take  away  pleasures  and  paifis,  not  only  happiness,  but 
justice,  and  duty,  obligation  and  virtue,  all  of  which  have  been 
so  elaborately  held  up  to  view  as  independent  of  them,  are  so 
many  empty  sounds';  and  of  Mackintosh,  who  assorts  that 
conscience,  or  the  moral  faculty,  is  a  'secondary  formation'  out 
of  our  animal  appetites,  engendered  by  the  association  of  ideas. 
The  latter  is  similar  to  the  doctrine  of  Hartley, —  that  virtue, 
becoming,  through  the  observed  course  of  events  and  the  prom- 
ised joys  of  religion,  peculiarly  associated  with  the  idea  of 
pleasurable  things,  is  by  the  force  of  habit  soon  loved  indepen- 
dentlv  of  and  in  excess  of  these. 

We  have  amplv  shown  the  inade(|uacy  of  the  'hapjiiness' 
priiK'ij)le  to  reveal  the  origin  and  nature  of  the  moral  sentiments. 
Its  dviiamic  force,  as  furnishing  a  rule  f)f  action,  is  ol)vi()Us;  but, 
in  everv  consistent  form,  it  is  resolvable  into  selfishness,  and  its 
motive  is  therefore  not  moral.  Doulitless  a  j)lace  must  be  given 
it  in  everv  moral  svstem,  but  a  sulxtrdinate,  not  a  primary,  one. 
All  theories  of  virtue  which  do  not,  in  the  last  analysis,  raise  men 
above  the  thought  (^f  self,  witlidraw  from  moral  :ictioii  tliat  which 
is  a  main  constituent  of  it  —  its  unselfish  character  —  and  so  at 
best  retluce  it  to  th<^  level  of  ])rud(Mice.  The  liappirst  are  those 
who  think  h^ast  al)out  happiness.  To  jiossess  its  purer  essence, 
its  finer  bloom,  not  it,  but  some  higher  object,  nnist  l)e  the  end: 


316  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

Goodness  and  piety  may.  not  merely  fail  of  a  proposed  outward 
advantage,  but  are  often  compelled,  if  they  would  remain  such, 
to  lose  all,  and  to  suffer  much.  What,  then,  endures?  What  is 
sure  in  this  world  of  vicissitude,  confusion,  and  strife,  of  iniquity, 
suffering,  and  mysterious  doom  ? 

'What  wouldst  thou  have  a  good,  great  man  obtain? 
Wealth,  title,  dignity,  a  golden  chain. 
Or  heaps  of  corses  which  the  sword  hath  slain  ? 
Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  means,  but  ends. 
Hath  he  not  always  treasure,  always  friends. 
The  good,  great  man  ?    Three  treasures  —  love,  and  light, 
And  calm  thoughts,  equable  as  infant's  breath; 
And  three  fast  friends  more  sure  than  day  or  night, — 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death?'' 

Science. — The  initial  and  significant  fact  to  be  noted  here, 
for  its  influence  on  speculative  opinions,  is  the  gradual  replacing 
of  the  conception  of  law  by  that  of  supernatural  intervention. 
The  discoveries  of  geology,  even  in  the  last  century,  greatly 
modified  the  notion  that  the  earth  was  called  into  existence  and 
elaborated  instantaneously  in  all  its  parts  by  the  creative  fiat  of 
the  Deity.  Sir  Charles  Lyell  extended  the  ideas  previously 
entertained,  by  showing  (1)  how  great  the  changes  in  the  form 
of  the  earth  are  known  to  have  been,  ("2)  how  constantly  they 
are  going  on,  if  we  take  into  our  survey  the  whole  surface,  and 
(3)  by  urging  the  aggregate  effect  of  operations  long  continued, 
in  themselves  not  extraordinary.  In  addition  he  indicated  how 
plants  and  animals  are  now,  as  anciently,  being  embedded  in 
mineral  deposits,  how  their  remains  are  washed  into  caves,  or 
preserved  in  peat-mosses,  and  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the 
crust  of  the  earth  has  been  fashioned  in  the  course  of  vast  ages 
by  causes  like  those  vhich  are  still  in  action. 

It  was  percHMved  that  the  fossil  species  of  life  were  not  only 
different  from  those  which  at  present  inhabit  the  same  regions, 
but,  for  tlie  most  part,  different  from  any  extant;  that  therefore 
the  whole  (organic  creation  must  have  been  nmewed  repeatedly. 
Hence  either  we  must  believe  tliat  types  are  interchangeable, 
that  is,  that  the  organized  bcMiigs  of  one  geological  epoch  were 
transmuted  into  those  of  another  by  natural  agencies  ;  or  we 
must  assume  many  successive  creative  acts,  out  of  the  common 
course    of    nature,    and    consequently    miraculous.       On   the   one 

1  Coleridge. 


PROSE — SCIENCE.  317 

hand,  in  all  our  experience,  we  have  never  known  a  species 
created.  On  the  other,  we  have  never  known  such  a  plienoni- 
enon  as  transniututioii;  but  it  is  established:  (1)  that  animals 
and  plants,  when  placed  under  conditions  different  from  their 
previous  ones,  immediately  begin  to  undergo  certain  alterations 
of  structure;  ['Z)  that  such  alterations  have  been  effected  not 
only  in  irrational  creatures,  but  in  the  several  races  of  men; 
(3)  that  it  is  a  matter  of  dispute  whether  some  of  the  forms 
so  modified  are  varieties  or  separate  species.  The  astonishing 
discovery  is  made  that  every  vertebrate,  in  the  j)rogress  of  its 
development,  passes  through  the  phases  of  the  several  orders 
below  it.  Thus  our  attention  is  invited  to  the  correspondence 
which  the  embryo  man  exhibits  to  the  fish,  the  salamander,  the 
tortoise,  the  bird,  the  whale,  the  quadruped,  and  the  ape.  Which, 
then,  wc  arc  asked,  is  the  more  reasonable  and  defensible  hypothe- 
sis,—  that  life  originates  in  some  simple  primordial  substance, 
ami  is  slowly  evolved  into  ten  million  varieties,  or  that  a  new 
species  is  a  special  creation,  mouldcnl  into  being,  thrown  from 
the  clouds,  or  sprung  from  the  ground?  — 

'  I'frfict  forms 
Iiinil)t'(l  and  full-ijrown :   out  of  tliu  jrroiiiul  uprose, 
As  trom  his  lair,  IIk;  wild  l)east  wticrc  he  woiis 
In  forest  wild,  in  thicket,  hrake,  or  den:  .  .  . 
The  yra^sy  clods  now  calved:    now  half  ai)])eared 
Tlio  tawny  lion,  pawing  to  get  free 
His  hinder  |>arts:    then  springs  as  broke  from  bounds, 
And  rampant  shakes  his  brinded  mane."  ' 

And  so  the  scientific  concejitions  which  in  these  latter  dtiys  have 
been  so  fruitful  of  debate,  wliicli  have  so  profoundly  affected  lit- 
eraturt'  and  opinion,  were  already  assuming  form  and  lineament. 
Darwin  was  preparing  to  stir  all  luirope  by  the  boldness  of  his 
s])eculat  ions.  Tin;  unknown  autlinr  of  \'esti(fes  of'  Creittioii  first 
attempted  svstemat  ically  to  prove  that  the  ])liysi<'al  and  vital 
affairs  of  the  universe  are  all  under  tiie  rc^yulat  ion  of  law.  A 
re\iewer,  who  has  prohahlv  livc^l  to  smile  at  his  iiicfedtdity  and 
ahiriii.  euriouslv  stvles  it  'one  of  tlu"  most  striking  and  ingenious 
seiontiiie  romances  that  we  have;  ever  read.'  Its  cardinal  teach- 
ings ar(>  thus  stmiinari/ed : 

'  The  masses  of  f^jiace  are  formed  by  huv :  law  makes  them   in  iliie  time  theatreHi.f 
existence  for  plants  and  animals :  M'n<ation,  disposition,  intellect,  are  all  in  like  manner 

^ Paradn'e  Lost,  Vll. 


318  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

developed  and  sustained  in  action  by  law.  It  is  most  interesting  to  observe  into  how 
small  a  field  the  whole  of  the  mysteries  of  nature  thus  ultimately  resolve  themselves. 
The  inorganic  has  been  thought  to  have  one  final,  comprehensive  law,  gravitation.  The 
organic,  the  other  great  department  of  mundane  things,  rests  in  like  manner  on  one  law, 
and  that  U  —  dereloimient.  Xor  may  even  these  be  after  all  twain,  but  only  branches  of 
one  still  more  comprehensive  law,  the  expression  of  a  unity,  flowing  immediately  from 
the  One  who  is  First  and  Last.' 

But  the  Development  Theory,  whetlier  applied  to  the  organic 
world  or  to  the  inorganic,  is  itsell'  a  historical  growth,  older 
than  the  nineteenth  century,  older  even  than  the  eighteenth. 
We  have  intimations  of  it  in  Aristotle.  More  or  less  crudelv,  it 
was  held  by  Anaxiinander  over  two  thousand  years  ago.  'The 
originals,'  says  Emerson,  '  are  not  original.  There  is  imitation, 
model,  and  suggestion,  to  the  very  archangels,  if  we  knew  their 
history.  .  .  .  Read  Tasso,  and  you  think  of  Virgil;  read  Virgil, 
and  you  think  of  Homer;  and  Milton  forces  you  to  think  how 
narrow  are  the  limits  of  human  invention.' 

Philosophy. — As  a  reaction  against  the  materialism  ot  the 
eiglit(>enth  century,  believed  to  be  the  source  of  frightful  im- 
morality, Reid  in  England  and  Kant  in  Germany  had  laid  the 
foundations  of  a  more  spiritual  creed.  At  Berlin,  students  had 
assembled  in  crowds  to  hear  the  ideal  grandeur  of  Fichte.  The 
transcendental  Schelling,  the  sphin.\-like  Hegel, .were  attracting 
the  attention  of  Europe.  In  France,  the  impassioned  Cousin  was 
charming  the  gay  Parisians  into  sympathy  with  the  lofty,  jiro- 
found,  and  divine.  At  this  juncture  a  new  star  rose  on  the 
philosophic  horizon.  Sir  William  Hamilton,  an  intellectual 
athlete,  the  most  brilliant  of  English  metaj)iiysicians,  carried  to 
its  zenith  the  fame  of  the  Scottisli  school  for  the  study  of  the 
human  mind.  His  subjective  cast,  his  ideal  bent,  his  elevated 
concejition  of  sjieculative  problems,  appear  at  the  outset  in  his 
detinitifju  of  philosophy  itself: 

'The  liniitMlion  of  the  term  philosoiihy  to  the  sciences  of  mind,  when  not 
expressly  cxtcndcil  to  tlic  (>thiT  brauclics  of  science,  has  been  always  that  griicrally 
I)rcvali'nt ; — yet  it  must  he  confessed  tliat,  in  this  countiy,  the  word  is  applied  to  sub- 
jects with  which,  on  llie  coiitiiuiit  of  Europe,  it  is  rarely,  if  e\er,  associated.  With  us, 
the  worii  i)hilf>sop!iy,  taken  by  itself,  does  not  call  up  the  jirecise  and  limited  notion 
which  it  does  to  a  (ierinan,  a  Hollander,  a  Dane,  an  Italian,  or  a  Frenchman;  and  we  are 
oblJL'ed  to  say  the  i)hil()>opliy  of  mind,  if  we  do  not  wish  it  I<v  be  vaguely  extended  to  the 
FciiTices  conversant  with  the  i)henomena  of  matter.  We  not  only  call  Physics  by  the 
nauu'  of  Natural  Philosophy.  l)ut  every  nierhanical  process  lias  with  us  its  philosophy. 
We  liavo  l)(>iiks  on  the  i)hil()soi)liy  of  Manufactures,  the  i)hil(>sophy  of  .Agriculture,  the 
jihilosophy  of  Cookery,  etc.  In  'ill  this  we  are  the  ridicule  of  other  nations.  Socrates, 
it  is  said,  lirouglit  down  jjliilosophy  from  the  clouds, —  the  Engli>h  have  licgraded  her  to 


PKOSE  — PHILOSOPHY.  319 

the  kitchen;  and  this,  our  prostitution  of  the  term,  is,  by  foreigners,  allegeil  an  a  signifi- 
cant indication  of  the  low  state  of  the  mental  sciencea  in  Britain.' 

Consciousness,  he  holds,  is  the  basis  of  all  intelligence.  We  are 
conscious  not  of  the  internal  alone  but  of  the  external,  of  the 
non-ego  as  reallv  as  of  the  etjo.  Mind  and  matter  are  the  two 
antithetical  factors  always  and  necessarily  given  in  every  act  of 
})erception.  '  We  have  no  reason  whatever  to  doubt  the  report 
of  consciousness,  that  we  actually  perceive  at  the  external  point 
of  sensation,  and  that  we  perceive  the  material  reality.'  That  is, 
"vve  have  an  immediate  and  direct  knowledge  of  physical  objects: 

'The  total  and  real  object  of  perception  is  the  external  object  under  relation  to  our 
sense  and  faculty  of  cognition.  Suppose  tlie  total  object  to  be  twelve,  that  the  external 
reality  cont^titutes  ^ix,  tlie  material  sense  tliree,  and  tlie  mind  three;  this  may  enable 
you  to  form  some  conjecture  of  the  nature  of  the  object  of  [xjrception.' 

Moreover,  we  can  know  a  thing  only  as  it  stands  related  to  our 
faculties.  The  latter  being  different,  our  knowledge  would  be 
different.  To  know  is  thus  to  limit.  Hence  we  can  know  or 
conceive  only  tlie  conditioned,  not  the  infinite  or  the  absolute. 
'  Existence,  absolutely  and  in  itself,  is  to  us  as  zero.'  The 
ahi^obde  eoinincncement  of  anything  that  exists  is,  therefore, 
inconceivable.  Consequently  we  are  compelled  to  believe  that 
every  event  has  a  cause.  The  idea  of  causation,  we  are  taught, 
does  not  arise  from  ])ower,  but  from  want  of  it  —  the  inability  to 
pursue  a  thing  into  nonentity.  In  like  manner,  we  cannot  con- 
cei\('  a  volition  wholly  undetermined;  that  is,  a  cause  which  is 
not  itself  caus(>d  :  but  if  lil)erty  is  inconc(Mvable,  so  also  is  its 
ojiposife,  necessity.  Though  each  of  two  contradictory  opposites 
be  Ijeyond  the  limits  of  thought,  one  must  be  held  as  ti'ue;  and 
tiio  appeal  is  to  consciousness,  the  Jiible  of  ])hilosc)j)liy,  which 
declares  in  favor  of  CJod,  freedom,  and  immortality. 

(  )u;-  present  concern  is,  not  to  ask  whether  these  doctrines  l)e 
true,  liuL  to  suggest  that  tlie  lesson  is  saliitarv, —  faitli  in  the 
iiivisililc;  and  to  note,  in  this  reviv;il  of  ])liilosopliy,  the  cliange 
from  the  sensual  to  the  super-S(>nsual,  a  change  manifest  in  all 
the  high  imaginative  litiTature  of  the  period.  Si)eculation  and 
])0(^trv  were  alike  uplifting  and  essentially  interior, —  engrossed 
bv  interests  of  the  soul;  a  common  character  due  in  ])art  to  the 
univ(M'sal  renewal  of  ideas  and  idealitv,  in  jtart  to  the  im])orta- 
tion  of  svstems  and  dreams  across  the  Cerman  Ocean,  mainly  by 
Coleridge,  ^^'or^lsworth,  the  Scotch  thinkers,  and  Carlyle. 


320  SECOND    CREATIVE    PERIOD — I'EATURES. 

Resume. — The  death  of  William  IV,  in  1837,  closes  the  reign 
of  personal  government,  and  the  accession  of  Victoria  marks, 
amid  confusion,  discontent,  and  doubt,  the  expansion  of  consti- 
tutional freedom.  The  Tories,  or  Conservatives,  go  into  office; 
the  Whigs,  or  Liberals,  into  opposition;  while  the  rise  of  the 
Free-Trade  movement  and  the  ('hartist  agitations  indicate  the 
ferment  and  spread  of  republican,  or  democratic,  principles. 
Industrial  strikes,  socialistic  assemblages,  reform  projects,  church 
dissensions,  uiechanieal  improvements,  the  discoveries  of  science 
and  their  application  to  the  business  of  life,  prove  the  period 
to  be  one  of  excitement,  of  enthusiasm,  and  of  growth.  The 
opinions  and  contests  born  of  the  French  Revolution  inflame  the 
passions  and  stimulate  the  imaginations  of  Europe.  New  thoughts, 
new  hopes,  new  fears,  new  sentiments,  pass  into  the  heart  and. 
brain,  and  inspire  a  new  literature,  that  reflects  the  mighty  com- 
motions and  the  numerous  agencies  which  concur  in  its  formation. 
Poets  become  innovators.  Scott  revives  primitive  feeling  and 
feudal  exploit.  Coleridge  (^pens  tlie  door  to  a  stream  of  German 
ideas,  while  another  sweeps  in  from  France.  The  two  currents 
lead  to  the  study  of  first  principles  and  the  assertion  of  tran- 
scendental truth.  P]motion  is  preeminent;  nature,  the  goddess  of 
adoration.  Style  becomes  a  free  and  direct  expression  of  thought. 
Poetry,  the  predominant  form  of  literature,  breathes  a  spirit  of 
universal  sympathy;  distinguished  in  its  philosojihical  character 
especially  by  Wordswortli,  in  its  imaginative  character  by  Shelley, 
in  its  revolutionary  character  by  Byron.  The  drania  is  less  pro- 
lific of  excellence.  Few  of  the  great  venture  on  the  field;  still 
fewer  reap  aiiv  laurels.  Miction  communicates  the  spirit  and 
lessons  of  history,  or  exhibits  in  life  and  action  new  theoric^s  of 
education  and  morals.  Much  of  the  intellectual  power  of  the 
age  is  ex])ended  in  reviews,  ('riticism,  aiming  at  life,  clearness, 
and  unity,  throws  a  flood  of  light  upon  the  ])ast.  Historical  com- 
position, aiming  at  the  harmony  and  significance  of  manners  and 
events,  appeals  to  the  tiioughtful,  <'ultivated  student  of  human 
affairs.  Utility  is  tiie  avowed  ])rinciple  of  action,  and  science, 
spreading  with  unexampled  zeal,  is  aj^plied  to  the  arts  with  bril- 
liant success.  The  consciousness  of  the  Divine  presence  is  being 
identified  with  the  notion  of  consistent  and  regular  evolution. 
Rationalism   engenders   »nore   liberal   views   of  God,  a  more  fra- 


THE    WIZARD    OF   THE    NORTH.  321 

ternal  disposition,  and  a  purer  worship.  Benevolence  acts  on  a 
wider  scale.  Religious  culture  flows  into  new  channels,  winds 
its  course  among  humble  valleys,  refreshes  thirsty  deserts,  and 
enriches  distant  climes. 

America,  absorbing  within  herself  and  harmonizing  the  dis- 
cordant elements  of  other  races,  produces  little  of  general  interest 
likely  to  become  classical.  The  leading  impulse  is  the  pursuit 
of  wealth.  The  cares  of  existence  exclude  its  embellishments. 
Originality  passes  into  machines.  Religion  is  expansive  and 
practical.  Literature  is,  to  a  great  degree,  an  offshoot  or  continu- 
ation of  the  European.  The  few  who  write  art  largely  English 
in  substance,  still  more  in  form.  Irving  and  Cooper  —  though  the 
one  remembers  Addison  or  Goldsmith,  and  the  other  Scott  — 
have  the  refreshing  flavor  of  nationality.  Poetry,  with  hardly  an 
exception,  hari)s  on  the  transatlantic  strings.  Here  and  there, 
in  this  and  other  departments,  are  risen  or  rising  lights  which 
render  the  country  conspicuous  at  a  distance.  But  the  literary 
atmosphere  is  wanting;  and  what  is  done  is  chiefly  prized,  on 
the  whole,  as  a  promise  of  higher  and  more  extensive  effort. 

A  stirring,  ])regnaiit,  eventful  age,  whose  utterance  —  display- 
ing tlie  prevalent  passion  for  change,  the  thirst  for  untried  good, 
the  impatience  of  endured  wrong,  the  deeper  sense  of  human 
worth  —  comes  from  the  soul  in  the  language  of  conviction  and 
stronu"  feeliim". 


S  C  ()  T T . 

Bk'Pfings  nnd  pniyors  in  luiblcr  retinue 

Than  sceptred  kinji  or  laiirellcil  e(in<|iuT<>r  knowp, 

Follow  tlie  wondrous  poli'utixiv.—  Wordsirorth. 

Biography. — Born  in  Edinburgli,  in  17T1;  taken  at  the  age 
of  threti  to  tlie  farm-house  of  an  aged  relative  to  try  tlie  enicacy 
of  bracing  air  on  his  little  shrunken  leg;  spent  his  days  till  his 
eio'lith  vear  in  tlie  open  fields,  in  the  fellowsiiip  of  slict  p  and 
lambs,  and  fed  his  imagination  on  legends  of  bonl(M'  licroisni  and 
adventiUH';  tlien  sent  to  the  High  School  of  his  native  town,  where 
he  became  distinguished  as  a  story-teller;  transferred  to  the  uni- 
21 


322      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPUESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

versity,  where,  instead  of  the  regular  course  of  studies,  he  pored 
over  Ariosto,  Cervantes,  and  other  romancers;  contracted  an  ill- 
ness by  the  bursting  of  a  blood-vessel,  and,  forbidden  to  speak, 
did  nothing  but  read  from  morning  till  night;  became  a  clerk  to 
his  father,  and,  in  the  midst  of  his  mechanical  duties,  made  fre- 
quent excursions  —  often  on  foot  —  in  search  of  traditional  relics; 
became  an  advocate,  and  continued  to  travel,  exploring  streams 
and  ruins,  gleaning  legends  and  ballads;  married,  settled  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tweed,  collated  the  3Iinstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Jiordci',  and  in  1805  appeared  as  an  original  poet.  From  poetry 
he  passed,  in  1814,  to  fiction,  beginning  the  long  series  of 
Waverley,  and  continuing  it  at  the  rate  of  two  each  year;  trans- 
formed his  cottage  into  a  mansion,  tried  to  revive  the  feudal  life, 
and  dispensed  princely  hospitality  to  those  who  were  attracted 
in  crowds  by  the  splendor  of  his  name;  went  into  partnership 
with  his  printers,  and  at  the  age  of  fifty-five  found  himself  ruined; 
resolved,  with  admirable  courage  and  uprightness,  to  wipe  out  by 
literary  task-work  a  debt  of  one  hundred  and  seventeen  thousand 
pounds ;  paid  seventy  thousand  in  four  years,  exhausted  his 
brain,  and  died  a  paralytic  in  1832. 

"Writings. — Percy's  JRellqiccs  had  prepared  the  way  for  the 
3IinMrelsy,  wliich  contained  many  new  ballads,  with  valuable 
local  and  historical  notes.  Its  reputation  led  the  world  to  expect 
something  brilliant.  In  the  maturity  of  liis  powers,  he  wrote  the 
J^<i>/  of  the  Ziust  Minstrel,  which  was  received  with  a  rapture  of 
enthusiasm.  This  is  a  story  of  the  sixteenth  century  reviving 
tlie  manners  and  sentiments  of  chivalrous  times.  The  portrait 
of  the  aged   har])er,  last  of  the  race,   is  inimitable: 

•Thn  way  was  lonp;,  the  wind  was  cold, 
Tlu>  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old; 
IIi>  withered  clieck,  and  tresses  Rray, 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day; 
The  narp,  liis  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  l)y  an  orphan  boy. 
Tlie  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he 
Wlio  sinii;  of  IJordcr  chivalry; 
For  wclla-dayl    thojr  date  was  fled; 
Hi-  tuneful  brethren  all  were  d<'ad. 
Anil  he,  ncL'lected  and  oppressed, 
Wislied  to  be  with  tliom.  and  at  rest. 
No  more,  on  prancin;;  iialfrey  borne, 
He  carohMl,  lit.'ht  as  lark  at  moin; 
■^o  Innsfor  courted  and  caressed. 


SCOTT.  323 


High  placed  in  hall  a  welcome  gnest, 

Ilo  poured  to  lord  and  lady  gay. 

The  unpremeditated  lay: 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone; 

A  stranger  filled  tlie  Stuart's  throne; 

The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 

Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 

A  wandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor. 

He  begged  his  bread  from  dix)r  to  door, 

And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 

The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear.' 


Scott's  love  of  country  was  like  the  passion  of  a  lover  for  his 
bride.    His  fervid  patriotism  is  inspirational  in  those  famous  lines: 

'Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead. 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned. 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand: 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  liis  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  cau  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  ho  sprung. 
Unwept,  unhonoured,  and  unsung.' 

The  same  rapid  movement,  the  same  animated  variety  of 
scenery  and  incident,  ai)pear  in  the  r^reater  jK>em  of  Jldniiion. 
The  battle  scene  and  death  of  the  hero  are  among-  its  most 
sj)irited  passages.      Tlie  following  is  a  liiK^  piece  of  descrijition: 

•Day  sot  at  Norham's  castled  steep,  St.  Ocorse's  banner,  broad  and  gay. 

And  Tweed's  fair  river,  hroad  and  deep,  Now  faded  a*  the  fading  ray, 

.\nd  Clieviot's  mountains  lone:  Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung; 

The  hattlfd  towers,  the  donjon  keep.  The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  pnwer 

The  loopliole  grates  where  captives  weep,  To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  lower. 
The  flankiii:;:  walN  that  round  it  sweep.  So  heavily  it  hung. 

In  yellow  lustre  shone.  The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  hiirh.  The  castle  gates  were  barred; 

Gloving  athwart  the  evening  .-ky,  .Vbove  the  gloomy  portal  arcli. 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height:  Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march. 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  tlie  rays.  The  warder  kept  his  gaard. 

Flashed  back  again  the  weslern  blaze.  Low  humminc,  as  lie  i>aced  alonir. 

In  lints  of  dazzling  light  Some  ancient  Border  gathering  song." 

Iloro  and  there  we  find  a  well  remembered  passage,  to  instruct 
or  elevate  by  its  sentiment: 

'()  woman!  in  our  lii>ur-  of  ease, 
rncerlain,  coy,  and  lianl  to  plfa-^e. 


324      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  uiinistoring  angel  tlioul' 

Of  the  same  chivalric  type,  but  more  richly  picturesque,  as 
well  as  more  regular  and  interesting  in  plot,  is  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake,  the  most  popular  of  the  autlior's  poems.  The  press  could 
hardly  keep  pace  with  the  demand.  The  post-horse  duty  rose  in 
Scotland  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  from  the  eagerness  of  trav- 
ellers to  visit  the  localities  described.  If  the  other  may  be 
styled  courtly,  sounding,  and  stirring,  this  may  be  called  tender, 
gentle  and  domestic.  The  following  are  illustrations  of  its 
deeper  meaning  and  subtler  interest: 

'At  first  the  chieftain  to  liis  cliime, 

With  lifted  hand,  kept  feeble  time; 

Tluit  motion  ceased;  yet  feeling  strong 

Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song: 

At  length  no  more  his  deafened  ear 

The  minstrel's  melody  can  hear: 

His  face  grows  sharp;  his  hands  are  clenched 

As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched; 

Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 

Is  sternly  tixed  on  vacancy. 

Tlius,  motionless  and  moanless,  drew 

Ills  parting  breath  stout  Roderick  Dhu.' 

And: 

'He  is  gone  on  the  mountain,  The  autumn  winds  rushing, 

lie  is  lost  to  the  forest.  Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 

Like  a  summer-dried  fountain  But  our  flower  was  in  Hushing, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest.  Wlien  blighting  was  nearest. 

The  font  reappearing.  Fleet  foot  on  the  correi. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow,  .Sage  counsel  in  cumber. 

But  to  us  comes  no  clieering.  Red  hand  in  the  foray. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow!  How  sound  is  thy  slumber  1 

The  hand  of  the  reaper  Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain. 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary,  Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper  Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 

Wails  mauliood  in  glory.  Thou  art  gone,  and  forever!' 

Tliciicefortji  his  popiilaritv  as  a  jioct  sensibly  declined,  a  fact 
due  in  part  to  unfortiiiiato  choice  of  subject,  in  part  to  exhaustion 
of  the  particular  vein,  and  in  part  to  the  eclipsing  radiance  of  a 
new  star, —  Byron, —  wlio  now  drew  attention,  for  the  first  time, 
from  tlie  outward  form  f)f  man  and  nature  to  the  secret  recesses 
of  soul.  Iicturning,  therefore,  to  his  former  notion  of  illustrating 
tlie  manners  of  the  past  in  prose,  as  he  had  done  in  verse,  he 
found  among  some  old  hniilK'r  in  the  attic  an  incomplete  manu- 
script thrown  aside  nearly  ten  years  before,  and  in  1814  presented 


SCOTT.  325 

anonymously  to  the  world  the  first  of  his  long  series  of  descriptive 
and  historical  novels, — Waccrle;/.  Pourin<r  after  it,  came  the  flood 
of  its  successors.  The  following,  including  historical  epochs  and 
dates,  is  a  tabular  view  of  the  vast  and  varied  cycle  which  made 
the  'Great  Unknown,'  as  he  was  called,  the  wonder  of  his  age: 

/.    Historical. 

''"'''''-^*-  KI'Di  IIS.  IIATE8. 

Waveui.ky,  »o//Uh.  PretciKliT's  altoinpl,  1745 

Old  MouTALiTY,  "  Kebellion  of  the  Covenanters  1679 

LiXiKND  OF  ^I()^Tl!O^E,  "  Civil  War.  1W5 

The  Abbot,  "  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  1568 

The  Moxastehy,  "  Mary  Queen  of  Scot-.  155!) 

Faiu  Mau)  OF  I'KRTii,  "  ReiL'ii  of  Robert  III,  14tW 

Castle  Dangekols,  "  Blaek  Douglas,  1806 

IvANHOE,  English,  Richard  I-ion-Hcart,  IIW 

Kenilw  oitTH,  "  Reign  of  Klizalieth,  1575 

FouTiNEs  OF  Nigel,  "  Reijrn  of  James  I,  16* 

Peveuil  or  THE  Peak.  "  ReiL'ii  of  Charl.'s  II,  1660 

Retuotiiei),  "  Welsli  War:*,  1187 

Talisman.  "  Richard  Lion-Heart,  1193 

Woodstock,  "  Civil  War  and  Commonwealth,  16.VJ 

Quentin  DruwAUD.  Continfiital.  Louis  XI  and  Charles  the  Bold,  1470 

Anne  of  CiEiEi;sTEi\,  "  Epoch  of  Battle  of  Nancy,  1477 

Count  Robeut  of  Pakis.  "  Crusaders  at  Byzantium,  1090 

,?.    Social. 

titles.  dates.                                titles.  dates. 

Gi-Y  Manneuin(;,                                  IT.'K)  The  Pikate,  lT<ti) 

Antiqlaiiv,                                             17!)'<  St.  Ronans  Well,  18IK) 

Black  Dwakf.                                       1708  REixiAfNTi.ET.  1770 

Ror.  Roy,                                                 171.')  Sciujeon's  nAii.iiTEK,  1750 

IlEAItT    OF    MiDLilTllIAN.  l'.")l  Two    DuoVEliS,  1705 

Bllini;    OF    I.AMMEIIMOCIU.  170O  IlUiHLAND    WiDOW,  17.">5 

'V\\o  latter  class,  dilTcriiig  from  the  furnicr  inainlv  in  a  less 
T-loso  attacliinciit  of  the  narrative  to  history,  relate  chielly  to 
^;cf)ttish  sceiierv  and  character.  In  addition  to  this  prodigious 
anioiint  of  lahor,  h(>  wrote  much  of  a  miscellaneous  nature  for 
review.'^,  edited  Drvtlen  and  Swift,  produced  numerous  works  in 
the  de[)artmeiits  of  criticism  and  biography;  among  tiuMn,  IJj'c 
of  jV<'/)o/<'(>/),  l\ili  X  of  <i  (i /'(Oulf'athir,  r)(')no)ioh><jii  oml  Wifi/t- 
crcft.  Was  ever  such  acfivitv  known,  combined  with  sucli  general 
('Xi'ell(Mice  ill  the  results? 

Style. — .\l\vavs  easv  and  graphic,  full  of  giaee  and  glowing 
briiihtness.  thouo'h  ne\'er  jiolished.  proverbiallv  careless  and  incor- 
rect, as  of  one  who  looked  only  at  broad  and  general  etVects,  and 
was   studious   not   st)   much   of   melody  as   of   j>ictures.      In   v<'rse, 


326     SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

flowing  and  vivid;  an  imitation,  to  some  extent,  of  the  irregular 
form  adopted  by  the  early  minstrels.  The  prevailing  measure 
is  the  octosyllabic,  so  well  suited  to  a  rapidly-succeeding  variety 
of  emotions. 

The  picturesque  would  seem  to  have  been  his  forte.  Witness 
the  magnificent  descriptions  of  sunset,  sea,  and  forest: 

'The  81111  was  now  resting  his  luigo  disk  ni)on  tlie  edge  of  the  level  ocean,  and  gilded 
the  accnnnilation  of  towering  clouds  tlirougli  whicli  he  had  travelled  the  livelong  day, 
and  which  now  assembled  on  all  sides,  like  misfortunes  and  disasters  around  a  sinking 
empire  and  falling  mouarch.  i>till,  however,  his  dying  splendour  gave  a  sombre  magniti- 
cence  to  the  massive  congregation  of  vapours,  forming  out  of  the  unsubstantial  gloom 
the  show  of  pyramids  and  towers,  some  touched  with  gold,  some  with  puri)le,  some  with 
a  hue  of  deep  and  dark  red.  The  distant  sea,  str6tched  beneath  this  varied  and  gorgeous 
canopy,  lay  almost  portentously  still,  reflecting  back  the  dazzling  and  level  beams  of 
the  descending  luminary,  and  the  splendid  colouring  of  the  clouds  amidst  which  he  was 
Betting  Nearer  to  the  beach,  tlie  tide  rijipled  onward  in  waves  of  sparkling  silver,  that 
imperceptibly,  yet  rai):dly,  gained  upon  the  sand." ' 

And: 

'Tlie  sun  was  setting  upon  one  of  the  rich  glassy  glades  of  the  forest.  Hundreds  of 
Ijroad-headed,  short-stemmed,  wide-branched  oaks,  wliich  had  witnessed,  perhaps,  the 
stately  march  of  the  Roman  soldiery,  thing  their  gnarled  arms  over  a  thick  carpel  of  the 
most  delicious  greensward :  in  some  places  they  were  intermingled  with  beeches,  hollies, 
and  copsewood  of  various  descriptions,  so  closely  as  totally  to  intercept  the  level  beams 
of  the  sinking  sun  :  in  others,  they  receded  from  each  other,  forming  those  long  sweei)ing 
vista<,  in  tlie  intricacy  of  which  the  eye  delights  to  lose  itself;  while  imagination  con- 
siders them  as  the  paths  to  yet  wider  scenes  of  silvan  solitude.  Here  the  red  rays  of  the 
sun  shot  a  broken  and  discoloured  light,  that  fell  partially  njion  the  shattered  boughs 
and  mossy  trunks  of  the  trees;  and  there  they  illiiininated,  in  brilliant  patches,  the  por- 
tions of  turf  to  which  they  made  their  way.  A  considerable  open  space  in  the  midst  of 
this  glade  seemed  formerly  to  have  been  dedicated  to  the  rites  of  Uniidical  superstition  ; 
for  on  the  summit  of  a  hillock,  so  regular  as  to  seem  artificial,  there  still  remained  part 
of  a  circle  of  rough  unhewn  stones,  of  large  dimensions.  Seven  stood  upright ;  the  rest 
ha<l  been  dislodged  from  their  jjlaces,  probably  by  the  zeal  of  some  convert  to  Chrii  tian- 
ity,  and  lay,  some  i)rostiate  near  their  former  site,  and  others  on  the  side  of  the;  hill. 
One  large  stone  only  had  found  its  way  to  the  bottom,  and  in  stopping  the  course  of  a 
small  brook  which  glided  smoothly  round  the  foot  of  the  eminence,  gave,  by  its  opposi- 
tion, a  feeble  voice  of  murmur  to  the  placid  and  elsewhere  silent  streamlet."'' 

Hank. —  In  poetry,  the  ureat  modern  troubadour.  Thougli 
not  111'  till'  illuslriou.s  few  of  the  first  chiss,  lie  is  tlio  most  eminent 
in  min.strelie  power.  To  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and  Byron,  he  is 
inferior  in  the  ])erceptioii  of  tlie  spiritual  mysteries  of  the  uni- 
verse; superior  in  creative  oncept  ion,  or  the  e()ni])reheiisiveness 
which  freeil  him  from  jiersonal  jirejudices  in  describing  life  and 
manners,  and  wiiicli  enabled  him  to  rej>r(\sent,  not  one  man,  but 
collective  human  luiture.  In  the  refined  processes  of  imagination 
an<l   feeling,  as  j)oet  oi-  novelist,  Ik;  is  eonfessedlv  deficient,  while 


SCOTT.  327 

he  has  something  in  common  with  Shakespeare  in  the  power  of 
rendering  palpable  the  remote,  and  idealizing  the  actual.  Pro- 
fountl  analysis  there  is  not.  In  the  delineation  of  character  and 
scenery  he  devotes  himself  comparatively  to  the  exterior,  having 
neither  the  talent  nor  the  leisure  to  reach  the  depth.  The  world 
which  he  exhibits  is  not  of  the  highest  art,  true  at  once  to  the 
particular  and  the  universal.  Call  it  either  modern,  enlightened 
by  the  far-setting  sun  of  chivalry;  or  Middle  Age,  sifted  of  its 
harsher  features,  softened  and  transfigured  by  the  present.  In 
the  power  of  simple  narration  he  is  almost  unequalled.  Over 
every  scene  he  pours  the  full  tide  of  exuberant  existence,  and 
makes  it  live  and  glow.  Writing  with  great  rapidity,  he  aimed, 
in  his  plots,  at  no  more  than  picturesque  arrangement.  The 
braverv  of  his  stru<rgle  raises  liim  as  high  among:  the  heroes  of 
his  race   as  does  his  genius  among  its  writers. 

Character.— The  temper  of  his  mind  was  spirited,  active, 
objective,  chivalrous.  He  had  a  peculiar  affinity  with  historic 
forces.  His  tastes  and  habits  were  antiquarian.  lie  wished  to 
be  the  founder  of  a  distinct  branch.  His  establishment  was  on 
the  feudal  scale;  his  house  was  fashioned  in  imitation  of  the 
ancient  castles.  Flis  museum  and  grounds  were  adorned  with 
relics.  Tlie  tunes  he  loved  were  the  siini^le  notes  of  his  native 
minstrelsv.  As  was  remarked  above,  he  could  seize  readily  the 
sensible,  significatit  features  of  objects,  but  had  little  spiritual 
penetration  into  their  sources,  relations,  and  issues.  He  said 
himself,  in  expressing  his  admiration  of  Miss  Austen: 

'The  biL'  bow-wow  >tr;iiii  T  can  do  myself,  like  any  now  iroinir,  but  the  cxiiuisitc 
louch  u  hirh  rciidcrs  ordinary  coninionplacc-  lliiiiL's  and  characti-rs  intcri>tiiiL'.  from  tlic 
Iriilh  of  Ihr  ili'M-riplion  and  tlic  M'nlinnnt>.  i-  drnird  lo  me.' 

Tlioiigli  an  aristocrat  and  a  Tory,  he  loved  men  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart.  None  ever  treated  his  inf(?riors  with  greater 
kin(hiess.  His  domestics  serv(Ml  him  gladlv  because  they  loved 
him.  His  shining  face  didused  its  exhilarating  glow  wherever  it 
appeared.  His  manners  were  spontaneous.  "(Jive  me  an  honest 
laugher,'  he  said.  'Sii-  \\'alter,'  said  one  of  his  old  retainers, 
'speaks  to  everv  man  as  if  he  W(M'e  his  blood-ndation.'  It  was 
in  his  own  home  that  his  benevolence  found  its  proper  theatre 
for  expansion.  He  (h'liglited  to  collect  his  tenantry  around  him 
conviviallv.      He    watched    over    the    education    of    liis    children, 


328     SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

shared  in  tlieir  rides,  rambles   and  sports.     lie  says  in  one  of  his 
letters: 

'Tlure  arc  many  good  things  in  life,  wli.itevcr  .-satirists  and  misanthropes  may  say 
to  tlic  contrary,  but  probably  tho  best  of  all,  next  to  a  conscience  void  of  offence  (without 
which,  by  the  by,  they  can  hardly  exist),  are  the  quiet  exercise  and  enjoyment  of  the 
social  feelings,  in  which  we  are  at  once  happy  ourselves,  and  the  cause  of  happiness  to 
them  who  are  dearest  to  us.' 

His  fellowship  extended  to  dogs,   of  which   he  was  excessively 
fond,  pet  hens,  pet  donkeys,  and  pet  pigs. 

The  genial  sunshiny  freshness,  the  general  healthiness,  mani- 
fest in  his  pages,  indicate  a  radical  quality  of  his  mind.  Though 
his  sensibilities  were  easily  moved,  he  thouglit  less  of  sympathiz- 
ing with  sorrow  than  of  mitigating  it.      Such  is  his  philosophy: 

'The  last  three  or  four  years  have  swept  away  more  than  half  the  friends  with  whom 
I  lived  in  habits  of  great  intimacy.  .  .  .  Yet  we  proceed  with  our  i)lantations  and  plans 
as  if  any  tree  but  the  sad  cypress  would  accompany  us  to  the  grave  where  our  friends 
have  gone  before  us.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  however,  and  must  be  so;  otherwise 
life  would  be  sjjent  in  unavailing  mourning  for  those  whom  we  have  lost.  It  is  bettor 
to  enjoy  the  society  of  those  who  remain  to  us.' 

The  basis  of  his  character,  as  of  all  great  ones,  was  energy 
triumphant  over  infirmity,  disease,  and  disaster.  His  memory 
was  precocious.  An  urchin  at  school,  he  could  repeat  whole 
cantos  of  Ossian  and  Spenser.  What  he  acquired  witli  facility 
he  retained  with  pertinacity.  He  threw  his  ideas  into  language 
with  marvellous  ease.  The  last  two  volumes  of  'Wdverley  were 
written  in  three  loeeks!  A  student  watching  the  movement  of 
his  hand  from  the  window  of  a  neighboring  attic,  said:  'It  never 
stops;  page  after  page  is  finished  and  thrown  ujion  that  heap  of 
manuscript,  and  still  it  goes  on  unwearied;  and  so  it  will  be  till 
caiuUes  are  brought  in,  and  God  knows  how  long  after  that.  It 
is  the  same  every  night.  I  can't  stand  thc'sight  of  it  when  I  am 
not  at  my  books.'  He  rose  at  five  the  year  round,  antl  was 
scrupulouslv  exact  in  the  distribution  of  his  hours. 

Ilis  first  anil:)ition  was  feudal  magnificence.  Literary  glory 
was  secondary.  His  own  productions  he  disparaged,  yet  criti- 
cisni  aiHioyed  him.  '  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  read  the  attacks 
made  upon  me.'  So  is  Voltaire  said  to  have  been  indifferent  to 
praise,  while  the  least  worjd  from  an  enemy  drove  him  crazy. 

Light  and  careless  as  lie  would  seem  to  have  been,  he  was 
inherently  and  consistently  sad.      This  is  an  entry  in  his  journal: 

'Anybody  would  think  from  tlic  fal-de-ral  conclusion  of  my  journal  of  yesterday  that 
I  left  town  ii\  a  very  good   humor.     I5ut   nature  has  given  me  a  kind  of  buoyancy  —  I 


SCOTT.  329 

know  not  what  to  call  it  — that  4ninfrle!i  with  my  deepest  afnictions  and  most  gloomy 
hours.  I  have  a  secret  pride  — I  fancy  it  will  be  most  truly  termed  — which  impeU  me 
to  mix  with  my  distress  strange  snatches  of  mirth,  which  have  no  mirth  iu  them." 

Wo  have  more  than  once  remarked  this  blending  of  opposite  if 
not  paradoxical  qualities.  Grimaldi,  a  celebrated  clown,  was 
pursued  by  a  devouring  melancholy.  Liston,  whose  face  would 
set  an  audience  in  good  humor,  was  a  confirmed  hypochondriac. 
Moliere  was  grave  and  silent.  Invited  to  an  evening  party,  to 
entertain  the  company  with  his  wit,  he  scarcely  opened  his  lips. 
To  a  physician  of  Paris  there  came  one  day  an  unknown  patient, 
suffering  under  the  deepest  depression  of  mind,  without  any  dis- 
coverable or  assignable  cause.  '  You  must  drink  good  wine,' 
said  he.  '  I  have  in  my  cellar  the  best  wine  in  the  world,'  replied 
the  unknown;  'but  it  cannot  make  mo  forget  my  sadness.'  '  Vou 
must  travel,  then.'  '  I  have  made  the  tour  of  Europe;  and  still 
my  wretchedness  has  travelled  with  me.'  'Oh,  oh!  the  case  is 
sad,  indeed;  but  still  there  is  a  remedy:  go  every  evening  to  the 
Italian  comedy;  you  will  see  the  celebrated  harlequin  Biancolelli 
play;  his  gayety  is  catching;  that  will  make  you  cheerful.' 
'/Mas,  sir  I   I  see  my  malady  is  incurable:   I  am  Jiiancolelll  f 

InfluenCG. — The  vast  sums  wiiieh  his  prose  and  verse  won, 
show  how  extensive  was  his  popularity.  He  was  the  favorite  of 
his  age,  read  over  the  whole  of  Europe.  He  was  the  master- 
spirit that  entered  the  wide  field  of  historical  romance  and 
gleaned  its  wealth  for  posteritv.  Without  writing  specifically 
for  ethical  aims,  he  wrote  with  ethical  truth,  and  is  full  charged 
with  the  morality  of  the  future.  Apart  from  their  historical 
value,  which  is  great,  the  Waverley  seri(>s  created  an  improved 
taste  —  a  taste  for  good  sense  and  genuine  feeling,  as  o]>posed  to 
vapid  sentimentalism  and  romantic;  extravagance.  With  all  his 
deliirht  in  Highland  chiefs  and  Border  thicn-es,  he  lias  a  true 
brotherhood  with  men,  and  coiitiiuiallv  hints  some  tie  between 
the  reader  and  tlie  vast  varieti(\s  of  being,  ever  with  an  cyv.  and  a 
heart  to  — 

'Mal<c  channels  for  tiie  streams  of  love 
Where  they  may  hroadly  run." 

Doul)tl<>ss,  without  being  ])rofessedly  so,  he  wished  to  be  use- 
ful. It  filled  his  eyes  with  tears  to  be  told  that  he  was  doing 
great  good  bv  his  attractive  and  noble  tales.  His  fuiulaniental 
honestv,  and  his  wide  hunianitv  would  form  an  a  j^n'ior'i  guarantee 


330     SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

that  his  works,  on  the  whole,  should  contribute  to  the  ameliora- 
tion of  man  and  society.  On  his  deathbed  it  consoled  him  that 
he  had  not  compromised  the  interests  of  virtue.  He  said  to  his 
son-in-law: 

'  Lockhart,  I  may  have  but  a  minute  to  speak  to  you.  My  dear,  be  a  good  man  —  be 
virtuous,  be  religious  — be  a  good  man.  Xoiiiing  else  will  give  you  comfort  when  you 
come  to  lie  here.' 


WORDSWORTH. 

I  do  not  know  a  man  more  to  be  venerated  for  uprightness  of  heart  and  loftiness  of 
genius.—  W'alfer  Scott. 

Biography. — Born  at  Cockermouth,  in  the  north  of  England, 
in  ITTO;  educated  at  Cambridge;  travelled,  visited  France,  and, 
with  the  rest,  felt  the  flame  of  the  Revolution;  returned,  lived  in 
seclusion  and  devoted  himself  to  poetry,  which  he  was  enabled 
to  do  by  a  small  legacy  from  a  young  friend;  formed  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Coleridge,  and  with  him  went  to  Germany;  returned  and 
settled  with  his  sister  at  Grasmere,  Coleridge  and  Southey  resid- 
ing near  them, —  wfience  the  famous  Lake  School;  received  an 
increase  of  fortune,  and  married  a  friend  of  his  early  days,  of 
whom,  in  the  third  year  of  his  married  life,  he  wrote: 

'6V/e  came,  no  more  a  Phantom  to  adorn 
A  moment,  but  an  inmate  of  the  heart, 
And  yet  a  spirit  there  for  me  ens'hrined 
To  i)enetrate  the  lofty  and  the  low; 
Even  as  one  essence  of  pervading  light 
Shines  in  the  brightest  of  ten  thousand  stars.' 

Made  repeated  tour.s  in  Scotland  and  on  the  Continent,  enjoyed 
the  favors  of  government,  succeeded  Southey  as  poet-laureate, 
lived  uneventfully,  engrossed  by  contemplations,  and  gladdened 
by  growing  fame,  and  died  in  1850,  calmly,  peacefully. 

"Writings. — Such  a  life  was  suited  to  nourish  a  thinker  and 
a  moralist.  His  great  work  is  the  K.rcursion,  a  genuinely  noble 
poem  on  the  interests  of  the  soul,  as  thus  set  forth  with  the 
imposing  seriousness  of  meditation,  in  the  grave,  grand  harmonies 
of  the  organ: 

'On  Man,  on  N:itiiro,  and  on  Hnman  Life, 
Musin;:  in  soliltuic,  I  oft  iierceive 


WORDSWORTH.  331 

Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise. 

Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight, 

Pure,  or  withi  no  unpleatiing  sadness  raised; 

And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  tiioughts 

And  dear  remembrances,  whose  presence  soottics 

Or  elevates  the  mind.  Intent  to  weigh 

The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 

To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come. 

Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 

Or  from  the  Soul, —  an  impulse  to  herself,— 

I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  verse. 

Of  Truth,  of  Grandeur,  Beauty,  Love,  and  Hope, 

And  melancholy  Fear  subdued  by  Faith ; 

Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress; 

Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  Power; 

Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  ; 

Of  the  individual  mind  that  keeps  her  own 

Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 

To  Conscience  only,  and  the  law  supreme 

Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all  — 

I  sing!' 

The  poet  falls  in  with  a  meditative  pedler:  the  two  walk  and 
commune  regarding  nature  and  human  destiny.  The  wandering 
sage  muses  tenderly,  cheerfully,  on  the  troubles  of  the  world, 
assured  — 

'That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe'er 
Sad  or  disturbed,  is  ordered  by  a  Being 

Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power,  I 

Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good.' 

The  brooding  quiet,  as  of  distance  and  space;  the  circling  seasons, 
the  falling  leaves,  the  episodical  and  momentary  aspects  of  his 
surroundings, —  inevitably  suggest  the  everlasting  flow  and  ebb 
of  things,  the  fnial  evanescence  of  all: 

'So  fails,  so  languishes,  grows  dim  and  dies. 
All  that  this  world  is  proud  of.     From  their  spheres 
The  stars  of  human  glory  are  cast  down; 
PerUh  the  roses  and  the  flowers  of  kings. 
Princes,  and  emperors,  and  the  crowns  and  I)alm8 
Of  all  the  niighly,  witliered  and  consumed  1 
Nor  is  power  given  to  lowliest  innocence 
I.iOiig  to  protect  her  own.     The  man  himself 
Departs;  and  soon  is  spent  the  line  of  those 
Who,  in  the  luxlily  image,  in  the  mind. 
In  heart  or  soul,  in  station  or  pursuit 
Did  most  resemble  him.     Degrees  and  ranks, 
Kraternities  and  orders  —  lieai)ing  high 
New  wealth  upon  the  burthen  of  the  old. 
And  placing  trust  ni  privilege  contirmed 
And  re-conlirmed  —  are  scolTed  at  with  a  smile 
Of  greedy  foretaste,  from  the  secret  stand 
Of  (le-olatioii  aimed:  to  slow  <lecl!ne 


832     SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

These  yield,  and  these  to  sudden  overthrow; 
Their  virtue,  service,  happiness,  and  state 
Expire;  and  Nature's  pleasant  robe  of  green. 
Humanity's  appoiiited  shroud,  enwraps 
Their  monuments  and  their  memory.' 

They  are  introduced  to  a  hermit,  a  man  driven  to  despair  by 
disappointment  and  bereavement,  unable  to  learn  the  lesson  of 
submission,  fiery,  impatient,  proud  and  passionate.  All  proceed 
to  the  house  of  the  pastor,  who  recounts  some  of  the  mutations 
which  have  passed  over  his  sequestered  valley,  and  delivers  this 
sublime  message  to  the  proud,  vain,  restless,  doubting,  and 
weary  —  the  comprehensive  and  familiar  invitation  of  the  etenial 
Beneficence: 

'The  sun  is  fixed. 
And  the  infinite  magnificence  of  heaven 
Fixed  within  reach  of  every  human  eye. 
The  sleepless  Ocean  murmurs  for  all  ears. 
The  vernal  field  infuses  fresh  delight 
Into  all  hearts.  .  .  . 

The  primal  duties  shine  aloft  like  stars. 
The  charities  that  soothe  and  heal  and  bless 
Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  man, —  like  flowers.' 

Then  this  final  great  truth,  which  comprehends  the  rest: 

'Life,  I  repeat,  is  energy  of  love 
Divine  or  human;  exercised  in  pain. 
In  strife  and  tribulation;  and  ordained. 
If  so  ai)proved  and  sanctified,  to  pass. 
Through  shades  and  silent  rest,  to  endless  joy.' 

The  beautiful  is  not  confined  to  the  rare.  That  which  makes 
the  beauty  of  poetry  is  the  sentiment,  not  the  dignity  of  the 
characters,  nor  the  pomp  of  the  words.  Wordsworth's  desire 
was  to  teach  and  elevate  by  simple  means;  to  reveal,  to  the  hum- 
blest, the  inexhaustible  treasures,  the  loveliness,  the  sacredness, 
the  mystery  of  the  common-place.  We  are  Seven  is  an  illustra- 
tion, altogether  spiritualistic  and  non-conventional: 

'I  met  a  little  cottage  girl; 

She  was  eiglit  years  old,  she  said ; 
Her  hiiir  was  thick,  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  liail  a  rustic  woodland  air, 

.■\iid  she  was  wildly  clad, 
Ilcr  (  yes  were  fair,  and  very  fair, — 

Ilcr  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be?" 
"How  many?     Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

.\nd  wondering  looked  at  me. 


WORDSWORTH.  333 

"And  where  are  they?    I  pray  you  tell." 

She  aiiHwerci),  "Seven  are  we; 
And  two  of  lis  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie. 

My  sister  and  my  brother: 
And  in  the  churchyard  cottage  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  lliat  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  arc  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven!    I  pray  you  tell. 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be?"' 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie. 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"Y'oxi  run  about,  my  little  maid, 

Y'our  limbs  they  are  alive; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid. 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"Their  graves  are  green,  tliey  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied, 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door. 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

My  stockings  there  I  often  knit. 

My  kercliief  there  I  hem. 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit,— 

I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 

And  often  after  sunset,  Sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

,\nd  eat  my  supper  tliere. 

The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane; 

In  ))ed  sh(!  moaning  lay, 
Till  (jod  released  her  from  her  pain, 

.\iKi  then  she  went  away, 

iio  iti  the  churchyard  she  was  laid; 

.\iiil  whrii  the  grass  was  dry. 
Together  round  her  uravo  we  playi>d, — 

My  brother  Jolin  and  I. 

And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  -now, 

.\nd  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  wa-;  forced  to  i,'o, — 

And  lie  lies  by  her  side." 

"How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  1, 

"If  they  two  are  in  heavenV 
Thi-  little  maiden  did  reply, 

"O  master  1   wo  are  seu-ii." 

"But  they  are  dead;  those  two  are  dead" 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven!" 
'Twas  throwing  words  away:  for  still 


334     SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven!'" 

It  is  perhaps  to  these  minor  poems  that  he,  like  Milton,  owes 
his  warm  and  living  place  in  the  English  heart.  Another  is  the 
Intimations  of  Immortality,  a  marvellous  outburst  of  highest 
poetry,  as  unexceptionable  in  diction  as  it  is  deep  and  true. 
Whoever  has  recollection  of  his  early  years,  whoever  cherishes 
the  hallowed  dreams  of  youth,  whoever  has  observed  with 
thoughtful  reverence  the  tastes,  delights,  affections,  the  mythic 
utterances  and  strange  questionings  of  childhood,  will  appreciate 
these  Platonic  lines: 

'  There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight. 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more.  .  .  . 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting; 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us  —  our  life's  star  — 
Ilath  had  elsewhere  its  setting. 

And  Cometh  from  afar, 
Not  in  entire  forgetfuluess. 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy; 
Shades  of  the  prison  house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy; 
But  he  beholds  the  light  and  whence  it  flows, 

lie  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  youth  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel  still  is  nature's  priest; 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended. 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day.' 

Some  of  his  sonnets  are  very  beautiful;  for  instance,  the  fol- 
lowing, at  once  powerful  and  SAveot: 

'It  is  a  bciuitcous  evening,  calm  and  free; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration:  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity: 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea; 
Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 
And  doth  with  His  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  — everlastingly. 
Dear  child!  dear  girl!  tliat  walkest  with  me  here. 


WORDSWORTH.  335 

If  thou  appear'st  untouched  by  solctnn  thought. 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 
And  worship's!  at  the  temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not." 

Style. — Himself  a  creature  of  the  reaction  which  set  in  with 
Cowper  and  Burns,  he  rushed  to  ridiculous  extremes  of  simplicity, 
and  in  his  earlier  poems  resolved  to  write  as  rustics  talked,  main- 
taining that  their  language  was  the  fittest  for  verse  of  every 
description.  He  also  contended  that  poetic  diction  should  be  in 
all  respects  the  same  with  that  of  prose.  Accordingly,  we  have 
a  serious  and  affecting  poem,  We  ore  Seven,  beginning  thus: 

'A  little  child,  dear  brother  Jim.' 

In  another,  equally  pathetic,  a  blind  boy  ventures  on  the  sea: 

'In  such  a  vessel  ne'er  before 
Did  liunKin  creature  leave  the  shore.' 

That    is,  he  pushes  out  into  the  perilous  element  in  — 

'A  household  tub  like  one  of  those 
Which  women  use  to  wash  their  clothes.' 

Words  derive  their  tone  and  color  from  the  ideas  they  embody 
and  the  heat  they  contain.  Poetry  may  descend  to  the  level  of 
colloquialism,  but  cainiot  be  confined  there.  In  his  later  pro- 
ductions, and  in  the  most  successful  of  his  earlier  ones,  Words- 
worth deviated  from  his  theory.  Sometimes  insipid,  sometimes 
diffuse,  he  is  usually  graceful  and  harmonious,  austerely  pure, 
and  (leeplv  musical,  often  magnificent. 

Rank.— The  poet  of  reflection  and  contemplation.  By  his 
self-consciousness,  and  liis  want  of  passion,  he  is  not  of  the 
Shakespearean  mould,  nor  hence  of  those  who  move  human 
nature  most  profoundly.  His  jiersonages  are  without  reality  — 
abstractions.  Solemn  and  even,  <»ssentially  philosoj)hical  and 
undraniatie,  he  ItcKfUgs  to  the  Miltonian  ty))e  without  reaching 
the  eminence  of  that  bard  of  Paradise.  As  an  interpreter  of 
nature,  he  took  the  step  which  ("liaucer  and  ."^liakespearc  never 
took, —  to  e.xplcH'c  tlie  virtue  which  resides  in  the  synil)ol,  to 
describe  oiijects  as  they  alTect  human  h«>arts,  to  show  liow  the 
inflowiiiir  world  is  a  material  image  through  which  the  sovertMgn 
mind  holds  intercourse  with  man.  Foremost  and  alone  as  the 
])oet  of  the  common  ami  familiar,  not,  indeed,  of  the  wit  and 
merriment  in  thiiiixs,  Init  of  the  tenderness  and  tlK)Uirhtfulness  in 


336     SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

them.  His  ideas  and  sentiments  are  not  in  general  those  of  the 
present,  and  cannot  interest  the  worldly.  They  rank  him  with 
those  who  sing  prophecies  of  a  new  and  larger  era. 

No  English  author  has  so  divided  the  critics.  A  few  —  De 
Quincey  and  Coleridge  among  them  —  think  that  he  belongs  to 
the  first  class;  the  majority  think  that  he  is  not  entitled  to  this 
distinction.  Meanwhile  his  star  is  climbing  ever  higher  into 
the  unclouded  sky.  The  circle  of  his  readers  widens  with  the 
process  of  the  suns. 

Character. — His  reading  was  not  extensive.  He  looked 
nature  and  man  directly  in  the  face,  seemingly  resolved  to  take 
nothing  at  second-hand.  Essentially  a  thinker  and  a  dreamer, 
listening  to  his  own  thoughts  in  solitary  complacency,  and  thus 
falling  into  the  errors  of  undue  exaltation  of  the  trivial,  undue 
consciousness  of  self,  excessive  indifference  to  the  meditative 
world  and  its  noisy  inanities.  CarKie,  speaking  of  his  deport- 
ment at  a  large  and  sumptuous  dinner,  says: 

'  I  look  upwards,  leftwards,  the  coast  being  luckily  for  a  moment  clear;  then,  far  off, 
beautifully  screened  in  the  shadow  of  his  vertical  green  circle,  which  was  on  the  other 
side  of  him,  sate  Wordsworth,  silent,  slowly,  but  steadily,  gnawing  some  portion  of 
what  I  judged  to  be  rais^ins,  with  his  eye  and  attention  placidly  fixed  on  these  and  these 
alone:  the  sight  of  whom,  and  of  his  rock-liKe  indifference  to  the  babble,  quasi- 
scientific  and  other,  with  attention  turned  on  the  small  i)ractical  alone,  was  comfortable 
and  amusing  to  me,  who  felt  like  him,  but  could  not  eat  raisins.  This  little  glimpse  I 
could  still  paint,  so  clear  and  bright  is  it,  and  this  shall  be  symbolical  of  all.' ' 

His  self-absorption  was  so  great  that  he  was  unconquerable 
by  criticism  or  ridicule.  He  was  a  law  unto  himself,  moving 
forward  in  the  full  assurance  that  his  work,  though  unpopular, 
would  be  immortal.  Spared  the  disturbing  cares  with  which 
most  men  have  to  struggle,  worshipped  by  his  family,  prosperous 
and  happy, —  circumstances  increased  his  naturally  high  sense  of 
Hierit.      Tliis  is  Carlyle's  peculiar  'reminiscence': 

'One  eveuin'jr,  I  got  him  upon  the  subject  of  great  poets,  who  I  thought  might  be 
admirable  e(nially  to  us  l)oth:  but  was  ratlier  mistaken,  as  I  gradually  found.  Pope's 
partial  failure  I  was  prtijanil  for;  less  for  the  narrowish  limits  visible  in  Milton  and 
others.  I  tried  him  with  I!t!rits,  of  whom  he  had  sung  tender  recognition;  but  Burns 
al,-o  turned  out  to  lie  a  limited  inferior  creature,  any  genius  he  had  a  theme  for  one's 
pathos  rather:  even  Sliakesixare  himself  had  his  blind  sides,  his  limitations;  gradually 
it  Ijecaine  api)areut  to  me  lliat  of  transcendent  unlimited  there  was,  to  this  critic,  jiroba- 
bly  but  one  speiimen  knf)wn,  Wordsworth  himself  I' 

Seated  on  a  throne  in  the  sechision  of  his  mountains,  it  doubt- 


WORDSWORTH.  337 

less  seemed  to  him  right  and  fitting  to  relate  in  the  Prelude  the 
history  of  his  mind — 'how  it  had  orbed  into  the  perfect  star.' 

His  love  of  nature  was  a  passion  —  a  blissful  and  holy  one.  In 
boyhood,  forms  and  colors  were  a  rapture;  in  manhood,  they  were 
essences  ineffable: 

'For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  tne  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh,  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man, 
A  motion,  and  a  spirit,  that  imi)els 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 
And  rolls  through  all  things.' 

So  intense  was  his  spirituality,  that  he  saw  poetical  elements 
in  all  objects,  something  sacred  and  sublime  in  the  lowest.  A 
washing-tub  and  a  sucking  i)ig  are  linked  with  exalted  and  kind- 
ling truths.  Doubtless  he  thus  invited,  if  he  did  not  merit,  the 
shafts  of  ridicule.  It  is,  we  think,  this  disposition  or  desire  to 
see  under  disguises  and  humble  forms  everlasting  beauty,  that 
explains  the  occasional  want  of  dignity  in  his  themes,  as  well  as 
his  colloquial  familiarity  of  treatment.  He  desired  so  to  wed  the 
minds  of  men  to  this  goodly  universe,  that  Elysian  groves  and 
Fortunate  Fields  should  be  a  produce  of  the  common  day: 

'  I$y  words 
Which  spciik  of  iiotliing  more  than  wh;it  we  are. 
Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 
Of  (lentil,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 
To  noble  raptures.' 

Onlv  through  the  soul  can  tln'  outer  world  be  riglitlv  aj)])rehended. 
Aifcction,  pure  and  noble,  is  always  to  be  honored  and  admired 
as  much  in  tlu?  })oasant  as  in  the  prince.  No  one  has  more  j)ower- 
fullv  delineated  the  sentiments  of  ])enevoleiu"e,  charity,  and  love. 
^\'i^ll  an  ex(|uisite  delicacv  and  depth  of  feeling,  he  was  defective 
in  the  stronger  passions,  and  hence  had  little  power  to  stir  the 
blood.  Seldom,  indeed,  lias  he  reached  the  wannlh  of  the  follow- 
ing description,  whose  tints  are  all  ideal: 

'His  present  mind 
Was  under  fascination;   he  beheld 

22 


338     SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

A  vision,  nnd  (vdored  the  thing  he  saw. 

Arabian  fiction  never  filled  the  world 

With  half  the  wonders  that  were  wrought  for  him. 

Earth  breathed  in  one  great  presence  of  the  spring: 

Life  turned  the  meanest  of  her  implements 

Before  his  eyes,  to  price  above  all  gold: 

The  house  she  dwelt  in  was  a  sainted  shrine; 

Her  chamber  window  did  suri>ass  in  glory 

The  portals  of  the  dawn;  all  paradise 

Could,  by  the  simple  opening  of  a  door. 

Let  itself  in  upon  him;  pathways,  M-alks, 

Swarmed  with  enchantment,  till  his  spirit  sank 

Surcharged  within  him,— overblest  lo  move 

]Jeneath  a  sun  that  wakes  a  weary  world 

To  its  dull  round  of  ordinary  cares; 

A  man  too  happy  for  mortality  I ' 

On  the  whole,  a  plain,  sincere,  manly,  wise,  and  happy  man, 
calm,  contemplative,  and  self-supported,  to  whom  existence  was 
moral  and  divine;  quite  inexplicable,  indeed,  by  English  mud 
and  English  utilities  ! 

Influence. — On  the  poetry  of  his  age,  beneficial  and  exten- 
sive. He  supplied  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  antagonism  to  the 
philosophy  which  wraps  the  soul  in  a  'sensual  fleece,'  and  gave 
the  final  quietus  to  the  theory  of  mere  taste  and  imitation,  oppos- 
ing to  romantic  themes  and  inflated  diction,  sense,  nature  and 
simplicity.  More  than  any  other,  perhaps,  did  he  contribute  to 
spiritualize  modern  imaginative  literature.  He  enlisted  intellects 
in  favor  of  an  expansive  and  kindly  philanthropy,  brightened 
daily  life  with  images  of  beauty  and  grace,  gave  us  nobler  loves 
and  nobler  cares. 

Too  little  sensuous  to  be,  as  yet,  widely  popular ;  but  that 
popularity  will  extend  in  proportion  as  the  general  mind  ascends 
to  his  mount  of  vision.  As  long  as  ])erfection  is  the  pole-star  of 
humanity,  admiring  revercn(;e  will  bo  paid  — 

'To  THE  MEMonv  of 
W1LI,I.\M   WOP,DSWORTH, 

A    TlUK    TMIIl-OSOPHER   AND    POET. 

Who  nv  a  speciai,  oift  ano  calling  of  Ai.miohty  God, 

WnETiiEU  he  i>is(  orusEi)  ON  Man  oil  Natitue, 

Failed  not  to  lift  it  the  iieaut  to  holy  thin(;s. 

Tired  not  of  maintainini;  the  cai^se  of  the  Poor  and  Simple, 

And  so,  in  perii.ofs  times,  was  p.aised  i:p  to  be 

A  (iiiEF  ^iinisteu,  not  only  of  nop.lest  Poesy, 

RlT   OF    Hllill    AND    SAC  UED    TllUTII.'' 

'InscriiJtioii  on  the  mural  tnouuniont  in  Orasniere  Church. 


THE    REVOLUTIONARY    POET.  339 


BYRON. 

Never  had  any  writer  so  vast  a  coiiiaiand  of  the  whole  eloquence  of  scorn,  misan- 
thropy, and  despair.— J/acau/ay, 

Biography. — Born  in  London,  in  1T88;  son  of  a  brutal  rois- 
terer, who  ill-treated  his  wife,  squandered  her  property,  then 
deserted  her;  his  mother  a  'lioness,'  so  passionate  that  in  mo- 
ments of  fury  she  would  rerid  in  pieces  her  dresses  and  bonnets, 
call  him  a  'lame  brat,'  throw  the  fire-shovel  at  his  head,  then 
caress  him,  weep  over  him.  Both  were  alternate  storm  and 
calnu  Once  they  quarrelled  so  terribly,  that  each  went  privately 
to  the  apothecary's  to  see  whether  the  other  had  been  to  purchase 
poison.  Another  time,  they  snatched  from  his  hand  a  knife  witli 
which,  in  one  of  his  silent  rages,  he  was  in  the  act  of  cutting-  his 
throat.     To  school  at  five,  and  at  eight,  like  Dante,  a  lover: 

'My  passion  had  its  usual  effects  upon  me.  I  could  not  sleep  —  I  could  not  eat  —  I 
could  not  rest;  and  although  I  had  rt-a.^on  to  know  tliat  she  loved  nie,  it  was  the  texture 
of  my  life  to  think  <jf  the  time  which  must  ela])se  before  we  could  meet  aiiain,  being 
usually  about  twolvu  hours  of  separation.  But  I  was  a  fool  then,  and  cm  not  much 
wiser  now." 

At  twelve  he  fell  in  love  with  his  cousin,  who  died  a  year  or  two 
afterwards,  'one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  evanescent  beings.'  At 
fifteen  he  formed  an  ardent  attachment  for  Mary  Chaworth,  whose 
father  the  poet's  grand-uncle  had  slain  in  a  tavern  brawl.  She 
became  the  betrothed  of  another,  and  their  parting  interview  is 
immortalized  in  Tin  Dream  : 

'I  saw  two  beins;s  in  the  hues  of  youili. 
Standiiii;  upon  a  hill:  a  gentle  hill, 
(Irti'u  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last. 
As  'twere  tlie  caite  of  a  long  ridge  "f  such, 
Save  tliat  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
Tim  ,1  most  living  land>cape,  and  the  wave. 
Of  woods  and  eorn-lields.  and  the  abodes  <if  men, 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke. 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs:  the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a  i)eculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  >o  fixed, 
■Not  by  the  sporl  of  nature,  but  of  man: 
The-i'  two,  a  maiden  ami  a  youth,  were  there 
(;azitiL'— tlie  one  on  all  thai  was  b,-nealh, 
F:iir  as  lier-elf  — but   the  boy  i,':i/ed  on   ber; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  wus  beautiful: 
-Vud  both  were  young  — yet  not  alik<'  in  youth. 
.•\s  the  sweet   moon  on  the  borizoirv  vefL'e, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood; 


340      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

The  boy  had  fc^vcr  summers',  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him/ 

At  twenty-seven,  when  the  soul  had  well-nigh  exhausted  the 
body,  and  the  body  the  soul,  he  married  Miss  Milbanke,  of  whom 
he  had  said: 

'  Yesterday,  a  very  pretty  letter  from  Annabella,  which  I  answered.  What  an  odd 
situation  and  friendship  is  ours  I— without  one  spark  of  love  on  either  side,  and  produced 
by  circumstances  which  in  general  lead  to  coldness  on  one  side,  and  aversion  on  the 
other.  She  is  a  very  superior  woman,  and  very  little  spoiled,  which  is  strange  in  an 
heiress  —  a  girl  of  twenty  —  a  peeress  that  is  to  be,  in  her  own  right  —  an  only  child  and 
a  savanie,  who  has  always- had  her  own  way.  She  is  a  poetess,  a  mathematician,  a  meta- 
physician, and  yet,  withal,  very  kind,  generous,  and  gentle,  with  very  little  pretension. 
Any  other  head  would  be  turned  with  half  her  acquisitions,  and  a  tenth  of  her  advantages.' 

Meanwhile  he  had  studied  at  Harrow  and  at  Cambridge,  reading 
much,  exercising  vehemently,  living  irregularly,  devouring  all 
sorts  of  learning  except  that  which  was  prescribed;  had  travelled 
on  the  Continent,  had  risen  to  renown,  had  been  the  idol  of  the 
gay  and  the  life  of  the  riotous  ;  had  been  lashed  to  madness  by 
the  critics,  had  declared  war  upon  society.  His  wife  thought  him 
insane,  had  him  examined  by  physicians,  learned  that  he  was  in 
his  right  mind,  then  left  him,  after  a  union  of  twelve  months,  and 
refused  ever  to  see  him  again.     This  is  his  wail  : 

'  Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee. 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain. 
While  that  placid  sleep  came  o"er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again.  .  .  . 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 
All  my  madness  none  can  know: 
All  mv  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest. 
Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go.  .  .  . 

Fare  thee  well !  thus  disunited. 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 

Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted. 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die.' 

A  daughter,  Ada,  reminded  the  wretclied  ])arents  of  what  might 
liave  been, —  a  cliild  of  love,  'though  born  in  bitterness  and  nur- 
tured in  convul.siou.''  In  the  touching  lines  which  close  tlie  third 
canto  of  Cli'ihh  ILirahh  he  has  vision  of  the  sweet  face  that  is 
lost  witliout  lioj»e,  and  of  the  liappiness  which  he  shall  never  know: 

'My  daughter  I  with  thy  name  this  song  begun, — 
My  (huigliter !  with  thy  name  thus  miicU  shall  end, — 
I  sec  lliee  not.  I  liear  thee  not. —  hut  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee:  tliou  art  the  friend 


BYRON.  341 

To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  ycarx  extend: 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  8houldt<t  behold. 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,  when  mine  is  cold,— 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould.' 

The  blame  rested  upon  him.  Popular  feeling  was  strong.  He 
was  abused  in  the  papers,  and  hooted  in  the  streets.  Miserable 
and  reckless,  he  left  England  in  1816  forever: 

'Once  more  upon  the  waters!  yet  once  more! 
And  the  waves  l)ound  beneath  ine  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.    Welcome  to  their  roar! 
Swift  be  their  guidance  wheresoe'er  it  lead! 
Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  a«  a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvas  llutterinK  strew  tlie  gale. 
Still  must  I  on:   for  I  am  as  a  weed. 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam  to  sail 
■Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath  prevail.' 

He  went  to  Geneva,  the  poisoned  arrows  rankling  in  his  memory 
and  his  heart;  to  Rome,  to  Ravenna,  to  Venice,  whore  he  steeped 
himself  in  the  voluptuous  Italian  life;  wrote  continually,  in  scorn- 
ful isolation,  insj)ircd  by  the  sul)limity  without  and  the  tempest 
within;  braved  danger,  a  score  of  times  near  death;  sank  even 
to  debauchery;  roused  himself,  and  in  1823  embarked  for  Greece, 
to  aid  in  her  struggle  for  independence.  There,  from  exposure, 
he  was  seized  with  a  fever,  and  expired  in  a  few  days,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-six,  amid  the  mourning  of  the  nation,  having  raised 
himself  to  the  height  of  glory,  and  del)ascd  himself  to  the  depth 
of  shame. 

"Writings. — Such  a  man  will  transcribe  himself  into  his  verses. 
CJiilde  Harold  is  a  diary  of  travel  and  experience.  All  were 
captivated.  '  I  awoke  one  morning  and  found  myself  famous.' 
All  saw  the  autlior  in  the  hero,  who  — 

'Wa<  sore  sick  at  heart, 
.■\ii(l  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee: 
'I'is  -.lid,  .It  times  the  sullen  tear  wouM  start, 
lint   Pride  ciniireard  Ihe  drop  wilhin  his  e"c: 
Apart   lu'  slalk'd  in  joyless  reverie. 
And  from  liis  iiali\e  hind  res(dve<l  to  iro. 
And  vi<il   -corchin:^  clinics  beyond  the  >c:i : 
Witli  iilcasnre  drni."_''d,  he  ahno-I   loni/'d  for  woe.' 

Later  he  throws  olT  the  lua.sk,  mid  avows: 

•Vet   m\\>\   I  tliink  los  wildly:  —  ]  htn  ■'  tliouL'ht 
'I'oii  loni,'  and  darkly,   till   niy  brain   hrcanu. 
In  it>  own  eddy  hdilinir  and  o'crwronirlit. 
\   whirling;  ;.'nlf  of  ])hanta-y  and  (lame: 


342    SECOND  cr?:ative  period  —  representative  authors. 

And  thus,  iinta.ught  in  youth  ni3'  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  were  poisoned.      'Tis  too  late ! 
Yet  am  I  changed:   though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  life  cannot  abate, 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate.' 

When  nature  is  thus  surveyed,  every  word  will  note  an  emotion. 
Every  touch  will  be  vivid.  The  most  powerful  will  reveal  the 
caged  panther  that  rages  to  leap  upon  some  satisfying  object. 
Thus: 

'Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  1   ye 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;   the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, —  if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests!   is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nestl* 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is  most  within  me, —  could  I  wreak 

My  thoughts  ni)on  expression,  and  thus  throw 

Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 

All  tliat  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 

Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe  —  into  one  word, 

And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak; 

But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard. 

With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword.' 

In  this  furnace-flanie  history  becomes  animate,  and  we  see  again 
the  pomps  and  splendors  of  its  plumed  and  disorderly  procession: 

'I  .stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand; 
1  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand; 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
(Ver  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marbh'  piles, 
Wliere  ^'enice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles!' 

The  far  past  is  rej)0()j)led,  palpitates  and  lives.  Within  the 
vacant,  magic  circuit  of  the  Coliseum,  the  thronged  amphitheatre 
rises  to  view,  with  the  sights  and  sounds  of  Rome's  brutal  sports. 
Here  'murder  br(>atli('s  her  bloody  steam,'  and  the  eager  nations 
murmur  pitv  or  roar  applause.  You  shall  behold  the  distant 
cottage  of  tlic  dying  athlete,  slaughtered  for  the  imperial  pleas- 
ure, then  the  av(Migiiig  Alarie  descending  u])on  the  doomed  city: 

'I  sec  before  me  tlie  (iladialor  lie; 
He  leans  upon  his  han<l, —  liis  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  ;igony. 


BYKON.  S43 

And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low,— 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;  and  now 

The  arena  swims  around  hinj, —  he  is  gone. 

Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  bail'd  the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not, —  his  eyes 

Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 

He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 

But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 

There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 

There  was  their  Dacian  mother,— he,  their  sire, 

ButchiT'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday. 

All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood.    Shall  he  expire. 

And  unavenged ': — Arise !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire.' 

Cain  gives  us  the  heroism   of    wickedness    and    miserv,   the 

thirst   of    knowledge   which    cannot   be   quenched,  the   pride   of 

power  which  defies  heaven  and  hell : 

'Cain.  Are  ye  happy? 

Lucifer.  We  are  mighty. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy  f 

Lucifer.  No :    Art  thou  ? ' 

His  Corsair  is  the  story  of  a  pirate  whose  purer  feelings  have 
been  chilled  and  petrified.  The  heart  of  rock  shelters  one  flower, 
and  that  is  blasted  when  dies  the  love  of  his  youth: 

'The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate. 
Was  reft  at  once, —  and  he  deserved  his  fate, 
But  did  not  feel  it  less;— the  good  e.xplore. 
For  i)eace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar; 
The  proud,  the  wayward,  who  have  flxM  below 
Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe. 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all, —  perchance  a  mite, — 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  V 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  as|)ect  stern 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn; 
And  many  a  withering  thontrht  lies  hid,  not  lost. 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  mo^t.' 

Ilis  (r iaoiir  is  a  narrative  of  woe,  for  which  joy  has  no  balm 
and  affliction  no  sting;   a  talo  of  — 

'Tlie  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  mind, 
Th<'  wreck  by  l)as^i(>Il  left  bcliind, 
A  shrivcird  s<T<>ll,  a  scalter'd  leaf, 
Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief!' 

Mazeppa  is  a  record  of  torture.  A  lover  is  bound,  by  a  savage 
count,  on  a  furious  horse  rushing  over  wild  jjlain  and  through 
black  forest,  whiU;  the  wolves  howl  behind,  and  his  cords  are  wet 
with  gore.  All  tlay,  all  night,  tlie  race  coiuiiuies,  then  liis  pulse 
grows  feeble,  his  eye  dim,  an<l  his  brain  giddy: 


344      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

'The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roH'd  round, 
I  seem'd  to  sink  upon  the  ground; 
But  err'd,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 
My  heart  turn'd  sick,  my  bruiii  grew  sore. 
And  throbb'd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more: 
The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel; 
I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel. 
And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 
AVhith  saw  no  further:  he  who  dies 
Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 
0"er-tortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 
I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go. 
And  strove  to  wake;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below: 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 
When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee 
At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm. 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm.' 

Lara  presents  the  spectacle  of  a  man  vainly  rearing  himself 
against  inevitable  fate,  the  tragic  picture  of  one  who  — 

'Stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world 
An  erring  sjjirit  from  another  hurl'd, 
A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  cscap'd; 
But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret:  ... 
His  early  dreams  of  good  outstripp'd  the  truth. 
And  troubled  manhood  follow'd  baflled  youth; 
With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  misspent. 
And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent. 
And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour'd  their  wrath 
In  hurried  desolation  o'er  his  path, 
And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 
In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life;  .  .  . 
So  much  he  soared  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath. 
The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condcmn'd  to  breathe. 
And  long'd  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 
Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state: 
His  mind  abhorring  tliis  had  tix'd  her  throne. 
Far  from  tlie  world,  in  regions  of  her  own.' 

In  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  we  see  a  father  perish  at  the  stake 
for  his  faith.  Of  his  six  sons,  one  is  burned,  two  fall  fighting, 
and  three  waste  in  chains,  in  dungeon  darkness.  The  eldest  sees 
his  brothers  sink,  one  by  one,  in  slow  agony,  himself  unable  to 
reach  their  dying  hands;  sees  the  jailers  coldly  laugh  as  they 
scoop  a  shallow  grave  from  the  turfless  earth  in  the  pale  and  livid 
light  of  the  cell: 

'I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling  —  none  — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wi.it. 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist. 


BYRON.  345 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak  and  gray. 
It  was  not  night, —  it  was  not  day; 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon  light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  ^'ight, 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  flxedness,  without  a  place: 
There  were  no  stars,— no  earth,— no  time. 
No  check,— no  change,— no  go<K;, —  no  crime- 
But  silence  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless!' 

Manfred  is  the  deification  of  self-will,  a  history  of  remorse 
without  repentance,  of  suffering  which  seeks  neither  hope  nor 
alleviation.  It  represents  a  man  of  unconquerable  pride  and 
boundless  ambition,  hating  the  world  and  his  kind,  yearning 
after  the  inaccessible,  searching  in  the  loneliest  and  most  tem- 
pestuous aspects  of  nature  for  sympathy: 

'  From  my  youth  upwards 
My  spirit  walked  not  with  the  souls  of  men. 
Nor  l()i)k"d  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes; 
The  thirst  of  iheir  ambition  was  not  mine. 
The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  n\ine; 
My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers. 
Made  me  a  stranger;   though  1  wore  the  form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  rtesh.  .  .  . 
My  joy  was  in  the  Wilderness,  to  breathe 
The  diflicult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top. 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  wing 
Flit  o'er  the  herbless  granite;  or  to  plunge 
Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking  wave 
Of  river,  stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 
In  tliese  my  early  strength  exulted;   or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon. 
The  stars  and  thei;-  tlevelopment ;   or  catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim; 
Or  to  look,  list'ning,  on  the  scattered  leaves, 
While  autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song.' 

If    he   ha.s  had   father  or  mother  or  friend,   they  seem  not  such 
to  him;  yet  was  tiiere  one  — 

'Like  nio  in  lineaments, —  her  eyes, 
Iler  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  thoy  said  were  like  to  mine; 
But  soften'd  all,  and  ti'mi)er"d  into  beauty: 
She  had  the  same  lone  tlioiights  and  wanderings. 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  coinpreliend  the  universe:    nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  ndne. 
Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears,— which  I  had  not. 
And  tenderness,— but  that  I  had  for  her; 


346      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS.. 

Humility,— and  tliat  I  never  had. 

Her  faults  were  mine,— her  virtues  vrere  her  own:  — 

I  loved  her,  and  destroy'd  her!  .  .  . 

Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart,  — which  broke  her  heart, — 

It  gazed  on  mine  and  withered.' 

The  fatal  remembrance  occupies  and  fills  him : 

*My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more, 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies,— I  have  gnash'd 
My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn, 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset;  —  I  have  pray'd 
For  madness  as  a  blessing,— 'tis  denied  me. 
I  have  affronted  death, —  but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 
And  fatal  things  pass'd  harmless, —  the  cold  hand 
Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back. 
Back  by  a  single  hair,  w^hich  would  not  break. 
In  phantasy,  imagination,  all 
The  affluence  of  my  soul.  ...  I  plunged  deep, 
But  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back 
Into  the  gulf  of  my  unfathom'd  thought." 

He  will  yield  to  neither  men  nor  demons.      When  the  infernal 

spirit  rises,  glaring  forth  the  immortality  of  hell,  and  summons 

him  away,  he  hurls  defiance  back: 

'Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel; 
Thou  never  shall  possess  me,  that  I  know; 
What  I  have  done  is  done;  I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine; 
The  mind  whicli  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts, — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end, — 
And  its  own  place  and  time,— its  innate  sense, 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
Tno  color  from  the  fleeting  things  without; 
But  is  absorbed  in  sufferance  or  in  joy, 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couhlst  not  tempt  me; 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey, — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter.     Back,  ye  baffled  fiends  I 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me, —  but  not  yours  I' 

There  is  one  delight,  a  grim  one, —  consciousness  of  the  capacity 
to  suffer.  Hero  and  there,  twinkling  in  sombre  imagery  of 
despair,  are  tovichcs  of  quiet  beauty  and  holy  sentiment: 

'How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  luix'd  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breatliiiig  harmony. 


Or 


BYRON.  347 

A  bodiless  enjoyment,— born  and  dying 
With  tlie  blest  tone  which  made  me!' 

'The  night 
Ilath  been  to  me  a  more  Tamiliar  face 
Than  that  of  man;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learn"d  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me  tliat  in  my  youth. 
When  I  was  wandering,  ujjon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  tlic  Coliseum's  wall. 
"Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome; 
The  trees  wliich  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber.  .  .  . 
And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light. 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
or  rugged  desolation,  and  filled  up, 
As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 
And  making  that  wliich  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
Witli  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old!— 
The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns." 

If  now  you  would  see  the  grandest  of  the  funereal  poems,  the 
most  imposino:  of  misanthropical  creations,  turn  to  Darkness,  and 
witness  tlie  dream  of  universal  destruction: 

'I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 
Tlic  bright  sun  was  extinirtii-lied,  and  the  stars 
l)i(l  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 
Hayless,  and  pathless;  and  tlie  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  inooiiless  air: 
Morn  came  and  went — and  came,  and  bronglit  no  day, 
.\iid  men  forgot  their  i)assions  in  tlie  dread 
(tf  till-  tlieir  desolation;  and  all  hearts 
Wirr  cliilled  into  a  selfish  jirayer  for  light: 
And  tlicy  did  live  by  watcli-fires,  and  the  thrones, 
Tlie  |>alaces  of  crowned  kings  —  the  lulls, 
The  liabitatioiis  of  all  things  which  dwell, 
Were  burnt  for  beacons;  cities  were  consumed. 
And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blnziiii:  homos 
To  look  oiii-e  more  upon  each  otln-r's  face;   .  . 
A   fearful  hope  wa-  all  the  world  coiit. lined; 
Foresl~  were  -el  on  lire  —  but  hour  by  hour 
They  fell  and  faded  —  and  llie  crackling  trunks 
Kxtingiiished  with  a  crash  —  and  all  was  black. 
The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
The  (lashes  fell  upon  them:  some  lay  down 
And  hid  ttieir  eyes  and  wept:  and  some  did  rest 
Their  chins  upon  lliiir  clenched  hand.-  and  smiled; 


348      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world;  and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust, 

And  gnashed  their  teeth,  and  howled:  the  wild  birds  shrieked. 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground. 

And  flap  their  useless  wings ;  the  wildest  brutes 

Came  tame  and  tremulous;  and  vipers  crawl'd 

And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 

Hissing,  but  stingless  —  they  were  slain  for  food:  .  .  . 

A  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom :  .  .  . 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devour'd, 
Even  dogs  assaiTd  their  masters,  all  save  one. 
And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 
The  birds,  and  beasts  and  famish'd  men  at  bay, 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  drooping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws;  himself  sought  out  no  food  — 
But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan. 
And  a  quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answer'd  not  with  a  caress  —  he  died. 
The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees;  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive. 
And  they  were  enemies:  they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 
Where  had  been  heap'd  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage;  they  raked  up. 
And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hands 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 
Which  was  a  mockery;  then  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects  —  saw,  and  shrieked  and  died  — 
Kv'n  of  their  mutual  hidcousness  they  died,  .  .  . 
The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still. 
And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  dei)ths; 
Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea. 
And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal;  as  they  dropp'd. 
They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge." 

When  Byron  had  imbued  himself  with  Southern  inanner.s  and 
morality  he  wrote  I)on  Juun,  the  longest,  and  in  some  respects, 
the  most  characteristic  of  his  poems;  a  vast  medley  of  descrip- 
tion, knowledg-e,  wit,  satire,  mire  and  gold,  Epicurean  pliilosophy, 
and  liopoless  scepticism.  It  is  draped  with  passages  of  delicacy 
and  sweetness  that  form  a  pleasing  contrast  with  the  mockery 
and  hatred  which  are  the  prevailing  mood.     Thus: 

'An  infant  when  it  gazes  on  tlic  litrlit, 
A  child  tiie  moment  when  it  drains  the  breast, 
A  devotee  when  soars  the  Host  in  sight. 
An  Arab  with  a  stranger  for  a  guest, 
A  sailur  when  the  i)rize  luis  struck  in  fight. 


BYRON.  349 

A  miser  filling  his  most  hoarded  ches't, 

Feel  rapture;   but  not  such  true  joy  are  reaping. 

As  they  who  wutch  o'er  what  they  love  while  sleeping.  .  .  . 

All  that  it  hath  of  life  with  us  Is  living; 
So  gentle,  stirless,  helpless,  and  unmoved, 
And  all  uuconscious  of  tlie  joy  "tis  giving. 
All  it  hath  felt,  inflicted,  passed,  proved, 
Hushed  into  depths  beyond  the  watcher's  diving.' 

The  great  merits  of  the  piece  are  powerful  versification,  witty 
allusion,  richness  of  ideas,  sentiments,  images.  Here  is  a  speci- 
men never  to  be  forg-otten: 

'Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 
"Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge. 
How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are! 
How  less  what  we  may  be!    The  eternal  surge 
Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 
Our  bnbl)les;  as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lash'd  from  the  foam  of  ages;  while  the  graves 
Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  passing  waves.' 

Style. —  Free,  energetic,  intense,  aflluent,  melodious,  often 
abrupt  and  irregular,  always  representative  of  himself, —  now 
stormy  and  smiting,  now  sole  and  equable,  a  foaming,  glittering 
tide.  Byron  preferred  Pope  to  Shakespeare  or  Milton.  The 
re.st  he  considered  barbarians;  the  new  school,  as  shabby-genteel. 
He  loved  the  oratorical  form,  symmetrical  phrase,  balanced  anti- 
thesis. Yet  was  he  more  intent  on  what  he  had  to  say  than  on 
the  way  he  said  it.  Most  of  his  romantic  tales  are  written  in  the 
octosvllabic  measure  which  Scott  broug'ht  into  fashion.  Of  his 
two  great  performances,  ILii'old,  his  masterpiece,  is  written  in  the 
Spenserian  stanza,  with  an  attempt — soon  al)andon(>d — to  imitate 
the  archaic  ciiaractcr  of  the  Ftiinj  Qiari)  ;  Jiatti,  in  a  more  Mow- 
ing ami  plastic  verse,  tln^  otlavn  rima,  better  fitted  for  the 
comic  vein  of  which  iiis  earlier  pieces  give  no  sign,  as  well  as  for 
ril)ai(h'y  and  cynicism. 

Rank. — 'Vho  pi-er-minpnt  tvpe  of  the  revolutionary  spirit,  as 
Scolt  of  the  historical,  and  W'ordswort  li  of  the  philosophical. 
Pciliai)S  the  most  distinguished  genius  of  the  age  for  originality 
and  cnei-u'V.  A\'hen  we  consider  his  inexhaust  ilile  fiTtility,  his 
brilliant  cxcoses,  his  rocket-like  tlights,  the  wiiii-jing  '^wM  of 
fantasv  and  of  llaine,  we  are  (lispost>d  to  thiid<  him  "a  miraculous 
child":  but  his  ])assionate,  luinultuous  n;itnre  so  narroweii  and 
jicrverted   his  coiiccplious  ul  man  and  the  world,  as  to  uud\e  him 


350      SECOND  CREATIVE  PEUIOD  —  KEPRESEXTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

less  the  poet  of  the  universe  than  of  the  individual,  and  thus  to 
rob  him  of  the  real  supremacy  which  his  fruitful  imagination 
seemed  to  promise.  His  ideals  are  false  to  genuine  nobility.  He 
could  never  metamorphose  himself  into  another.  There  is  in  all 
his  personages  an  essential  sameness, —  men  proud  and  moody, 
CA'nical  and  defiant;  women  devoted  and  loving,  but  unreasoning 
and  instinctive,  with  the  latent  fury  of  the  tigress.  In  all  his 
dramas  the  central  figure  is  himself,  persisting  in  his  eternal 
monologue.  The  varieties  are  varieties  of  situation  and  costume. 
He  called  himself  'the  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of 
rhyme.'  But  we  have  left  his  point  of  view  behind  us.  Man 
is  not  an  abortion.  Life  is  not  a  farce.  The  business  of  poetry 
is  not  revolt  mainly.  Much  has  been  rejected  as  worthless, 
passing  with  the  restless,  feverish  conditions  which  gave  it  birth. 
Much  can  perish  only  with  the  English  language.  So  felt  the 
unhappy  Byron : 

'My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire, 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  pain; 
But  there  is  that  within  me  whicli  shall  tire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  expire.' 

Character. — Never  was  literature  so  intensely  subjective. 
Never  did  a  man  so  clearly  impress  upon  his  work  his  own  glory 
and  his  own  condemnation.  Over  all  are  thrown  the  sable  hues 
of  his  master-mood, —  the  gloomy  humor  of  a  mighty  and  sensi- 
tive spirit,  madly  and  vainly  struggling  to  break  through  its 
enclosure,  then  recoiling  upon  itself  to  find  stability  in  universal 
scepticism : 

'We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away. 
Sick;   sick;    unfound  the  boon,  unslaked  tlic  thirst. 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 
Home  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first: 
But  all  too  late;   so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice:  "tis  tlie  same, — 
Kach  idle,  and  all  ill,  and  none  the  worst: 
For  all  are  meteors  witli  a  different  name. 
And  I>iatli  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame.' 

.Tov    is  a    bubl)l(>.      A\'retcliodiioss    is   the    common    destiny.      All 
rush  to  their  doom.      Some  are  wrecked  earlier,  others  later: 

'  There  is  an  order 
Of  mortals  on  the  eartli  wlio  do  become 
Old  in  tlicir  ydutli,  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  tile  vidlence  of  warlike  death. 
Some  iierishinLT  of  j.li  asiire,  some  of  study, 
Some   worn  with  toil,   some  of  nuTe  weariness, 


BYRON.  351 

•  Some  of  disease,  and  some  of  iiixanity, 
And  some  of  withered  or  of  broken  hearts; 
For  this  hist  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  tlian  are  numbered  in  the  lists  of  fate. 
Taking  all  shapes  and  bearing  many  names." 

This  genius  was  born  long  ago,  its  root  in  the  Northern  Scald, 
predisposed  to  the  sad  and  sombre,  revelling  in  dread  images  of 
desolation : 

'When  I  have  hxiked  on  some  face  that  I  love,  imagination  has  often  figured  the 
changes  that  Death  must  one  day  produce  on  it,— the  worm  rioting  on  lips  now  smiling, 
the  features  and  hues  of  health  changed  to  the  livid  and  ghastly  tints  of  putrefaction; 
and  the  image,  conjured  up  by  my  fancy,  but  which  is  as  true  as  it  is  a  fearful  anticipa- 
tion of  what  7nnst  arrive,  has  left  an  impression  for  hours  that  the  actual  presence  of 
the  object,  in  all  the  bloom  of  health,  has  not  been  able  to  banish:  this  is  one  of  my 
pleasures  of  imagination.' 

A  volcanic  nature  is  everywhere  manifest  in  his  life  and  utter- 
ance. He  was  a  rudderless  vessel,  tossed  about  by  every  breeze 
of  desire,  on  every  wave  of  passion,  impelled  to  ruin  by  his  own 
fateful  energy.  Be  it  so.  '  I  will  work  the  mine  of  my  youth 
to  the  last  vein  of  the  ore,  and  then, —  good  night.'  Restless- 
ness, the  relish  of  excitement,  the  craving  for  strife,  are  at  once 
the  propelling  and  limiting  force  of  his  art: 

'To  withdraw  myself  from  myself  has  ever  been  my  sole,  my  entire,  my  sincere 
motive  in  scribbling  at  all,—  and  publishing  also  the  continuance  of  the  same  object,  by 
the  action  it  affords  to  tlie  mind,  which  else  recoils  upon  itself.' 

To  a  mind  thus  driven  and  whirled,  yet  hedged,  life  could  be  only 
fever  and  torture.     Tiiis  is  the  confession  wrung  from  him: 

'Tlie  worm,  the  cankir,  und  the  grief 

Are  mine  alone  I 

Tile  lire  tliat  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  n<  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  toreli  is  Uinilled  at  its  l)ljize, 

A  funeral  pile  ! " 

But  in  the  wind-sped  clouds  are  momentary  rents  which  reveal 
the  elvsium  of  repose  and  the  heaven  of  his  yearning.  His  love 
of  iiiiture  was  passionate,  thoughtful,  and  imaginative.  His  per- 
ceptions of  l)t'autv  were  e.\(|uisit<'ly  delicate.  Passag(>s  like  the 
following  lace  with  light  and  stud  with  stars  the  gloom  of  h'ls 
meditations: 

'And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  sliall  be  all  free 
From  wlial  it  liales  in  tliis  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal   life,  save  what  sli.il!  l)e 
Kxisteiil  liap|)ier  in   tlie  lly  ;nid  wuriii. — 
Wlien   element-   to  eleiiunls  ((inforiil. 
And  dust  i-  a-  it  .-hould  he,  -Iki'.I   I   not 


352      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


ATid: 


Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought,  and  spirit  of  each  spot, 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  lot?' 

'Clear,  placid  Leman!  thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me  with  its  stillness  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 

Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 

Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 

Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear. 

Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near. 

There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;  on  the  ear 

Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 

Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more.' 

His  tastes  and  opinions  were  capricious,  varying  with  his  physical 
condition.  Intellect  and  imagination  were  alike  restricted.  Both 
were  wanting  in  comprehensiveness.  He  had  many  rare  glimpses 
of  truth,  but  not  the  patience  or  the  talent  to  pursue  or  combine 
them.  His  strength  consisted  in  insight  or  intention,  on  the  one 
hand;  a  vehement  energy  or  inner  exaltation,  on  the  other.  He 
was  brave  and  generous.  Scott  describes  him  as  being  '  a  man  of 
real  goodness  of  heart,  and  the  kindest  and  best  feelings.'  What 
lie  needed  was  to  be  centrally  fixed  in  principle.  How  many  are 
the  illustrations  of  his  higher  and  better  self,  showing  that  his 
deep  and  abiding  sympathies  were  with  the  tender,  pure,  noble, 
and  good  !     Thus: 

'There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  in  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal.' 

Of  I)on  Juan  : 

'I  am  jealously  tenacious  of  the  undivided  sympathy  of  my  daughter;  and  that  work 
(Bon  Juan),  written  to  beguile  hours  of  frhtesxe  an<l  wretchedness,  is  well  calculated  to 
loosen  my  hold  on  her  affection.  I  will  write  no  more  of  it;  — would  that  I  had  never 
VrT'tten  a  line  ! ' 


BYKON.  353 

Of  Childe  Harold: 

'My  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo:  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguished  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp, —  and  what  is  writ  is  writ, — 
'Would  it  tcere  worthier!' 


Of  humanity: 


'  It  is  enough  that  those  who  want  assistance  are  men,  in  order  to  claim  the  pity 
and  protection  of  the  meanest  pretender  to  humane  feelings." 

Of  woman: 

■Men  have  no  criterion  to  judge  of  purity  or  goodness  but  woman.  Some  portion  of 
this  purity  and  goodness  always  adheres  to  woman,  even  though  she  may  lapse  from 
virtue:  she  makes  a  willing  sacrifice  of  herself  on  the  altar  of  affection,  and  thinks  only 
of  him  for  whom  it  is  made ;  while  men  think  of  themselves  alone.' 


Of  a  prayer  in  his  beiialf  : 


'I  can  assure  you  that  all  the  fame  which  ever  cheated  humanity  into  higher  notions 
of  its  own  in)])ortance  would  never  weigh  in  my  mind  against  the  pure  and  pious  interest 
which  a  virtuous  being  may  be  pleased  to  take  in  my  welfare." 

Of  iiinnortality : 

'The  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  is  the  only  true  panacea  for  the  ills  of 
life." 

Of  the  separation  from  his  wife: 

'You  are  one  of  the  few  persons  with  whom  I  have  lived  in  what  is  called  intimacy, 
and  have  heard  me  at  times  conversing  on  the  untoward  topic  of  my  recent  family  dis- 
quietudes. Will  you  have  tin-  goodness  to  say  to  uie  at  once,  wliether  you  ever  heard  me 
speak  of  her  witli  disrespect,  with  unkindness.  or  defending  myself  at  her  expense,  by 
any  serious  imputations  of  any  description  iigaiiist  her?  Did  you  never  hear  me  say, 
that  "when  there  was  a  right  or  wrong,  she  had  tlie  riglit'/"  Tlie  reason  I  put  these 
question^  to  yoii  or  other  of  my  friends  is,  because  I  am  siiiil,  !))•  her  and  hers,  to  have 
resorted  to  sucli  means  of  exculpation." 

Though  jiroud  and  reserved,  music  made  him  weep.  He  pre- 
ferred tlie  Bible  above  all  books,  but  observe  the  significant 
discriiiiinatii)n: 

'I  am  a  L'reat  reader  and  admirer  of  those  books,  and  had  read  them  through  and 
Ihroiigli  1)(  fore  1  was  eiglit  years  old, —  tliat  is  to  say,  the  Old  Testament :  for  the  Sew 
struck  iiie  as  a  task,  l>ut  tlie  other  as  a  pleasure." 

iiiijiaticnt  r)f  all  re.straint,  he  feels  intensely  the  moral  law, 
and  would  flee  to  nuiterialism  as  a  refuge  from  bitter  self-rebuke; 
vet,  in  words  of  immortal  grandeur,  revolts  against  its  e.xtin- 
guished  liopes: 

'I   feel,   I   feel  my  iininorlnlity  o  crsweep 
.\11  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal. 
Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep. 
Into  my  ears  this  truth — "Thou  liv"st  forever!  "" 
23 


354      SECOND  CREATIVE  PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Himself  vicious,  he  lashed  vice  in  others  with  bitterness  of  invec- 
tive. Aspiring  after  excellence,  he  was  practically  enslaved  to 
vice.  In  short,  he  was  an  assemblage  of  clashing  qualities,  an 
extraordinary  mixture  of  the  seraph  and  the  beast.  We  cannot 
but  say  of  him,  with  mournful  regret: 

'This  should  have  been  a  noble  creature:  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  made 
A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 
Had  they  been  wisely  mingled :  as  it  is, 
It  is  an  awful  chaos  —  light  and  darkness. 
And  mind  and  dust,  and  passions  and  pure  thoughts, 
Mix"d  and  contending,  without  end  or  order, 
All  dormant  or  destructive.' 

Influence. —  He  flooded  forth  good  and  evil  impetuously. 
Much  that  he  wrote  is  licentious  in  tone;  some  of  it  is  openly 
obscene.  Worse  still,  he  holds  up  to  admiration  moral  mon- 
sters in  whom  'one  virtue  is  linked  with  a  thousand  crimes.' 
The  mean  and  corrupt  are  made  attractive  by  clothing  them  in  a 
blaze  of  diction,  or  by  associating  them  with  images  of  beauty 
and  sublimity.  Virtue  is  often  disparaged,  and  dignity  is  con- 
ferred on  vice.  Doubtless,  personal  hatreds,  bitter  and  reckless 
moods,  frequently  prompted  him  to  say  what  he  did  not  believe 
or  feel.  Accused,  for  example,  of  thinking  ill  of  women,  he 
replied: 

'If  I  meet  a  romantic  person,  with  what  I  call  a  too  exalted  opinion  of  women,  I 
have  a  peculiar  satisfaction  in  speaking  lightly  of  them;  not  out  of  pique  to  the  sex,  but 
to  mortify  their  champion:  as  I  always  conclude,  that  when  a  man  overpraises  women, 
he  does  it  to  convey  the  impression  of  how  much  they  must  have  favored  him,  to  have 
won  such  gratitude  towards  them;  whereas  there  is  such  an  abnegation  of  vanity  in  a 
poor  devil's  decrying  women, —  it  is  such  a  proof  positive  that  they  never  distinguished 
him,  that  I  can  overlook  it.' 

As  we  have  seen,  side  by  side  with  this  alluring  Dead-sea  fruit, — 

'Which  tempts  the  eye 
But  turns  to  ashes  on  the  lip,'— 

are  the  fruits  of  the  spirit, —  beauty,  loveliness,  aspiration,  pity, 
faith,  hope,  charity.  Byron  will  always  have  charms  for  active, 
restless  youth;  and  will  ever  find  an  ci^ho  in  the  breast  of  voice- 
less suffering.  We  shall  not  venture  to  pronounce  on  the  general 
tendency  of  his  writings.  In  that  fadeless  garden,  flowers  and 
weeds  are  commingled;  in  that  eternal  spring  the  waters  are 
both  salubrious  and  noxious. 


BYKON.  355 

How  much  does  the  man  of  great  poetic  genius  or  eloquence 
owe  to  mankind  I  If  he  sing  not  the  highest  word  of  joy  or  woe, 
how  great  is  his  remissness  I  If  he  dedicate  his  pen  to  lust  and 
wine,  to  ribald  mock  and  scoflF,  it  is  the  greatest  charity  that  can 
say  to  him,  'Neither  do  I  condemn  thee;  go  and  sin  no  more.' 
The  glory  that  burns  around  the  brow  of  the  Xazarene,  so  that 
we  see  him  two  thousand  years  off,  was  the  birth  of  this  thought 
— 'The  Son  of  Man  has  come  to  save  that  which  is  lost.' 


DIFFUSIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER   VI. 


FEATURES. 


On,  like  the  comefs  way,  through  inflnito  space. 
Stretches  the  long  untravellcd  path  of  light, 
Into  tiie  depths  of  ages. — Bryant. 

Politics. — Legislative  measures  are  but  temporary  expedients. 
Because  times  are  progressive,  institutions  must  change.  The 
Act  of  1832  came  to  be  regarded  by  many  as  a  mere  instalment 
of  justice.  Further  expansion  was  demanded,  and  the  advocacy 
of  reform  was  no  longer  attended  with  personal  risk.  The  agita- 
tors grew  into  a  formidable  party.  The  chief  were  extreme 
Liberals, —  the  'Chartists.'  Vast  meetings  were  held,  at  one  of 
which  two  hundred  thousand  persons  were  computed  to  be  pres- 
ent A  monster  petition,  bearing  more  than  a  million  names,  was 
rolled  into  Parliament  in  a  huge  tub.  Six  points  were  embodied, 
most  of  which,  in  whole  or  in  })art,  have  since  been  incorporated 
in  British  law:  universal  suffrage;  annual  parliaments;  secret 
voting, —  vote  by  ballot;  abolition  of  the  property  qualification 
for  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons;  payment  of  members;  equal 
electoral  districts.  In  18-40  the  Corn  Law,  the  key-stone  of  the 
protective  system,  was  repealed.  Free  Trade  was  soon  adopted 
in  every  de])artment  of  commerce,  and  for  nearly  forty  years  the 
conniiercial  policy  of  Britain  has  accepted  the  maxim, — 'Buy  in 
the  cheapest  market,  and  sell  in  the  dearest.'  Among  later 
political  achievements  are  tlie  disestablishment  and  disendowmeiit 
of  the  Irish  Protestant  Church,  and  the  abolition  of  all  religious 
tests  for  admission  to  office  or  for  university  degrees. 

Evidently  England  in  this  era  has  entered  upon  the  victo- 
ries of  peace.  The  onlv  war  which  properlv  recalls  the  battle- 
j)erio(l  of  her  historv  was  the  Criiiicari,  \vage(l  with  Russia  in 
defence  of  Turkey.      Insular  security  and  national  sense  have  left 

350 


THE    VICTORIES   OF    PEACE.  357 

her  tranquil.  The  stormy  contentions  that  rage  abroad  and 
imperil  the  fortunes  of  continental  nations,  present  themselves  to 
her  islands  in  a  mitigated  form. 

Anglo-Americans,  troubled  with  no  fear  of  their  neighbors, 
entertaining  no  purposes  of  aggression,  and  occupying  a  conti- 
nent of  boundless  resources,  had  elected  from  the  first  a  career 
of  peaceful  industry.  Two  notable  wars  have  interrupted  this 
development, —  that  of  1812,  and  the  Great  Rebellion;  the  first 
originating  in  the  British  claim  to  search  American  ships,  the 
second  in  the  awakened  conscience  on  the  subject  of  slavery,  and 
the  conflict  of  opinion  regarding  state  sovereignty.  The  South 
maintained  the  right  of  each  state  to  withdraw,  at  pleasure,  from 
the  Union;  and  the  northern  antipathy  to  the  slave  system  fur- 
nished the  pretext  for  secession.  The  rebellion  quelled,  industry 
was  resumed  with  quickened  energ}'.  The  restoration  of  order  in 
the  wasted  and  disorganized  South,  however,  has  been  slow.  In 
the  North,  growth  has  been  rapid  beyond  all  })recedent.  To-day 
united  America  presents  a  record  of  industrial  progress  without 
pai'allel  in  the  annals  of  the  human  family.  Her  population  has 
increased  to  more  than  fifty  millions.  To  her  lK>sj)itable  shores 
men  throng  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  Vet  only  a 
fraction  of  her  magniiicent  heritage  is  under  cultivation.  A 
century  since,  in  the  words  of  Chatham,  she  was  not  allowed  to 
make  a  horse-shoe  nail.  Year  by  year  her  imports  have  dimin- 
ished, and  may  so  continue,  till  she  virtually  ceases  to  be  a  cus- 
tomer, and  supplies  lier  own  wants.  Her  industries  have  rooted 
firinlv  in  the  soil  under  the  shelter  of  |)r()tective  duties.  That 
she  will  adopt  ultimately  the  broad  principle  of  unrestrit-ted 
coniiiierce,  it  may  l)e  safe  to  pre(lict.  Meanwhile  the  disastrous 
experience  of  the  Old  World,  in  the  creation  of  sectional  jeal- 
ousies and  class  tyrannies,  gives  warning  of  the  increasing  i)eril 
of  a  tarilT  which  has  outlived  its  necessity.  In  18T'.t  Mr.  liright 
wrote  to  the  editor  of  the  \nr(h  Aim  riaoi   R(  I'li  ir: 

'It  i^  n  LTiif  ti)  iiif  that  your  ixoph'  do  iiol  yet  see  their  way  to  a  iiion"  mod.  rate 
tariff.  You  arc  doiiiL.'  wonders,  iin((iualle('  in  the  world's  liislory,  ii:  iiayiii;:  off  your 
national  drlit.  A  more  moderate  tariff,  I  should  think,  would  i:i\e  you  a  hetter  revemie. 
and  hy  ilr'_'r<es  you  mi^'ht  a|)proach  a  more  civilized  systi'in.  What  ran  be  more  stran^'e 
than  for  your  ;.'reat  free  country  to  build  barriers  nL'ainst  th.it  commerce  w  hich  i-  every- 
wliere  the  handmaid  of  freedom  and  civilization^ 

I  should  desimir  of  the  iirospccts  of  mankind  if  I  did  not  believe  th.il  before  Ioiil'  tlie 
intelliircnce  of  your  i)e<)|de  would  rexoll  airaiiist  the  liarbarism  of  your  tariff.     It  s'cms 


358  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

now  your  one  great  humiliation;  the  world  looks  to  you  for  example  in  all  forms  of  free- 
dom.   As  to  commerce,  the  great  civilizer,  shall  It  look  in  vain?' 

A  deplorable  taint  which  has  gradually  infected  the  body 
politic,  is  the  Corruption  of  the  Civil  Service.  The  doctrine  of 
spoils  and  the  system  of  appointments  and  removals  offend  the 
morality  and  impair  the  independence  of  the  dominant  party.  A 
difficulty  which  more  or  less  perplexes  and  troubles  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic  is  the  Labor  Question  —  the  problem  of  reconciling 
the  rights  of  employers  and  employed.  The  relations  of  Capital 
and  Labor  are  the  angriest  and  most  important  with  which  we 
have  to  deal.  But  we  have  no  such  feudal  relics  as  Game  Laws, 
no  such  irritable  associations  as  Orangemen,  no  convulsing  Repre- 
sentative Reform,  no  collision  of  Church  and  State  or  of  Church 
and  Dissenters,  no  conquered  territories  to  manage.  Among  us, 
t)f  all  communities  in  either  hemisphere,  the  development  of  the 
democratic  principle  —  the  power  of  the  people  —  has  been  most 
})eaceful  and  most  complete.  Heirs  of  all  the  Past,  we  are  the 
true  Ancients,  who  from  the  vantage  ground  of  our  liberal  insti- 
tutions may  first  recognize  the  ascending  sun  of  a  new  era,  as 
those  on  the  mountain-top  first  discern  the  coming  beams  of  the 
morning. 

'All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  frauds  shall  fail, 
Heturning  justice  lift  aloft  her  scale. 
Peace  o'er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend. 
And  white-robed  Innocence  from  heaven  descend.' 

Society. — An  unlimited  possibility  of  improvement  seems  to 
have  revealed  itself.  A  main  fact  is  the  creation  of  value.  Eng- 
land is  a  garden,  with  here  and  there  a  grove.  Her  fields  have 
been  'conilxul  and  rolled  till  tlu'v  seem  finished  with  a  pencil.' 
She  presents  an  accumulation  of  toil  and  work  which  has  no 
ecjual  on  the  ]>lanet.  Her  Thames  is  an  inextricable  forest  of 
masts,  yards,  and  cables.  Her  docks,  six  miles  long,  resemble 
towns.  Her  air  is  darkened  with  the  smoke  of  furnaces.  Her 
warehouses  are  Babylonian.  The  East  ))rings  her  tribute.  Her 
colonies  are  becoming  other  Englands.  Monev,  goods,  business, 
How  hither,  and  pour  thejiee.  Her  prosperity  is  the  argument  of 
iiiatcrialisni. 

A  part  of"  this  wealth,  in  compensation,  returns  to  the  brain, 
to  cstalilish  schools  and  lil)raries,  to  create  ])reachers,  astronotners, 
and  chemists,  to  found  hospitals,  savings-banks,  mechanics'  iiisti- 


THE   ONWARD    BATTLE.  359 

tutes,  parks,  and  other  charities  and  amenities.  The  cultivated 
are  many,  and  ever  becoming  more  numerous.  The  press,  which 
voices  the  will  of  the  people  as  the  source  of  sovereignty,  is  more 
powerful  than  fleets  and  armies.  Universities  provide  muniti- 
cently  for  the  education  of  the  upper  classes ;  and  National 
Schools,  for  the  'lower  million.'  The  advantages  once  confined 
to  men  of  family  are  now  open  to  the  untitled  nobility,  who  pos- 
sess the  power  without  the  inconveniences  that  belong  to  rank. 

Insular  limitation  remains.  With  a  pitiless  logic,  the  serious 
Swedenborg  shut  up  the  English  souls  in  a  heaven  by  them- 
selves. Race  strives  immortally  to  keep  its  own.  Anciently 
two  monarchs  would  divert  themselves,  after  dinner,  by  thrusting 
each  his  sword  through  the  other's  body.  It  was  the  redundancy 
of  animal  vigor.  The  primitive  Teuton  still  lives  —  though  in 
well-cut  modern  garments  —  in  the  love  of  full  stomachs,  of  great 
feasts;  in  the  passion  for  stimulants;  in  the  necessity  for  violent 
impressions ;  in  the  furor  for  horses  and  races ;  in  the  com- 
bative and  daring  instinct  which  requires  prodigious  risks  ;  in 
the  abounding  sap  which,  averse  to  culture,  prefers  eating  and 
drinking,  boxing  and  cricket,  equestrianism  and  boating.  In 
the  schools,  athletic  games  occupy  a  portion  of  every  day.  When 
Tom  Brown  asks  himself  why  he  comes  to  school,  he  replies: 

'  I  want  to  1)0  A  1  nt  cricket  and  foottiall  and  all  the  otlicr  aaincs,  and  to  make  my 
hands  keep  my  head  a<,'ainst  my  fellow,  lout  or  j.'entlenian.  ...  I  want  to  carry  away 
just  as  much  Latin  and  (ireek  as  will  take  mo  through  Oxford  respectably.  .  .  .  I  want 
to  leave  behind  me  the  name  of  a  fellow  who  never  bullied  a  little  boy  or  turned  his  back 

on  a  bit:  one." 

Doubtless  these  athletes  will  l)ehave  nid«>ly.  A  list-fight  is 
the  natural  wav  of  settling  their  (|uarrels.  During  the  exercises 
of  Coniiiienioi-ation  week,  the  undergraduates  kc^ep  uji  an  inces- 
sant howl.  When  the  Oxford  degree  was  conferred  upon  Long- 
fellow, tliev  propositi  'Thre(>  cheers  for  the  red  man  of  the  W  est.' 
\\'heii  the  \'ice-( 'haiieellor  was  reading  a  Latin  address,  they 
called  out,  'Now  eonstrtie.'  A  man,  whose  attire  was  not  in 
taste,  was  stnnneil  at:  'Take  olT  that  coat,  sir."  '(io  out,  sir.' 
'  Wo/i't  vou  li-nat  onee?"  'Ladies,  recniest  him  to  leave.'  '  |)oetor 
]irown,  won't  //""  put  that   man  out?' 

The  school  is  a  sort  of  primitive  society.  Kach  big  boy  has 
several  who  are  Ixmiid  to  lie  his  servants.      Says  a  witn<>ss: 

'I  st.itc  :is  u  r:icr.  that  from  tlie  l-i  <>f  .lanuary  to  Ilie.'il-l  of  DeieiiiluT.  the  \  011111: 
foundation  seliohir  ha^  not  a  sin.L'le  mdiiunl  which   is  not   e\po^ell   1..  inlerrnplic.i,.     \l 


360  DIFFUSIVE  PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

half-past  three  in  the  morning,  two  of  the  younger,  chosen  in  succession,  rise  to  light 
the  fire,  boil  the  water,  cull  up  those  of  the  big  boys  who  have  ordered  this  to  be  done. 
Frequently  the  senior,  awakened  at  four  o'clock,  does  not  get  up  till  half-past  seven;  he 
must  then  be  called  every  half  hour.  This  task  falls  to  each  of  the  small  boys  two  or 
three  times  weekly.' 

To  iiiaiiitaiii  obedience,  terror  is  used;  and  among  the  oppressed 
it  is  considered  a  point  of  honor  not  to  denounce  their  oppressors. 
Kicks  are  commonplace: 

'In  the  first  degree  the  real  punishments  are  systematic  boxes  on  the  ears;  the 
offender  must  keep  his  hands  at  his  sides,  and  hold  his  head  forward  to  receive  a  dozen 
slaps  applied  right  and  left.' 

Sometimes  he  is  so  cruelly  bruised  that  he  is  unable  for  many 
days  to  join  in  the  games  and  other  exercises.  Tom  Brown  was 
tossed  upwards  in  a  blanket  with  such  force  that  lie  struck  the 
ceiling-.  On  one  occasion  he  was  seized  and  held  before  a  blazing 
fire  till  he  was  ready  to  faint. 

The  picture,  indeed,  softens  and  brightens  under  the  opera- 
tion of  a  gradual  reform;  nevertheless,  we  perceive  here  the 
revival  of  a  feudal  aristocracy.  'Talent  and  wit,'  said  Steudhal, 
'lose  twenty-five  per  cent  in  value  on  reaching  England.  So 
great  is  the  ascendancy  of  birth  or  fortune.' 

Frightful  contrasts  exist  in  the  social  strata.  Gentlemen  and 
fine  ladies  gaze  upon  the  ragged  toiler  with  a  frigid  curiosity. 
Few  workmen  rise  to  be  independent.  They  drink  much  and 
save  nothing.  Dull  seasons  are  inevitable.  Competition  is 
severe.  They  have  children  in  droves.  Strikes  turn  them  into 
the  streets  by  thousands.  Accident  and  sickness  engulf  them 
in  a  black  and  bottomless  pit.  Yet  they  are  not  utterly  isolated. 
From  reading  the  newspapers  and  hearing  important  questions 
discussed,  they  possess  no  inconsiderable  store  of  intelligence  in 
.social,  ])olitica],  ami  religious  matters.  It  tends  to  equalize  con- 
ditions, that  mast<.'rs  are  compelled  to  send  to  school  two  hours 
daily  all  factory  children  from  twelve  to  fifteen  years  of  age. 
The  fiindamciital  maxim  is,  that  unless  a  nation  be  educated, 
it  will  become  unaovernable,  as  well  as  improvident.  Into  the 
hands  of  great  pniprietors  the  soil  has  now  entirely  ]>assed.  Half 
of  it  is  owned  l)v  al)out  a  tliousaiid  jxTSons.  Commerce  has 
assisted  the  process  l)y  giving  birth  to  large  fortunes,  the  owners 
of  which  are  led  by  social  ambition  to  l)uy  landed  estates.  The 
proprietor's  stal)le  is  more  adiiiiral)l<"  than  the  tiller's  lK)vel.  In 
the  midst  of  cottages  are  country  seats  which  replace  the  mediaeval 


SOCIAL    LIFE  —  AMERICAN.  3»>1 

castle,  and  wliose  masters  play  therein,  under  new  forms,  the  part 
of  the  mediieval  baron.  This  enormous  concentration  of  land, 
coupled  with  the  cruelties  of  the  Tudor  conquest,  explains  the 
deplorable  evils  of  sea-ijirt  Ireland,  and  her  deathless  hatred  of 
the  conquerors. 

The  American  is  the  continuation  of  English  genius  into  new 
conditions,  more  or  loss  propitious.  There  is  the  same  practical 
common-sense,  a  similar,  but  more  general,  love  of  physical  well- 
being.  Under  a  ft'udal  system,  the  poor  get  as  much  accus- 
tomed to  their  poverty,  as  the  rich  to  their  opulence.  Here,  on 
the  contrary,  the  ilesire  of  acquisition  haunts  the  imagination  of 
the  one,  and  the  dread  of  loss  that  of  the  other.  All  strain  to 
pursue  or  to  retain  delights  so  imperfect,  so  fugitive.  The  love 
of  material  gain  is  the  predominant  taste.  Hence  the  universal 
stir,  the  ceaseless  change,  tlie  perpetual  hurry,  the  unrest  in  the 
midst  of  abundance.     Says  Tocqueville: 

'A  iiiiin  of  the  United  Stales  clings  to  tliis  world's  goods  as  if  lie  were  certain  never 
to  die:  and  he  is  so  hasty  in  grasping  at  all  within  his  reach,  that  one  would  supjMJse  he 
was  constantly  afraid  of  not  living  long  enough  to  enjoy  them.  He  clutches  everything, 
he  holds  nothing  fast,  but  soon  loosens  his  grasp  to  pursue  fresh  gratilications.  .  .  . 

A  man  huilds  a  house  to  spend  his  latter  years  in,  and  he  sells  it  before  the  roof 
is  on:  he  plants  a  garden,  and  lets  it  just  as  the  trees  are  coming  into  bearing:  he 
brink's  a  field  into  tillage,  and  leaves  other  men  to  gather  the  crops:  he  embraces  a  i>ro- 
fessiiiu,  and  gives  it  up:  he  settles  in  a  place  which  he  soon  afterward  leaves,  to  carry 
his  changeable  li'iigings  elsewhere.  .  .  .  Death  at  leuirtli  overtakes  him,  l)nt  it  is  before 
he  i-*  weary  of  liis  bootless  chase  of  that  complete  felicity  which  is  forever  on  the  wing.' 

It  is  this  restlessness,  united  to  love  of  freedom  and  attcMition 
to  ])iil)li('  all'airs,  that  creates  prosperity.  The  world  aiVords  no 
similar  ('\a!ii|il("  of  rajiid  development.  Our  territory  toiu'hes 
two  oceans  a  thousand  Icagtu^s  a])art,  strotchlnn'  through  all  the 
pi-odiii-tivf  (IcuTccs  of  latitude.  Our  surplus  produc-ts  amounted 
in  jSfiO  to  sixty  million  sterling;  in  lcSl8  to  one  hundred  and 
foilv  niillioii.  AN'c  can  supply  wheat  <>iiongli  to  fovd  the  world, 
cotton  enougli  to  clotiK^  it,  coal  enough  to  warm  it,  oil  eiiougii 
to  light  it.  \\  e  have  almost  as  many  miles  of  railroad,  and  as 
ni;iiiy  miles  of  telegraph,  as  tiie  rest  of  the  gloix-.  ()ui-  mines  of 
g(i|(l  and  silxcr,  of  eop|)er  ;ind  iron,  an-  praetieallv  iiie.\liaustib|(\ 
In  ten  thousand  ways  inacliinerv  has  lift<'d  tlie  Imrden  from 
lalior,  and  niidliplied  the  comforts  of  life, 

15ut  our  progress  consists  not  in  materia!  things  alon.-. 
.Mental  ecjualily  is  the  l)asis  of  pojiular  sovenie-nl v.  The  free 
s<-ho<,l     siii-e;ids    rei)ul)liean     princiiij.^,    ;ind    ci-eates    the    readiuir 


362  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

public.  We  consume  a  periodical  literature  twice  as  great  as 
that  of  England  and  France.  Nowhere  have  such  vast  and  com- 
plete educational  systems  been  so  rapidly  perfected.  By  their 
influence  the  circle  of  knowledge  unceasingly  expands.  The 
rural  districts  assimilate  to  the  towns,  and  the  provinces^  to  the 
cai^ital.  Nowhere  are  individuals  so  insignificant.  Nowhere  are 
men  so  nearly  alike,  nowhere  is  competition  so  intense,  nowhere 
is  it  so  difficult  for  any  one  person  to  walk  quick  and  cleave  a 
way  through  the  dense  throng  which  presses  him.  Nowhere  are 
fixed  distinctions  so  improbable.  The  new  are  constantly  spring- 
ing up,  the  old  are  constantly  falling  away.  Those  who  went 
before  are  soon  forgotten;  those  who  will  come  after,  who  can 
tell  ?  Real  superiorities  are  coveted  and  respected,  but  it  is  also 
easily  seen  that  the  greatest  men  have  their  limitations;  and  the 
humblest  may  follow  in  the  track  which  the  grandest  levels  for 
his  coach. 

With  the  decrease  of  drudgery,  and  the  increase  of  leisure, 
habits  become  more  contemplative,  feeling  more  refined,  and 
mind  widens  its  empire  in  all  directions.  A  most  notable  fact 
of  the  period  is  the  art  movement.  The  marked  devotion  to  the 
art-galleries  of  the  Centennial  Exhibition,  the  multiplication  of 
art-schools,  reveal  a  taste  for  tlie  beautiful  from  which  time  and 
opportunity  will  reap  grand  harvests  of  achievement  and  appre- 
ciation. Humanitarian  advance,  everywhere,  is  seen  in  the  help- 
ful treatment  of  criminals  and  unfortunates;  in  prison  reforms, 
in  the  tender  care  of  the  insane,  in  the  efforts  to  mitigate  the 
horrors  of  Avar,  in  the  mitigation  of  the  penal  code,  in  the 
foundation  of  societies  for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  animals, 
in  tlie  abolition  of  slavery,  in  the  growing  disposition  to  live,  not 
for  self  merely,  but  for  some  form  of  the  eternal  good.  This  is 
the  last  and  best  lio])e  of  civilization. 

Religion. —  Tn  looking  at  tlio  nineteenth  century,  Ave  are 
struck  Avitli  one  commanding  cliaracterlstie, —  the  tendency  in  all 
its  movements  to  ex})ansion,  to  diffusion,  to  universality.  It  is 
inoro  and  more  understood  that  religious  truth  Is  CA'ery  man's 
proportv  and  right;  tliat  It  is  committed  to  no  order  or  individual, 
to  no  priest  or  sage,  to  lie  given  or  Avithheld.  The  historical 
(|U('Stions,  once  so  much  disputed  betAveeii  Anglican  and  Puritan, 
are   h'ss  and   less  controverted   bv  scholars  on  either  side.      Few 


RELIGION.  363 

maintain  a  divine  right  for  either  system  of  church  organization. 
A  multitude  agree  that  Episcopal  government,  however  ancient 
and  however  beneficial,  is  not  essential  to  the  existence  of  an 
authorized  ministry.  Few,  without  concealing  their  fear  that 
externalism  may  become  a  duty  or  settle  into  hypocrisy,  would 
now  assert  the  unlawfulness  of  written  forms;  and  the  time  is 
past  for  any  to  speak  contemptuously  of  spontaneous  prayer. 
Protestants  everywhere  are  coming  to  perceive  that  there  may 
be  a  legitimate  development  in  doctrine,  in  ethics,  in  ceremonial, 
in  polity. 

In  England,  the  State  Church,  rich  and  powerful,  finds  favor 
with  the  majority.  But  her  separating  walls  are  crumbling, 
while  her  shield  has  broadened  till  it  spreads  over  three  distinct 
parties, —  the  Illgli,  which  is  the  more  aristocratic,  leaning  more 
upon  authority,  fonder  of  ritual;  the  X,oic,  more  popular,  more 
ardent,  more  eager  to  renovate  the  heart;  the  Liberal,  or  Ration- 
alistic, which  includes  a  large  number  of  the  most  cultivated 
minds,  eminently  qualified  for  reconciling  science  and  faitii.  The 
political  influence  of  the  clergy  has  steadily  declined.'  Once  the 
chief  directors  of  the  policy  of  Europe,  they  now  form  a  baffled, 
if  not  desponding,  minority,  whose  ideal  is  not  so  much  in  the 
future  as  in  the  past. 

In  America,  all  parties  unite  in  tlie  conviction  that  the  civil 
authority  should  be  neutral  as  regards  the  different  denomina- 
tions, and  that  these  should  severally  govern  themselves.  We 
have  over  twentv-two  million  worshippers,  and  above  seventy- 
two  thousand  cc^ngregations, —  more  than  twice  as  many  as  in 
England.  Stat(i  support,  supplemented  by  private  bounty,  has 
done  less  for  the  cue  than  voluntary  offerings  have  done  for  the 
other.  Religion  here,  so  far  as  its  vital  power  is  concerned,  is 
individual.  Its  allies  are  culture  and  reform,  but  its  foundations 
sliift  i)er])etually.  It  is  less  a  habit, —  more  a  tiiought,  feeling, 
sentiment  and  ])urj)ose,  impulsive  and  growing. 

In  both  countries,  dogma  is  fast  yielding  to  reason  and  per- 
suasion; in  l)otli,  a  (limiiiisiied  iunxirtanoe  is  ascribed  to  the  out- 
ward ])arts  of  Christianity.  Its  inward  evidences,  the  nuirks  of 
divlnitv  wliicli  it  w(>ars  on  its  own  brow,  are  becoming  of  greater 

1  In  the  rti?ii  of  Henry  III,  the  spiriniiil  peers  fornu'd  one  lialf  of  tlie  Tpper  House ; 
in  the  niidcUe  of  this  eenti'iry,  only  one  fourteenth. 


364  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

moment.  Not  a  name  or  a  creed,  but  purity  of  desire  and  deed, 
Christly  love  of  God  and  man, —  this  is  the  essential  thing: 

'Let  us  think 
Of  forms  less,  and  the  external.    Trust  the  spirit. 
As  sovran  nature  does,  to  make  the  form ; 
For  otherwise  we  only  imprison  spirit. 
And  not  embody.    Inward  evermore 
To  outward,— so  in  life,  and  so  in  art, 
Which  still  is  life.' 

So  the  modern  typical  preacher  exposes  and  reproves  public  sins, 
applies  and  urges  the  motives  to  sobriety,  honesty,  charity;  and 
without  being  entirely  released  from  the  old  narrowness,  broadens 
into  a  critic  and  cultivator  of  character.  His  grand  endeavor  is 
not  so  much  to  save  men  as  to  make  them  worthy. 

The  more  closely  we  approach  the  centre  of  our  faith,  the  more 
closely  we  draw  together.  The  followers  of  Calvin  no  longer 
burn,  torture,  imprison,  or  traduce  the  descendants  of  Servetus. 
When  they  have  ceased  to  be  good  sectarians,  they  are  merely 
'suspended.'  They  may  still  be  —  as  all  believe  them  to  be  — 
good  Christians,  and  may  find  themselves,  in  their  non-sectarian 
sphere,  more  attractive,  more  influential,  more  useful. 

But  human  affairs  admit  no  unmixed  good.  That  the  tenden- 
cies are  achieving  a  higher  condition  for  the  race  there  can  be  no 
doubt;  but  the  simplicity  and  fervor  of  the  elder  time  seem  to 
have  passed  away  before  the  self-assertion  of  liberty,  the  levelling 
of  democracy,  the  distrust  of  cupidity,  the  spirit  of  criticism,  the 
decline  of  imagination,  the  discovery  of  unchanging  law.  There 
is  much  preacliiug  for  lucre  or  display;  much  attendance  from 
usage,  for  propriety's  sake,  or  from  a  vague  notion  of  salvation. 
Tliore  is  a  disj)osition  to  look  at  religion,  instead  of  living  in  it; 
to  own  it  as  a  noble  fact,  as  if  it  were  a  fair  creation  of  the  soul, 
in.stead  of  a  divine  reality;  to  discuss  with  the  lips  each  other's 
doctriiips,  instead  of  going  into  silence  with  th(;ir  own  God.  In 
particular,  we  mourn  the  decay  of  reverence,  that  most  beautiful 
of  all  forms  of  moral  goodness;  that  character  of  humility  and 
of  awe,  so  dependent,  so  earnest,  so  devout,  which,  Txion-like, 
bestowed  its  afiections  upon  a  cloud,  and  made  its  illusions  the 
source  of  purest  virtues.  '\Viiv  is  it,' said  T>utlier\s  wife,  looking 
sadly  back  upon  tiie  sensuous  creed  which  she  liad  left,  'that  in 
our   old   faitli    we    praved   so   often   and   so  warmly,  and  that  our 


POETRY.  365 

prayers  are  now  so  few  and  so  cold  ? '  The  child,  as  it  develops 
into  youth,  exchanges  its  repose  for  conflict  fraught  with  danger; 
but  would  we  forever  keep  it  a  cliild? 

But  if  there  is  a  loss  of  enthusiasm,  there  is  a  gain  of  temper. 
Unbelief  has  grown  gentle  and  respectful.  Benevolence,  upright- 
ness, enterprise,  and  freedom  are  multiplying.  The  religious 
element,  the  sighing  for  the  perfect,  the  longing  for  the  infinite, 
the  thirst  for  beauty,  the  hunger  for  righteousness,  can  never 
die.  The  central,  saving  truths  of  the  faith  will  flower  and  fruit 
as  long  as  there  are  days  of  toil  and  sorrow,  or  nights  of  weari- 
ness and  pain. 

Meanwhile  the  effective  strength  of  the  ministry  is  in  earnest- 
ness,—  in  a  solemn  conviction  that  religion  is  a  great  concern;  in 
a  solemn  purpose  that  its  claims  shall  be  felt;  in  acquaintance 
with  contemporary  secular  thought;  in  alMlity  to  discern  and 
explain  the  consistency  of  Christianity  with  the  new  lights  which 
are  breaking  in  from  the  outer  world;  in  courage  to  renounce 
ideas  that  are  outlived,  or  habits  that  are  outlawed;  in  culture 
that  is  instinct  with  life  and  feeling. 

Poetry. — The  potent  tidal  wave  which  threw  on  sliore  so 
many  treasures  of  the  deep,  has  long  since  ebbed,  and  no  second 
has  arisen  which  approaches  the  level  of  the  former.  The  genius 
of  the  present  is  less  creative  than  elective  and  refining,  excjuisito 
rather  than  iinairinat ive,  dilTusive  rather  than  j)owerful. 

Two  kinds  of  verse  are  discernible, —  one  which  continues  the 
impulse  received  from  Keats  and  Shelley,  the  other  from  Words- 
wortli.  Tlie  (li)iiiinaiit  tone  is  i-omposite,  uniting  the  classicism 
and  romanticism  of  the  first  to  the  refl(M'tion  and  naturalism  of 
tli(^  second.  Richly  melodied  and  highly  colored,  embracing 
evcrv  vaiictv   of    ilivthiu    and   technical   clTect,   it   finds   its   cliief 

voice  in  Tennyson. 

Tlie  conditions  alTocting  the  social  order  have  atTi^cti^d  the 
comlitions  bearing  upon  art.  Tht^  most  notable  of  these  are  the 
iconoclastic  t^Midencies  of  science  and  the  ])assion  tor  material 
])n)o-r('ss.  B(jth  indicate  a  subsidence  of  the  forces  which  h(>aved 
up  the  mountain  ranges  of  the  Byronic  age.  Never,  piM'liaps, 
was  ttie  p:)etieal  tal(Mit  so  largelv  ditTused.  Never  was  so  much 
<'-ood  ])oetrv  written  —  ntncr  so  much  ]>erfoniiance  al)ove  medi- 
ocrity;   l)Ut    ]>octs   have    l>eeii    supplanted    in   general    rei^ard,  and 


366  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

very  few  are  able  to  command  the  attention  of  the  English 
nations.     New  theories  are  far  more  exciting^  than  new  poems. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  the  refinements  of  life  are 
transferred  to  literature  and  its  works;  that  our  poets,  therefore, 
carry  to  further  perfection  reverence  for  human  character,  regard 
to  human  duty,  tenderness  for  Nature,  and  love  for  the  Divine. 
Their  specific  excellence  is  elaborateness  of  finish  —  perfection  of 
form  and  structure  —  richness  of  diction  and  variety  of  metre. 

Without  much  originality,  the  verses  of  Hunt  (1784—1859) 
are  sweet,  fluent,  and  feeling, —  successful  imitations  of  the 
lighter  and  more  picturesque  parts  of  Chaucer.  The  following, 
on  the  grasshopper  and  the  cricket,  are  characteristic: 

'Green  little  vauUer  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that" s  heard  ami(li>t  the  lazy  noon. 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon. 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ; 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth. 

Both  have  your  sunshine;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 

To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song  — 

Indoors  and  out,  summer  and  winter.  Mirth." 

We  recognize  at  once  the  simple  delight  of  his  master  in  the 
concrete  forms  and  objects  of  the  outer  world. 

Then  the  calm  gravity  of  heart  which  makes  the  pulse  of  the 
two-fold  inspiration: 

'Blest  is  the  turf,  serenely  blest.  There  shall  no  vain  ambition  come 

Where  throl)bing  hearts  may  sink  to  rest.  To  lure  tliem  from  their  quiet  home. 

Where  life's  long  journey  turns  to  slee]),  Xor  sorrow  lift,  with  heart-strings  riven. 

Nor  ever  pilgrim  wakes  to  weep.  The  meek  imploring  eye  to  heaven; 

A  little  sod,  a  few  sad  flowers.  Nor  sad  remembrance  stoop  to  shed 

A  tear  for  long-(iei)arted  hours,  His  wrinkles  on  the  slumberer's  head; 

Is  all  that  feeling  hearts  retiucst  And  never,  never  love  repair 

To  hush  their  weary  thoughts  to  rest.  To  breathe  his  idle  whispers  there." 

Another  who  warl)lod  clieerful  and  tru.stful  music,  even  through 
privation,  sorrow,  and  anguish,  was  Hood  (!■(  90-1845),  a  night- 
ingale in  the  .stormy  dark.  Tliere  is  something  Shakespearean  in 
his  analysis  ol'  a  spectral  conscience: 

'But  (iiiilt  wa-  my  grim  CliamlKrhiin 

Thai   litrhtcd  iiic  to  l)e(l 
And  drew  my  inidniiriit  curtains  round, 
Wil/t  JiiKjtrs  hlooily  red.' 


POETRY  —  HOOD  —  LANDOR.  367 

His  noble  efforts  in  behalf  of  the  poor  and  unfortunate,  his  sym- 
pathy with  suffering  and  woe,  are  felicitously  wrought  in  The 
Song  of  the  Shirt,  and  The  Jiridf/e  of  Sighs,  all  pathetic  and 
tragical.  But  he  could  seldom  exjiress  himself  except  through 
witty  and  humorous  forms.  One  of  his  most  popular  effusions 
in  the  style  peculiarly  his  own,  is  the  ode  to  his  infant  sou: 

'Thou  happy,  happy  elf  I 
(But  stop  — first  let  me  kiss  away  tliat  tear) 
Thou  tiny  image  of  myself; 
(My  love,  he's  (wking  peas  into  his  ear!) 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite! 
With  spirits  feather  light. 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin, 
(Good  heavens!  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin!) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck! 

With  antic  joys  so  funnily  bestuck. 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 

(The  door!   the  door!   he'll  tumble  down  the  stair!) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sircl 

(Wliy,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire!) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy! 

In  Love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  i)arents  (Drat  the  boy! 

There  goes  my  ink!)  .  .  . 

Thou  yo\ing  domestic  dove ! 

(He'll  liave  that  jug  off  with  another  shove!) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest, 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man! 

(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan!)  .  .  . 

Tliou  i)ri'tfy  opening  rose! 

((io  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose!) 

Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 

(He  really  l)rings  my  heart  into  my  mouth!) 

Fresli  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 

(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar!) 

Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 

(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 

I  eunnot  write,  unless  he's  sent  above!*' 

A  contemporary  of  C'owper,  who  bandied  epitliots  with  Byron, 
who  lived  to  see  Tennyson  pass  for  the  greatest  poet  of  hi.s  coiin- 
trv  and  his  time,  was  the  wayward  and  impetuous  Landor 
(1775-1804);  a  pioneer  of  tiie  school  gone  by,  a  revt>r('iid  land- 
mark of  the  one  under  review;  a  scholar  of  opulent  range;  a 
delightful  essayist;  a  lover  of  beauty  j)urc  and  simple;  among 
recent  singers,  one  of  the  most  versatile,  most  independent, 
thouo'h  far  from  being  the  greatest  in  aehii'vemeiit.  His  taste 
for  classical  themes,  his   facility  in   classical   verse,  his  ])owcr  of 


368  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATUEES. 

bringing  the  antique  spirit  within  the  range  of  modern  thought 
and  sympathy,  are  seen  in  the  Heroic  Idyls,  which  are  Latin 
poems,  and  their  English  version, —  the  Hellenics.  He  was 
always  at  ease  in  either  language.  The  famous  shell-passage  in 
Gebir  —  an  early  poetical  romance  —  is  said  to  have  been  written 
first  in  Latin,  and  to  have  been  more  musical  than  its  translation: 

'But  1  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  luiitre  have  imbibed 
In  the  (iuii's  i)alace-porch,  vvliere  when  unyoked 
His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave: 
Shake  one  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 
Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  ear. 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes. 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there.' 

On  the  whole,  however,  to  the  multitude  he  will  ever  be  a  sealed 

book,  because    radically  deficient   in    geniality  of    feeling.     His 

imagery  seems  to   us  cold  and    statuesque.     This   niay   be   due 

partly  or  mainly  to  his   habit   of    first   composing  in   a  foreign 

tongue.     We  may  be  surprised  tliat  he  often  shed  tears  in  the 

passion  of  his  work.     His  affection  for  nature  was  instinctive  and 

sincere.     He  desired, — 

'To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die. 
Whene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls  depart. 
Among  their  kindred  in  tlieir  native  place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose;  the  violefs  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank, 
And  not  rei)roached  me;  the  ever-sacred  cup 
Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 
Felt  safe,  unsoiled,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold.' 

To  read  Landor  one  must  e.xert  himself,  and  the  exertion  is 
to  some  purpose.  The  same  is  true,  in  even  a  higher  degree,  of 
Browning  (1812-  ),   subtle    and    penetrating,   eminently  a 

thinker,  exercising  our  thouglit  rather  than  our  emotion;  con- 
crete in  presentation,  and,  when  most  felicitous,  dramatic,  but 
capricious  in  expression,  and  greatly  deficient  in  warmth  and 
music;  original  and  unequal;  an  eclectic,  not  to  be  restricted  in 
his  themes,  with  a  prosaic  regard  for  details,  and  a  barbaric 
sense  of  color  and  form. 

Tile  ])oem  of  liis  youth  —  Paracelsus  —  is  a  metaphysical  dia- 
logue, the  history  of  a  thwarted  soul  that  would  know  and  enjoy, 
tliat  would  drink  deep  at  the  fountains  both  of  knowledge  and  of 
|)leasure.      The  following  passage  is  characteristic: 

'  Atiollicr  world  ! 
And   why   tliis  woriil.   Ilii^  ciniinioii  world,  to  be 


POETRY  —  THE   BROWNINGS.  369 

A  make-Rhift,  a  mere  foil,  how  fair  soever. 

To  some  fine  life  to  come?     Man  muft  be  fed 

With  angels'  food,  forsooth;   and  some  few  traces 

Of  a  diviner  nature,  which  look  out 

Through  his  corporeal  basenenf,  warrant  him 

In  a  supreme  contempt  for  all  provision 

For  his  inferior  tastes  — some  straggling  marks 

Which  constitute  his  essence,  just  as  truly 

As  here  and  there  a  gem  would  constitute 

The  rock,  their  barren  bed,  a  diamond. 

But  were  it  so  — were  man  all  mind  — he  gains 

A  station  little  enviable.     From  God 

Down  to  the  lowest  spirit  ministrant. 

Intelligence  exists  which  casts  our  mind 

Into  immeasurable  shade.      No,  no: 

Love,  hope,  fear,  faith  — these  make  humanity. 

These  are  its  sign,  and  note,  and  character; 

And  these  I  have  lost!- gone,  shut  from  me  forever.' 

This  has  the  simplicity  and  truth  of  the  old  drama: 

'Fcstus,  strange  secrets  are  let  out  by  Death, 
Who  blabs  so  oft  the  follies  of  this  world: 
And  I  am  Death's  familiar,  as  you  know. 
I  helped  a  man  to  die  some  few  weeks  since.  .  .  . 

No  mean  trick 
He  left  untried;   and  truly  well-nigh  wormed 
AU  traces  of  God's  linger  out  of  liiin. 
Then  died,  grown  old;  and  just  an  liour  before  — 
Having  lain  long  with  blank  and  soulless  eyes  — 
He  sate  up  suddenly,  and  with  natural  voice 
Said,  tlmt  in  spite  of  thick  air  and  closed  doors, 
God  told  him  it  was  June:   and  he  knew  well. 
Without  such  telling,  harebells  grew  in  June; 
And  all  that  kings  could  ever  give  or  take 
Would  not  be  precious  as  tliose  blooms  to  him.' 

Observe  now  the  majj^ical  cfTect  of  hio;h  pas.sion: 

'0  hjric  Love,  hnlf  angel  and  half  bird. 
And  all  a  uonder  and  a  uild  desire." 

Such  the  .sejf-foru'ctful  cadences  in  which  he  adilresses  his  dead 

wife,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  (180!)-18(;i);  a  rhymer 

at  ten,  an  iiuthor  at  seventeen;  an  omnivorous  reader,  a  loving 
student  of  philosophy  and  the  classics;  in  style,  orii>-itial  from 
the  l)e<)'innin<:',  reiii;irkal)h^  alike  for  defects  and  for  beauties; 
often  ruu-o-ed  and  unfinished,  from  subordination  of  taste  tt)  excess 
of  f(c-liii_ii";  always  intcMiso,  rarely  sportive;  worshipful  and  sym- 
pathetic, tremulouslv  sensitive  to  the  sorrows  and  mysteries  of 
existence;  the  most  fra<i-ile  of  being's,  yet  essayin<r  to  reach  the 
infinite;  all  ethereal,  yet  all  human,  the  idol  of  lier  kindred,  the 
most  beloved  of  minstrels  atid  of  women. 

ller  jioetry  as  a  whole  is  an  uneven  production,  fidl  of  prosaic 
24 


370  DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

episodes,  with  much  that  is  forced  and  unnatural,  a  chaos  from 
which  rare  lustres  break  out.     Thus: 

'The  essence  of  all  beauty  I  call  love. 
The  attribute,  the  evidence,  and  end. 
The  consummation,  to  the  inward  sense. 
Of  beauty  apprehended  from  without, 
I  still  call  love.     As  form,  when  colourless, 
Is  nothing  to  the  eye  — that  pine-tree  there. 
Without  its  black  and  green,  being  all  a  blank  — 
So,  without  love,  is  bcanty  undiscerned 
In  man  or  angel.     Angel  1   rather  ask 
What  love  is  in  thee,  what  love  moves  to  thee, 
And  what  collateral  love  moves  on  with  thee. 
Then  shalt  thou  know  if  thou  art  beautiful.' ' 

Also: 

'A  Thought  lay  like  a  flower  upon  mine  heart. 
And  drew  around  it  other  thoughts  like  bees 
For  multitude  and  thirst  of  sweetnesses.   .  .  . 

While  I  spoke. 
The  thought  I  called  a  flower,  grew  nettle-rough; 
The  thoughts,  called  bees,  stung  me  to  festering. 
Oh,  entertain  (cried  Reason,  as  she  woke) 
Your  best  and  gladdest  thoughts  but  long  enough, 
And  they  will  all  prove  sad  enough  to  sing.'* 

And  this: 

'  O  sorrowful  great  gift 
Conferred  on  poets,  of  a  two-fold  life, 
When  one  life  has  been  found  enough  for  pain. 
We  staggering  'neath  our  burden  as  mere  men. 
Being  called  to  stand  up  straight  as  demi-gods. 
Support  the  intolerable  strain  and  stress 
Of  the  universal,  and  send  clearly  up 
With  voices  broken  by  the  human  sob. 
Our  poems  to  find  rhymes  among  the  stars!'* 

Of  a  mother  gazing  on  her  fatherless  child,  just  waking  from 
sleep,  and  perplexed  between  a  mortal  presence  and  the  angel- 
hood it  had  been  away  to  visit: 

'She  leaned  above  him  (drinking  him  as  wine) 
In  that  extremity  of  love  "twill  pass 
For  agony  or  rapture,  seeing  that  love 
Includes  the  whole  of  nature,  rounding  it 
Ti)  love, —  no  more, —  since  more  can  never  be 
•  Than  just  love.    Self-forgot,  cast  out  of  self. 

And  drowning  in  the  transport  of  the  sight, 
Her  whole  pale  passionate  face,  mouth,  forehead,  eyes, 
One  gaze,  she  stood ;  then,  slowly  as  he  smiled, 
She  smiled  too,  slowly,  smiling  unaware. 
And  drawing  from  his  countenance  to  hers 
A  fainter  red,  as  if  she  watched  a  flame 
And  stood  in  it  aglow."  ■• 

^A  Drama  of  Emlf.  ^Sonnet.  ^Aurora  Leigh.  *Ibid. 


POETRY — ROBERT    LYTTON.  371 

Aurora  LeigJi,  is  essentially  an  autobiography,  withal  a  mirror 
of  modern  life  and  issues,  almost  a  handbook  of  literature  and 
the  arts;  superior  in  power  to  any  similar  contemporary  struc- 
ture, yet  incongruous  in  the  parts,  unsatisfactory  in  the  aggre- 
gate, and  the  most  idiosyncratic  of  its  author's  poems.  One 
feels  that  life  was  to  her  a  very  serious  thing,  that  she  wrought 
reverently,  that  she  struggled  painfully  to  render  the  music  that 
was  in  her, —  the  dream  was  so  far  beyond  the  symbol, —  the 
mount  of  vision  was  so  high,  time  and  opportunity  all  so  narrow 
and  so  brief: 

'The  winds  sound  only  in  opi>osing  straits: 
The  sea,  beside  the  shore:  man's  sjjirit  rends 
Its  quiet  only  up  against  the  ends 
Of  wants  and  opiwsitions,  loves  and  hates, 
Where,  worked  and  worn  by  passionate  debates. 
And  losing  by  the  loss  it  apprehends. 
The  flesh  rocks  round,  and  every  breath  it  sends 
Is  ravelled  to  a  sigh.    All  tortured  slates 
Suppose  a  straitened  place.    Jehovah  Lord, 
Make  room  for  rest  around  me !  out  of  sight 
Now  lloat  me  of  the  vexing  land  abhorred. 
Till  in  deep  calms  of  space,  my  soul  may  right 
Her  nature  —  shoot  large  sail  on  lengthening  cord. 
And  rush  exultant  on  the  Infinite." 

Another  elaborate  novel  in  verse,  less  profound,  loss  imagina- 
tive, but  more  graceful,  more  musical,  and  far  more  readable,  is 
ZiUcile,  by  Robert  Liytton,'  to  whom  friends  once  looked  for 
signs  of  a  new  poetical  dawn.  In  this  lii.s  niasterj)iece  we  must 
admire  the  noble  features  which  di.sting'uish  all  that  he  has 
written, —  the  generous  reach  of  thought,  the  di.sposition  to  look 
inward  to  the  duties,  onward  to  the  destinies  of  man,  and  the 
doctrine  of  the  gradual  education  of  the  race  by  struggle  again.st 
evil.  The  reader  may  find  an  indication  of  the  author's  spirit  and 
manner,  as  well  as  somewhat  that  may  be  useful  in  pleasure  or 
suggestive  in  refUH-tion,  in  sentences  like  these.     Of  concentration: 

'The  man  who  seeks  one  thing  in  life,  and  but  one, 
May  hope  to  achieve  it  before  life  be  done: 
But  he  who  seeks  all  things,  wherever  he  goe-i. 
Only  reaps  from  the  hopes  which  around  him  he  sows 
A  harvest  of  barren  regrets.' 

Of  courage  and  self-respect: 

•Let  any  man  once  i-hi)w  the  world  that  he  feels 
.Vfraid  of  its  bark,  and  'twill  lly  at  his  heels: 
Let  liiin  fearlessly  faei'  it,  "twill  leave  him  alone: 
But  'twill  fawn  at  his  feet  if  he  lliiiu's  it  a  bone." 

'  'Owen  Meredith,"  born  l>v'Jl,  son  of  Kdwanl  Lytton  Btilwer. 


372  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

What  need  to  remind  us  that  we  cannot  subsist  on  visions  ? 

*We  may  live  without  poetry,  music,  and  art; 
We  may  live  without  conscience,  and  live  without  heart; 
We  may  live  without  friends;  we  may  live  without  books; 
But  civilized  man  cannot  live  without  cooks.' 

Of  the  beauty  and  beatitude  which  we  conceive  and  pursue: 

'We  but  catch  at  the  skirts  of  the  thing  we  would  be. 
And  fall  back  on  the  lap  of  a  false  destiny. 
So  it  will  be,  so  has  been  since  this  world  began  I 
And  the  happiest,  noblest,  and  best  part  of  man 
Is  the  part  which  he  never  hath  fully  play'd  out: 
For  the  first  and  last  word  in  life's  volume  is  —  Doubt. 
The  face  the  most  fair  to  our  vision  allow'd 
Is  the  face  we  encounter  and  lose  in  the  crowd. 
The  thought  that  most  thrills  our  existence  is  one 
Which,  before  we  can  frame  it  in  language,  is  gone.' 

Of  the  price  of  excellence: 

'  Not  a  truth  has  to  art  or  to  science  been  given, 
But  brows  have  ached  for  it,  and  souls  toil'd  and  striven.' 

Of  the  principle  of  concord,  or  the  law  of  friendship: 

'There  are  loves  in  man's  life  for  which  time  can  renew 
All  that  time  may  destroy.    Lives  there  are,  thougii,  in  love, 
Which  cling  to  one  faith,  and  die  with  it:   nor  move 
Though  earthquakes  may  shatter  the  shrine." 

Of  influence: 

'No  life 
Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong  in  its  strife 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby.' 

Of  the  divine  significance  of  life  and  the  reward  of  the  faithful: 

'Hones^t  love,  honest  sorrow. 
Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope  for  tlie  morrow, 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  the  hand  they  make  weary. 
The  heart  they  have  sadden'd,  the  life  they  leave  dreary 'i" 

Matthew   Arnold    (1822-        )   is  the  poet  of  cultured 

intellect.  The  qualities  of  his  verse  are  simplicity,  clearness, 
music,  calm.  Uniting  great  mental  activity  to  great  moral  ear- 
nestness, he  is  one  of  those  who  represent  the  unsatisfied  aspira- 
tions of  their  age.  His  characteristic  mood  is  sadness.  Man  is 
a  wanderer  from  his  birth,  adrift  on  the  river  of  Time: 

'Vainly  does  each,  as  he  glides, 
Fable  and  dream 

Of  the  lands  where  the  river  of  Time 
Had  left  ere  lie  woke  on  its  breast. 
Or  shall  reacli  when  his  eyes  have  been  closed. 
Only  the  tract  where  he  sails 
He  wots  of:  only  the  tlioughts, 
Raised  by  the  objects  he  passes,  are  his.  .  .  . 


POETRY  —  MATTHEW    ARNOLD.  37S 

But  what  was  boforo  iis  wt-  know  not, 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 
Ilaply,  the  river  of  Time- 
As  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 
Fling  llu'ir  wavering  lights 
On  a  wider,  statelier  stream,— 
May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 
Of  its  early  mountainous  shore. 
Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 

And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 

Of  the  gray  expanse  where  he  floats. 

Freshening  its  current  and  spotted  with  foam 

As  it  draws  to  the  Ocean,  may  strike 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast, — 

As  the  i)ale  waste  widens  around  him, 

As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away, 

.■\s  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 

Brings  up  the  stream 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  tlie  inflnite  sea." ' 

Not  wholly  passive.  He  shall  have  the  finn  endurance  of  the 
Stoic,  with  the  uplift  of  a  more  spiritual  faith: 

'We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 
The  fire  wliidi  in  the  heart  resides: 
The  s|)irit  blowetli  and  is  still. 
In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 
But  tasks  in  lK)urs  of  insight  wilTd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulllird. 

With  aching  li.-iiuls  anil  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone; 
We  bfiir  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  linig  day,  and  wish  "Iwere  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return, 
.\11  we  have  built  do  we  discern." '•' 

His  sentiment  and  purpose  shall  be  the  hig-ju'st  truth,  the  wisest 
conduct  of  life,  lielp  to  encounter  witli  couraj^fe  and  to  bear  with 
fortitude  tiie  brief  ills  of  this  brief  life: 

'  Is  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoyed   the  sun: 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring: 
To  have  loved,  to  liave  thought,  to  ha\t'  done: 
To  liiive  iidvunccil  true  frieiuis.  and  beat  down  ballling  foes?  .  .  . 
I   -:iv,   Fe;ii-  not  .'   Life  still 
Leaves  huin:in  ctTort  scope. 
I'.ut  siiKc  life  tiiins  witli  ill. 
Nurse  no  extraviiirant   hope: 
Because  Iliou  must  not  dream.  llio\i  neiil"«t  not  then  de-i)airl'' 

After  all,  who  has  not  fc^It,  under  the  eloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
to  ask   of   what    protit    is   this   jx-rsistciit    upward   cfTort,  this  vain 

''  Tilt  Future.  'Mi/nilih/.  *  /■Jm/ieilorUn  on  Etna. 


374  DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Struggle  to  be  content,  this  painful  conflict  between  the  mind 
which  cannot  find  God  and  the  heart  which  cannot  rest  without 
Him?  Why  not  yield,  and  be  as  others, —  benumbed  by  the 
world's  sway,  or  possessed  by  the  fiery  glow  of  passion? — 

'For  most  men  in  a  brazen  prison  live, 
Where,  in  the  sun's  hot  eye. 
With  heads  bent  o'er  their  toil,  they  languidly 
Their  lives  to  some  unmeaning  taskwork  give. 
Dreaming  of  naught  beyond  their  prison  wall. 
And  as,  year  after  year. 
Fresh  products  of  their  barren  labor  fall 
From  their  tired  hands,  and  rest 
Never  yet  comes  more  near. 
Gloom  settles  slowly  down  over  their  breast; 
And  while  they  try  to  stem 

The  waves  of  mournful  thought  by  which  they  are  prest. 
Death  in  their  prison  reaches  them, 
Unf  reed,  having  seen  nothing,  still  unblest  I ' ' 

A  few  escape  these  narrow  limits,  and  depart  anew  on  the  wide 
ocean  of  being.  There  the  freed  prisoner  sails  where  he  listeth, 
happily  ignorant  of  the  fatal  typhoons  that  cross  his  sea  from 
eternity : 

'And  then  the  tempest  strikes  him;  and  between 
The  lightning-bursts  is  seen 
Only  a  driving  wreck. 

And  the  pale  master  on  his  spar-strewn  deck. 
With  iinguish'd  face  and  flying  hair. 
Grasping  the  rudder  hard, 

Still  bent  to  make  some  port,  he  knows  not  where, 
Still  standing  for  some  false,  impossible  shore. 
And  sterner  comes  the  roar 

Of  sea  and  wind,  and  through  the  deepening  gloom 
Fainter  and  fainter  wreck  and  helmsman  loom. 
And  he  too  disappears,  and  comes  no  more.'' 

Are  we,  then,  ordained  to  the  condition  either  of  a  madman  or  a 
slave?     Look  again,  and  see  a  tract  of  heaven  disclosed: 

'Plainness  and  clearness  without  shadow  of  stain  I 
Clearness  divine  I 

Ye  hcavfus,  whose  pure  dark  regions  have  no  sign 
Of  laniriioi,  though  so  calm;  and,  though  so  great. 
Are  yet  untroubled  and  unpassionate ; 
Who,  thoiigli  so  noble,  share  in  the  world's  toil, 
And.  thoiiLih  so  task'd,  keep  free  from  dust  and  soil  I 
I  will  not  say  that  your  mild  deeds  retain 
A  tinge,  it  may  be,  of  their  silent  pain 
Who  have  long'd  deeply  (mce,  and  long'd  in  vain  — 
But  I  will  rallier  say  that  you  remain 
A  world  above  man's  head,  to  let  him  see 
How  l)oiindl(ss  niiglit  his  soul's  horizons  be. 
How  vast,  yet  of  what  clear  transparency!'' 

'A  Summer  M(jh(.  ^Ibifl.  ^Ibid. 


POETRY  —  EROTIC.  375 

In  Swinbtime  (1837-  ),  unflagging  and  impetuous,  will 
be  found  a  world  of  melody  and  a  wealth  of  imaginative  song. 
He  represents  the  world  and  the  ilesh.  His  devotion  is  addressed 
to  sensuous  beauty.  This  is  the  stamp  oti  all  his  poems,  early 
and  late, —  audacity  of  diction,  exuberance  of  fancy,  profusion 
of  double  epithets,  ever-shifting  variety  of  metre.  Judge,  from 
lines  such  as  these,  the  richness  of  the  soil,  and  the  rank  unwhole- 
some flowers  that  may  spring  therefrom: 

'Lovo,  that  is  flesh  upon  the  spirit  of  man 
And  spirit  within  the  tlesh  whence  breath  began; 
Love,  that  Iveeps  all  the  choir  of  lives  in  chime; 
Love,  that  is  bl(M)d  within  the  veins  of  time: 
Tliat  wrought  the  whole  world  without  stroke  of  hand. 
Shaping  the  breadth  of  sea,  the  length  of  land, 
And  with  the  pulse  and  motion  of  his  breath 
Through  the  great  heart  of  the  earth  strikes  life  and  death; 
Love,  that  for  every  life  shall  not  be  sold. 
Nor  bought  nor  bound  with  iron  nor  with  gold; 
So  strong  that  heaven,  could  love  bid  heaven  farewell. 
Would  turn  to  fruitless  and  nntlowering  hell; 
So  sweet  that  hell,  to  hell  could  love  be  given. 
Would  turn  to  splendid  and  sonorous  heaven."  * 

And: 

'  Her  tlower-sof t  lips  were  meek  and  passionate. 
For  love  upon  them  like  a  shadow  sate 
Patient,  a  foreseen  vision  of  sweet  things, 
A  dream  with  eyes  fast  shut  and  i)lumeless  wings 
That  knew  not  what  man's  love  or  life  should  be. 
Nor  had  it  sight  nor  heart  to  hoi)e  or  see 
What  tiling  should  come,  but  childlike  satisfied 
Watched  out  its  virgin  vigil  in  soft  pride 
And  unkissed  expectation."  ^ 

There  runs  through  those  verses,  however,  a  strong  moral  energy, 
;in  exultant  sense  of  kinship  with  the  illiniitable: 

'A  land  that  is  thirstier  than  ruin; 

A  sea  that  is  hiiULrrlir  than  death; 
Heaped  hills  that  a  tri'c  never  grew  in: 

Wide  sanils  where  the  wave  draws  breath; 
All  solace  i>  here  for  tlie  spirit 

That  ever  for  ever  may  be 
For  the  soul  of  thy  son  to  inherit 

My  mother,  my  si'a."  ^ 

()iie  iiiiglit  aliiK)st  stispcct  him  of  that  deep  Cierniaiiic  instinct, 
])aiitlK'ist  ic  vet  pensive,  wliich  stacks  and  loves  desert  and  solitary 
])laces,  wliere  the  soul  (Mijovs  the  i)leasnre  of  believing  itself 
iiii'itiite.  And  what  more  natural,  in  these  moments  of  abandon- 
ment and  ex])ansion,  tlian  tin-  ascriptions  of  an  adoring  reference 
^TrUtrainand  hfull.  "J'-UI.  ^/hjl/it  Sorth  Sfa. 


37C  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

from  the  grandeur  and  loveliness  of  things  to  a  Divine  Presence 
of  which  they  are  the  acknowledged  symbol  ? 

'As  my  soul  has  been  dutiful 
Only  to  thee, 
O  God  most  beautiful 
Lighten  thou  me, 
As  I  swim  through  the  dim  long  rollers,  with  eyelids  uplift  from  the  sea. 

Be  praised  and  adored  of  us 
All  in  accord, 
Father  and  lord  of  us, 
Alway  adored. 
The  slayer  and  the  stayer  and  the  harper,  the  light  of  us  all,  and  our  lord. 

At  the  sound  of  thy  lyre. 
At  the  touch  of  thy  rod. 
Air  quickens  to  fire 
By  the  foot  of  thee  trod, 
The  saviour  and  healer  and  singer,  the  living  and  visible  God. 

The  years  are  before  thee 
As  shadows  of  thee. 
As  men  that  adore  thee, 
As  cloudlets  that  flee  : 
But  thou  art  the  God,  and  thy  kingdom  is  heaven,  and  thy  shrine  is  the  sea." » 

Anotlier  fine  oxainple,  nnisical  with  the  cadences  distinctly  his 
own, —  the  emotion  of  a  pagan  who  chooses  to  die  with  his  gods: 

'A  little  while  and  we  die;   shall  life  not  thrive  as  it  may? 
For  no  man  under  th(!  sky  lives  twice,  outliving  his  day. 
And  grief  is  a  grievous  thing,  and  a  man  hatli  oriough  of  his  tears: 
Why  should  he  labor,  and  bring  fresh  grief  to  blacken  his  years? 
Thou  hast  conquered,  O  pale  Galilean:  the  world  has  grown  gray  from  thy  breath; 
We  have  drunken  of  things  Lethean,  and  fed  on  the  fulness  of  death."' 

In  the  following  we  not  only  see  his  surprising  command  of 
rhvthm,  Viut  discover  something  of  the  seer-like  power  to  drop 
the  ])lummot  below  the  ordinary  world  of  experience: 

'Before  the  bcgiiiiiing  of  years  And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

There  came  to  tlic  making  of  man  I'rom  under  the  feet  of  the  years; 

Time,  witli  the  '_'ift  of  tears:  .\iid  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea: 

Grief,  with  Ilic  i.'la-^<  that   ran;  .\nd  dust  of  the  laboring  eartli, 

Pleasure,  with  >in  for  Icaxcu:  .\ud  bodies  of  the  things  to  be 

Summer,  witli  IIowimv  iliat  fell;  In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birtli, 

Kemembruncc,  fallen  from   Hravcu:  And  wrought  with  weeping'  and  laughter, 

And  madness,  risen  from  licll:  And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love. 

Strength,  without  band.-  to  smite:  With  life  before  and  after. 

Love,  thai  endures  for  a  breath:  And  death  beneatli  and  above, 

N'i'j-ht,  the  shadow  of  liL'ht:  Kor  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow. 

And  life,  the  ^lKl(l()W  of  death.  That   his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span. 

And  the  hitrh  irods  took  in  hand  With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow. 

Fire,  aiul  tlie  falling  of  tear-:  The  holy  spirit  of  man." 

'  Ojf  S/ioT''.  '>  l!ij)iui  to  ProiiTitnif. 


POETRY  —  AMERICAN.  377 

There  is  a  disposition  to  regard  Mr.  Swinburne  as  the  foremost 
of  a  new  school  of  British  poets, —  a  New  Romantic  school,  of 
which  Browning  and  Rosetti  have  been  leaders,  and  which, 
resisting  an  established  ideal,  aims  to  reunite  beauty  and  passion 
in  rhythmical  art.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  tends  to  carry 
epithet  and  sound  to  a  fatiguing  excess;  that  he  presents  so  little 
variety  of  mood,  so  few  studies  of  visible  objects;  that  he  is  not 
more  profoundly  ethical.  We  should  not  be  surprised  to  learn 
that  he  has  lived  without  trial, — without  the  refining  fire  which  is 
needed  to  draw  forth  the  sweetest  and  most  perfect  harmonies  of 
soul.  No  chasm  has  yawned  before  him  to  make  him  aware  of 
the  divinity  within  him.  Out  of  their  abyss  of  anguish,  Tasso, 
Dante,  and  Milton,  purified,  redeemed,  exalted,  sang  such  songs 
to  their  fellows  as  others  who  had  never  suffered  could  never 
utter.  Simple  Robert  Burns  goes  singing  down  the  centuries, — 
why?  Because  he  was  in  sympathy  with  life, —  loved  nature, 
loved  mankind,  entered  into  human  joy  and  sorrow,  hated  oppres- 
sion, despised  cant,  mourned  over  his  weakness,  revered  Christian 
goodness. 

Within  the  last  fifty  years  national  development  has  greatly 
modified  the  conditions  which  in  America  were  antagonistic  to  a 
devoted  pursuit  of  the  ideal.  Material  interests  are  less  urgent 
than  fornu^riy.  The  'useful'  is  perpetually  ]>assing  beyond  the 
vulgar  notions  of  utility.  A  large  and  increasing  proportion  of 
iiuergy  is  given  to  the  gratification  of  an  elegant  taste.  We  are 
Ix^ginning  to  cnjov  that  rest  and  leisure  out  of  which  spring  the 
fine  and  gracious  attril)utcs  of  imagination  and  fancy,  which  are 
the  liloom  of  civilization.  At  last  the  sweet  and  varied  measures 
of  a  hanil  of  gcnuini-  .singers  are  heard,  no  longer  with  dull  amaze- 
ment but  with  grateful  welcome,  essentially  .\merican  in  tone  and 
object.  The  tri'asur(>s  of  all  ages  are  at  tlu'ir  disposal,  l)Ut  on 
tlie  wliole  tliev  occupv  tlienis(>lves,  not  with  nu'diicval  and  clas- 
sical themes,  l)Ut  with  Nature  and  Man, —  scenery,  ])atriotism, 
friendship,  i-eligion,  love. 

To  enumerate  all  or  a  majority  of  those  who  lien^  have  added 
to  the  sum  ol"  human  pleasure  by  their  ministry  of  .song,  is 
bevond  our  iie(^(l  anil  intention.  \\  c  eannot  (>ven  alluile  imb- 
vidiuilly  to  the  minor  voices,  which  are  many  and  charming;  and 
can  but  l)ritMlv  refer  to  the  clearer  and   louder  ones  that  lead  the 


378  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

chorus,  and  more  distinctly  echo  the  yearnings  of  our  divergent 
destiny. 

Among  those  who  have  given  substantial  evidence  of  a  home- 
movement  in  poetic  art,  the  firstborn  is  Ricliard  H.  Dana 
(1787-1879),  contemplative,  compact,  and  original,  possessed  of 
a  deep  sensibility  to  beauty  and  sublimity,  and  uniting  exact 
description  with  a  suggestive  imagination,  as  in  these  stanzas  of 
the  Buccaneer : 

'The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore, 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 
Save  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest. 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea. 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast. 

Sits  swinging  silently, — 
How  beautiful ;    no  ripples  break  the  reach. 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 

Nor  holy  bell,  nor  pastoral  bleat. 

In  former  days  within  the  vale ; 
Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet" 

Curses  were  on  the  gale' 
Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men ; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then.' 

Less  subjective,  but  more  spirited  and  flowing,  is  Percival 
(1795-1856).  The  joy  and  exuberance  of  his  mind  are  displayed 
with  fine  effect  in  the  Prevalence  of  Poetry : 

'The  world  is  full  of  poetry  — the  air 
Is  living  with  its  spirit;   and  the  waves 
Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 
And  sparkle  in  its  brightness.    Earth  is  veiled 
And  mantled  witli  its  beauty:   and  the  walls 
That  close  the  universe  with  crystal  in 
Are  eloquent  with  voices  that  proclaim 
The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 
In  harmonies  too  perfect  and  too  high 
For  anglit  but  beings  of  celestial  mould. 
And  si)euk  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn. 
Unfading  beauty  and  unyielding  power.' 

More  popular  than  either  is  Halleck  (1790-1867),  whose 
verse  is  a  mixture  of  serious  thouglit  and  emotion  with  playful 
and  careless  fancies, —  manly,  clear,  vivid,  warm  with  feeling,  or 
sparkling  with  wit.  In  lines  such  as  these  we  see  the  purity, 
tenderness,  and  melody,  of  which  he  is  capable: 


POETRY  —  WILLIS.  379 

'Young  thoughti*  have  music  in  them,  love 

And  happiness  their  theme; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  there  are  angtl  voices  heard 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours. 
When  life  is  but  an  April  day 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers.  .  .  . 

To-day  the  forest  leaves  are  green. 

They'll  wither  on  the  morrow; 
And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  changed  ere  long 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Omie  with  the  winter  snows  and  ask 

Where  are  the  forest  birds? 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one 

.More  eloquent  than  words.' 

The  most  elevated  of  his  strains  is  the  martial  lyric  of  Marco 
Hozzarh.  The  following  lines  evince  qualities  which  ought 
to  rank  their  author  high  among  lyric  artists: 

'.\n  hour  passed  on  — the  Turk  awoke; 
That  bright  dream  was  his  last; 
He  woke  —  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek. 
"To  arms!   they  come!   the  Greek!   the  Greek!" 
lie  woke  —  to  die  midst  tlame,  and  smoke, 
K\\i\  shout,  and  groan,  and  Mibre-stroke, 
And  deatli-sliots  falling  thick  and  fast 
.\s  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band: 
"Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 
Striki — for  your  altars  and  your  tires: 
Strike  — for  tlie  green  graves  of  your  sires; 

God  —  and  your  native  hind!"' 

There  may  bo  in  "Willis  (180(1-1807)  a  tendency  to  e.\agg(>ra- 
tioii.  a  too  strong  inclination  to  finely  turned  periods  ;  hut  so 
rich,  so  sweet,  so  captivating  is  his  poetry,  that  for  some  attri- 
butes of  the  ])oetic  character  we  hardly  know  wlicre  to  look  for 
his  superior.  Lessons  of  piety  gavi;  the  impidse,  and  around  the 
domestic  scen(\s  of  old  Hebrew  life  he  threw  a  charm  wliicli  has 
made  his  Scrijiture  pieces  unique  in  our  literature.  The  Ifmli/nj 
(if  (/i>'  I>((>((jhtir  of  Jaii'ifs  is  an  example,  of  which  the  conclu- 
sion is  drawn  with  exquisite  beauty: 

•  Like  a  form 
Of  matchless  sculpture  in  lier  sleep  slie  lay — 
Tlie  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast. 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  ii.uids. 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  tlieir  tapering  nails. 
.\  line  of  pearl  ran  tliniiiL'h  lier  parted  lips. 
And  in  lier  imstrils.  spirit iially  tliin, 


380  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life ; 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay, 
Matching  the  arches  pencill'd  on  her  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and,  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polished  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung, 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
"Maiden!  Arise!"— and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lijjs 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirred  in  the  linen  vesture;  and  she  clasp'd 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  ft.xing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance  — arose." 

The  Dying  Alchemist  is  powerfully  conceived  and  powerfully 
executed: 

'The  night  wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by; 
And  the  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Screaming  upon  their  hinges;   and  the  moon. 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stain'd  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 
Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came.' 

And: 

'The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low; 
Yet  still  it  burn'd;   and  ever  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirr'd  the  coals 
With  difticnlt  energy,  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrunk  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and  with  unclosed  lips 
Mutter'd  a  curse  on  death!' 

The  despair  of  tl.c  visionary,  Avho  has  agonized,  watched,  and 
fasted  for  a  ho]ie  that  mocks  him  at  last: 

'I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finish'd  what  I  had  to  do; 
I  thought  to  pierce  th'  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye: 
I  felt, —  oh  God!   it  seemeth  even  ]iow 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  my  brow!' 

The  inyc'.s  Apjval  is  higlily  finished.  Her  approach  and  the 
attendant  circumstances,  the  appeal  to  her  husband's  latent  love 
of  fame,  are  most  delicately  and  dramatically  represented.  His 
replv  is  in  a  lofty  strain: 


POETRY  —  WILLIS.  381 

'  I  did  hope  to  vary 
My  lift-  but  with  •<iirprl8c«  sweet  a*  thl*,— 
A  dream  — but  for  thy  waking  — flll'd  with  bliss. 

Yet  jiow  I  feel  my  npirit 
Bitterly  stirr'd,  and— nay,  lift  up  thy  brcjw: 
It  is  thine  own  voice  echoinj?  to  thee  now, 

And  thou  didst  pray  t4i  hear  it,— 
1  must  unto  my. work  and  my  stern  hours! 
Take  from  my  room  thy  harp,  and  books,  and  flowers ! ' 

The  sequel  is  touching  and  instructive.     A  year  has  elapsed: 

'He  had  won  power  and  held  it.    He  had  walk'd 
Steadily  upward  in  the  eye  of  Fame, 
And  kept  his  truth  unsullied, —  but  his  home 
Had  been  invaded  by  envenom'd  tongues; 
His  wife  —  hi.s  spotless  wife  —  had  been  assail'd 
By  slander,  and  his  child  had  grown  afraid 
To  como  to  him,— his  manner  was  so  stern. 
He  could  not  speak  beside  his  own  hearth  freely. 
His  friends  were  half  estranged,  and  vulgar  men 
Presumed  ui><)n  their  services  and  grew 
Familiar  witli  him.     He'd  small  time  to  sleep. 
And  none  to  pray;  and,  with  his  heart  in  fetters, 
He  bore  harsh  insults  silently,  and  bow'd 
Respectfully  to  men  who  knew  he  loath'd  theui '. 
And,  when  his  heart  was  eloquent  with  truth. 
And  love  of  country,  and  an  honest  zeal 
Burn'd  for  expression,  he  could  find  no  word.s 
They  would  not  misinterpret  with  their  lies. 
What  were  Ills  many  honors  to  him  now? 
The  good  half  doubted,  falsehood  was  so  strong, — 
His  home  was  hateful  with  its  cautious  fears, — 
His  wife  lay  trembling  on  his  very  breast, 
Friglited  with  calumny! — And  this  is  fame." 

Earth  and  sky  wore  perpetual  ministers  to  his  iniajjination;  and 
witli  some  effort,  we  suspect,  did  lie  subdue  his  fancy  to  the 
prosaic  spirit  of  the  time.  Scepticism,  analysis,  scientific  con- 
quest, realism,  mav  be  in  the  order  of  jrrowth  to  better  thintrs; 
but  we  shall  never  cease  to  read  with  a  pleasctl  sadness,  as  of  a 
beautv  irrctricv:il)lv  lost,  A   (^/iih/\^  Jursf  I/)i/»rs.'iif>fi  of  a  Star: 

'She  liad  l)con  told  that  (1(h1  made  all  the  stars 
That  t\vinkl"d  up  in  heaven,  and  now  she  sto<id 
Wiitching  the  coming  of  Ihe  twilight  on. 
As  if  it  Were  a  new  and  perfect  world. 
Anil  this  wen-  its  ilr^t  eve.     She  stood  alone 

Ry   till'  low   window,   with   the  >ilkt'n   lush 
Of  her  soft  eye  ujiniised,  and  her  sweet  mouth 
Half  (tarted  with  thi'  new   and  strange  delight 
Of  beauty  that   >he  could  not  com|)rehcnd. 
And   had  not  seen  before.     The  purple  folds 
Of  the  low  sunset   clouds,  and  the  blue  sky 
That  look'd  so  still  and  delicate  above. 


382  DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Fill'd  her  yoimg  heart  with  gladness,  and  the  eve 
Stole  on  with  its  deep  shadows,  and  she  still 
Stood  looking  at  the  west  with  that  half  smile. 
As  if  a  pleasant  thought  were  at  her  heart. 
Presently,  in  the  edge  of  the  last  tint 
Of  sunset,  where  the  bine  was  melted  in 
To  the  faint  golden  mellowness,  a  star 
Stood  suddenly.    A  laugh  of  wild  delight 
Burst  from  her  lips,  and  putting  up  her  hands. 
Her  simple  thought  broke  forth  expressively  — 
"Father!  dear  father!  God  has  made  a  star!"' 

Who  has  not  observed  that  every  child  recalls  the  primitive  ages, 
when  the  lightning  was  a  bird  of  fire,  and  the  clouds  were  the 
flocks  of  heaven  ? 

We  have  had  one  poet  to  whom  Mr.  Swinburne  has  conde- 
scended to  pay  a  tribute, —  the  gifted  and  eccentric  Poe  (1809- 
1849),  a  man  of  rare  capacity  cursed  by  an  incurable  perversity; 
writer  of  a  manuscript  volume  of  verses  at  ten  years  of  age;  at 
school  noted  as  'the  swiftest  runner,  the  best  boxer,  the  most 
daring  swimmer';  sensitive,  tender,  and  melancholy,  yet  reckless 
and  unmanageable;  expelled  from  college,  then  from  a  military 
academy;  enlisting  in  the  army,  then  deserting;  at  twenty-six 
married  to  his  cousin,  a  girl  of  thirteen,  angelically  beautiful  in 
person  and  spirit,  to  whom  he  was  idolatrously  devoted;  a  con- 
tributor, an  editor,  an  author,  usually  in  debt;  dying  at  last,  in  a 
lialtimore  hospital,  of  delirium  tremens,  on  the  eve  of  his  second 
marriage.  The  wild  weird  Haven  was  hailed  as  the  most  original 
poem  America  had  produced.  Its  popularity  is  world-wide.  The 
poet,  or  speaker,  is  represented  as  losing  his  early  love  Lenore 
(innocence),  and  as  visited  by  a  raven  (remorse).  Now  from 
these  four  stanzas  construct  the  tragedy  of  a  soul,  seeking  to 
allay  its  innnortal  thirst,  wounded  by  its  immoderate  desires  and 
withered  In*  its  premature  experience: 

'But  the  Raven  still  be;,'uiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling. 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  scat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking,  "  Xevermorc."  .  .  . 

"Prophet!"  cried  I,  "thins  of  evil!  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil!  — 
fiy  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  — by  that  God  we  both  adore!  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aiden, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore,— 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore," 
(^uoth  the  raven,  ''Nevermore."' 


POETRY — BRYANT.  383 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend ! "  I  shrieked,  npstarting. 
"Get  tliee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plutonian  shore  I 
Leave  no  black  pluuie  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken! 
Leave  niy  loneliness  unbroken!  —  quit  the  bust  above  my  dix)r! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting:  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming. 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor. 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore ! ' 

The  Dells  is  perhaps  the  rarest  instance  in  the  language  of  the 
suggestiveness  of  rhyme  and  the  power  of  ononiatopoetic  words, 
Annabel  Lee  is  thoroughly  artistic,  and  notiiing  could  be  more 
melodious  or  more  nobly  sentimental.  The  impression  left  is 
one  of  pleasurable  sadness,  arising  from  the  contemplation  of 
generous  and  high  devotion  to  a  loveliness  that  has  become  an 
undying  memory: 

'And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above. 
Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 

And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 

Of  my  darling— my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride,  • 

In  tlic  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea. 
In  her  tomb  by  tlie  sounding  sea." 

Wc  have  .seen  how  large  an  element  of  truth  is  contained  in 
the  traditional  opinion  that  poets  are  wayward  creatures,  bad, 
glad,  or  mad,  meteoric  vagabonds  of  Panias.sus,  like  Byron  or 
Poe.  Our  Bryant,  however,  has  the  distinction  of  btMiig  a 
representative  poet  without  any  of  the  disastrous  vagrancies 
that  make  a  biography  picturescpie.  In  childhood  mild  and 
meditative,  in  maturity  calm  and  earf'ful.  IJlair's  (rntrt'  and 
Young's  I^if/ht  ThoHijlit.t.  Avere  his  early  favorites,  and  to  the 
strife  of  pas.sioii  ho  ever  prcfcrrocl  the  tjuietude  of  Xatun'  in 
ii('Kls  and  forests.  There  he  saw  only  the  tokens  of  creative 
l)(Mi(^tic»Mice,  and  from  every  scene  couM  elicit  some  elevating 
inference  or  cheering  sentiment. 

Iiievitablv,  the  <trs  porticd,  with  such  a  mind,  will  he  sub- 
servient to  purposes  of  moral  utilitv.      It  will  solemnize  . existence 


384  DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

rather  than  adorn  it,  because  happiness  is  only  an  accessory  — 

worthiness   is   the   end.      It  will   minister   only  to   high,  manly, 

serious  views.     Benevolence  and  veneration  M'ill   give  it   color; 

the    m^'steries    of    time    and    the    transitoriness    of    human    life, 

which  have  touched  men  most  in  all  ages,  will  inspire  it;  and 

the  conviction  that  — 

'  Eternal  Love  doth  keep 
In  his  complacent  arms  the  earth,  the  air,  the  deep,"— 

will  constitute  its  dominant  charm. 

From  the  beginning,  a  deep  sad  thought  has  weighed  upon 
the  restless  spirit  of  man  —  the  troubled  dream  —  the  unknown 
goal  —  the  valley  of  the  shadow  —  the  infinite  obscurity  —  the 
black  sea  of  oblivion  that  swallows  up  the  grace  and  loveliness, 
the  thoughts  and  acts,  of  so  many  million  beings  whom  no  eye 
shall  ever  see  again.  The  instinctive  dread  is  upon  all  men,  and 
in  a  thousand  ways  they  seek  to  fortify  themselves  against  the 
terrors  of  dissolution,  that  they  may  meet  their  fate  serenely. 
*When  I  am  dead,'  said  an  expiring  chief  at  Washington,  'let 
the  big  guns  be  fired  over  me.'  It  were  easier  to  die,  if  buried 
in  state.  Saladin,  in  his  last  illness,  ordered  his  shroud  to  be 
uplifted  as  a  flag,  and  the  herald  was  commatided  to  cry:  'Be- 
hold !  this  is  all  which  Saladin,  the  vanquisher  of  the  East, 
carries  away  of  all  his  conquests.'  To  pass  from  the  world  in 
a*  striking  antithesis  was  not  barren  comfort  !  Tlie  humblest 
desires  at  least  a  simple  stone  —  that  he  may  pretend  to  live 
by  the  proof  of  his  last  sleep.  It  is  this  overshadowing  idea  of 
the  death-doom  which  the  author  of  77i(niatopsis  has  rendered 
imperishably  articulate  for  every  fearful  and  longing  soul,  with 
a  voice  so  gentle,  so  wise,  and  so  wiiniing,  as  to  mitigate  what 
cannot  be  remedied,  and  consecrate  what  before  was  painful. 
Witli  what  thoughtful  tenderness  he  asks  us  to  seek  the  healing 
syinf)athy  of  Nature,  to  receive  bravely  her  mild  and  gentle 
lesson  that  we  must  die,  to  bring  our  conduct  u]i  to  her  lofti- 
ness, to  contemplate  our  fate  with  that  resignation  which  leadeth 
to  wisdom: 

'When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  coino  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  sjiirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  tlie  stern  airony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  siek  at  heart: — 
Go  forth,  under  tlie  ojien  sky,  and  list 


POETRY  —  BRYANT.  386 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around, — 

Earth  and  her  wuterf,  and  the  depths  of  air, — 

Comes  a  still  voice.     Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground. 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears. 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.    Earth  that  nourisheil  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again. 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.    The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould.' 

What  consolation  is  offered  ?  Not  the  Christian  idea  of  a  heaven 
with  its  chrysolite  splendors  and  harping  angels,  but  the  Pagan 
idea  of  a  nameless  multitude  vanished  into  the  great  drowned 
regions  of  the  past,  where  the  least  may  in  some  sort  share  the 
awful  and  shadowy  unconsciousness  of  kings  and  seers: 

'Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Coucli  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  i)atri;irchs  of  the  infant  world,— with  kings. 
The  imwcrful  of  the  earth, —  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
.\11  in  one  mighty  sepulchre." 

Visible  glories  ari'  but  dying  mementos.  Beauty  and  grandeur 
do  but  embellish  the  universal  grave: 

'The  hills. 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, —  the  vales 
Stretcliing  in   pensive   quit'tnes-.  between: 
The  venerable  wood-;, —  rivers  that   move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
Tlial  make  the  meadows  green:  ai\(l,  i>oured  ro\ind  all. 
Old  OceaiiV  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
.\re  l)tit  the  >()letini  deeorations  all 
Of  tile  great  tomb  of  man." 

Since  the  morning  of  i-ffat ion  tiie  recorded  names  contain  not 
half  a  eeiiturv,  and  tiie  living  are  as  vajtorotis  ])liantasms  on  the 
peaks  of  a  .sul)nierged  continent.  On  no  spot  of  earth  may  you 
plant  vour  foot,  and  aflirm  that  none  sleeps  l)oneath: 

•.Ml   that  tread 
The  globe  are  l)Ut  a  liaiulfiil  to  tlie   tribes 
Tliat  slumber  in  its  txp^diu.     Taki'  the  wings 
or   niiirnin;;,   pierce  the   Harcaii  wildernes-:. 
Or  lose  tliyself   in    tlie  eontiiiuous   wooils 
Where  rolls  tlie  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 

25 


386  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Save  his  own  dashings, —  yet  the  dead  are  there: 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep,— the  dead  reign  there  alone." 

It  is  related  of  Buddha  that  there  came  to  him  one  day  a  woman 
who  had  lost  her  only  child.  She  called  frantically  on  the  prophet 
to  give  back  her  little  one  to  life.  'Go,  my  daughter,'  said  he, 
'get  me  a  mustard-seed  from  a  house  into  which  death  has  never 
entered,  and  I  will  do  as  thou  hast  bidden  me.'  from  house  to 
house  she  went,  saying,  'Give  me  a  mustard-seed,  kind  folk,  for 
the  prophet  to  revive  my  child';  but  far  as  she  wandered,  in  the 
crowded  thoroughfare,  and  by  the  lonely  roadside,  she  found  not 
the  home  on  whose  door  the  shadow  had  not  settled.  Gradually 
the  prophet's  meaning  dawned  upon  her  mind;  she  saw  the 
broader  grief  of  the  race,  and  her  passion  was  merged  in  pity. 
Forget  yourself  in  the  common  sorrow,  be  reconciled  to  Destiny. 
Why  hesitate  to  enter  the  darkness  where  so  vast  a  company 
have  gone, — where  all  must  go?  Yet  a  few  days,  and  the  rest 
will  follow.  The  brave  and  the  fair,  the  bright  and  the  joyous 
shall  —  like  you  who  depart  in  silence  and  alone  —  have  their 
light  in  ashes: 

'All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.    The  gay  will  laugh 
Wh(!n  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;   yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  emi)loyments,  and  shall  come. 
And  make  their  bod  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men. 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid. 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them.' 

]5e  fortified  by  these  considerations.  If  other  solace  is  needed, 
seek  it  in  the  |)crformance  of  duty.  Above  all,  be  conscience- 
clear;   think  nobly,  act  nobly,  hope  well: 

'So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  wliich  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not.   like  the  quarry-slave  at  nisrht, 
Scourired  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  ai)i)roach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  conch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  jileasant  dreams.' 


POETBY  —  U0LME8.  387 

After  the  lapse  of  sixty-four  years,  we  have  the  same  general 
tone  of  thought  and  a  similar  organ-like  movement  in  The  Flood 
of  Yearti.  His  longest  poem  is  The  Ages,  which  treats  of  the 
theme  of  human  progress,  recapitulates  the  course  of  history, 
argues  the  gradual  amelioration  of  mankind,  and  predicts  for  the 
nations  a  still  more  glorious  era.  That  the  earth  is  a  theatre 
whereon  the  human  drama  is  everlastingly  played,  is  a  conception 
fundamental  to  The  Fountain,  The  Antiquity  of  Freedom,  and 
The  Croxcded  Street.  With  what  depth  of  feeling,  with  what 
sweet,  mild  music,  does  he  say: 

'  Let  mc  move  slowly  through  the  street, 

Filled  with  an  ever-Khifting  train. 
Amid  the  .>^ound  of  stepf  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain.  .  .  . 

The  struggling  tides  of  life  that  seem 

In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 
Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 

That  rolls  to  its  apjwinted  end.' 

These  pieces  are  almost  perfect  of  their  kind.      Here  is  another: 

'Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again; 
Th"  eternal  years  of  Ood  arc  hers : 
But  error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain. 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers.' 

Thev  purifv  and  elevate,  as  well  as  please.  The  verses.  Future 
Life,  addressed  to  his  wife,  are  among  his  l)e.st : 

•How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  si)here  which  keeps 

The  diseml>odied  spirits  of  the  dead. 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 
.\iid  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread? 

For  I   >h;ill  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 

If  there  I  meet  ihy  gentle  presence  not; 
Nor  hear  tlu"  voice  1  love,  nor  read  airaiii 

In  thy  sereiiest  eyes  the  tender  Ihouglit." 

His  most  poetical  jxx'iii.s  arc,  perhaps,  TIk  LaiiJ  ifJfrttutis,  and 
T'Ih' Voice  of  Autumn.  It  will  be  .seen  that  his  vein  i.s  narrow, 
})ut  rich  and  deep.  He  has  hrouoht  us  more  pure  gold  than  many 
others  who  have  ranged  over  wider  fields. 

In   tin"   fiiH-,  artistic   l)leiidiiig  of   wit,  fancy,  an<l    imagination. 
Dr.  Holmes  (  iSdO-  )  excels  every  modern  Kiiglisiiman.      He 

has  maiiv  points  of  rcstMnhlancc  with  Hood,  luit  is  ln-althirr  in 
tone,  wilier  in  (Milturc,  and  sujxTior  in  splciulor  <>f  ctTtM-t.  In 
tlie  r/.^•  •■ntiiiffi  no  AnK-rican  is  comparal)l(>  to  tnin.  rxi'i'pt  l.owi'll. 
A    satirist,    humorist,    novflist,    scholar,    scientist. —  lir    is,    ai»o\c 


388  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

everything,  a  poet  ;  and,  as  such,  is  the  best  example  of  the 
school  of  Pope  that  either  side  of  the  Atlantic  has  produced. 
Since  the  Essay  on  Man  and  the  Dxmciad,  no  metrical  essays 
have  appeared  that  were  so  pointed,  musical,  and  judicious.  In 
commemorative  verse  —  in  the  power  of  lifting  the  'occasional* 
into  the  classic,  he  is  almost  unrivalled.  His  obvious  charac- 
teristics are  nationality,  vigor,  elasticity,  terseness,  and  finish, 
including  a  wonderful  perfection  of  movement.     Thus: 

'What  secret  charm  long  whispering  in  mine  ear 
Allures,  attracts,  compels,  and  chains  me  here. 
Where  murmuring  echoes  call  me  to  resign 
Their  secret  haunts  to  sweeter  lips  than  mine; 
Where  silent  pathways  pierce  the  solemn  shade. 
In  whose  still  depths  my  feet  have  never  strayed; 
Here,  in  the  home  where  grateful  children  meet, 
And  I,  half  alien,  take  the  stranger's  seat. 
Doubting,  yet  hoping  that  the  gift  I  bear 
May  keep  its  bloom  in  this  unwonted  air  ? 
Hush,  idle  fancy,  with  thy  needless  art. 
Speak  from  thy  fountains,  O  my  throbbing  heart! 
Say,  shall  I  trust  these  trembling  lips  to  tell 
The  fireside  tale  that  memory  knows  so  well  ? 
How  in  the  days  of  Freedom's  dread  campaign, 
A  home-bred  scliool-boy  left  his  village  plain. 
Slow  faring  southward,  till  his  wearied  feet 
Pressed  tlie  worn  threshold  of  this  fair  retreat; 
How  with  his  comely  face  and  gracious  mien. 
He  joined  the  concourse  of  the  classic  green. 
Nameless,  unfriended,  yet  by  Nature  blest 
With  the  rich  tokens  that  she  loves  the  best; 
The  flowing  locks,  his  youth's  redundant  crown. 
Smoothed  oer  a  brow  unfurrowed  by  a  frown; 
The  untaught  smile,  that  speaks  so  passing  i)Iain, 
A  world  all  hope,  a  past  without  a  stain; 
The  clear-hued  cheek,  whose  burning  current  glows 
Crimson  in  action,  carmine  in  repose; 
Gifts  such  as  purchase,  with  unminted  gold. 
Smiles  from  the  young,  and  blessings  from  the  old.'' 

Goldsmith  wrote  nothing  at  once  so  forceful  and  so  sweet.  Add 
to  that  portrait  this  true  and  charming  picture  of  spring: 

'Winter  is  past:   the  heart  of  Nature  warms 
Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms; 
I)o\ibtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen. 
The  Southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green; 
On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping  eaves, 
Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their  glowing  leaves. 
Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won. 
While  azure,  golden, —  drift,  or  sky  or  sun: 
The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient  breast 

'Astr(ea,  delivered  before  a  society  of  Yale  College,  1850. 


POETRY  —  HOLMES.  389 

The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  winter's  crest; 
The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 
Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue ; 
The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mold, 
Naked  and  shitering,  with  hit  cup  of  gold. 
Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 
Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky ; 
On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 
The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves; 
The  house-fly  stealing  from  his  narrow  grave. 
Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  Xoveinber  gave. 
Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  snowy  pane, 
Or  crawls  tenacious  o'er  its  lucid  plain; 
From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls 
In  languid  curves  the  gliding  serpent  crawls; 
The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep, 
Tuangn  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  shortened  leap; 
On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  not^ms 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons, 
Or  toiling,  aimless,  o'er  the  mellowing  fields. 
Trail  through  the  grass  their  tessellated  shields.' 


Commonly,  as  in  Hood,  humor  jostles  pathos.     Thus: 


'I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here: 
But  the  old  three-cornered  hat. 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that. 

Are  so  queer! ' ' 


Or: 


And  near  it,  this  perfect  pearl: 

'The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 

In  their  bloom ; 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb.'  * 

'Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by; 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new. 
And  all  was  brisrht  with  morning  dew, — 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
Wtien  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe.  .  .  . 

You've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 

.•\n<i  grand  you  look  in  peojjle's  eyes. 

With  H.  O.  N.  and  L.  I,.  1)., 

In  big,  brave  letters,  fair  to  see, — 

Your  flst,  old  fellow!   off  they  go!  — 

How  are  you.   Bill'/     How  are  you,  .loeV' 

Then,  characteri.stically: 

'.\li.  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame'/ 
A  fitful   tongue  of  liapiii<r  flame: 

'  77ie  Last  Leaf.  >  Ibid.  'Hill  and  Joe. 


390  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 

That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust; 

A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 

Which  dust  was  Bill,  and  which  was  Joe?  .  ,  . 

No  matter;   while  our  home  is  here. 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear: 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
IFic  jacet  Joe.     Hie  jacet  Bill." ' 

We  soon  discover  that  lie  is  always  graceful  and  melodious, 
whether  lofty  or  sportive,  swift  or  measured;  that  he  is  always 
fresh,  always  genial,  always  manly;  that  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
is  not  keener  than  his  sense  of  the  beautiful  —  that,  in  fact,  the 
latter  is  his  chief  fascination.  Above  the  host  of  things  brilliant 
and  magnificent,  should  ever  be  forertiost  among  all  our  inculcat- 
ing, deepest  in  the  heart,  largest  in  the  remembrance  of  youth, 
the  following  line.s,  than  which,  for  combined  melody,  saving  sen- 
timent, and  sublime  earnestness,  grander  cannot  be  conceived: 

'Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul. 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll  1 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  I 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast. 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaviiii^  tliine  outgrown  sliell  by  life's  unresting  seal' 

In  his  serious  and  sontiinental  verse,  LiOWell  (1<S1!)-  )  has 

several  equals  and  some  superiors;  but  in  wide  range  of  power 
and  variety  of  expression  he  is  surpassed  by  none.  The  J3iglow 
Pi(])ers  liave  given  him  a  prominent  rank  among  the  greatest 
satirists  and  liumorists  oi  the  age.  To  his  many  other  merits  he 
adds  that  of  an  accomplished  philologist;  in  ])articular,  he  is 
esteemed  for  liis  accurate  knowledge  of  the  \'ankee  dialect,  so 
flexibly  and  amusingly  emj)loyed  in  the  uniciue  Papers.  A  few 
brief  examples  will  sufficietitly  exhibit  his  toiu-  and  .style  in  satire 
and  humor.      For  instance,  here  are  some  hints  to  statesmen: 

'.•\  j,'iii()"inc  statesman  should  be  on  his  unard, 
Ef  he  ?«".«/  liev  beliefs,  nut  to  ))'lieve  'em  tu  hard; 
For,  ez  sure  ez  he  does,  he'll  be  blartiu'  "em  out 
'Tiioul   reirariiiii'  tile  natur  o'  man  more'u  a  spout: 
Nor  it  ildu't  ask  mueli  gumption  to  i)iek  out  a  (law 
In   a  i):irt_v  whose  leaders  are  loose  in  the  jaw: 
An'  X)  in  mir  own  case  I  ventur'  to  liint 
Tliet  we'll  lii'tlcr  nut  air  our  juTceedins  in  print, 

^mil  au<l  .h)€. 


POETRY  —  LOWELL,  391 

Nor  pass  resscrlootionf"  ez  long  ez  yonr  arm, 
Thet  may,  ez  thingH  heppcn  lo  turn,  do  us  harm: 
For  when  you've  done  all  your  real  nieanin'  to  i-mother. 
The  darned  thingi'  "11  up  and  mean  sunthin'  or  "nothcr. 
No,  never  say  nothin'  without  you're  compelled  tu, 
An"  then  don"t  say  nothin'  that  you  can  be  held  tu. 
Nor  don't  leave  no  friction-idees  layin"  loose. 
For  the  ign'ant  to  put  tu  incend'ary  use." 

Here  is  a  fragment  decidedly  pastoral: 

'Zekle  crep"  up  quite  unbeknown  The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 

An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder.  Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin", 

An'  there  sot  Iluldy  all  alone.  An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 

"Ith  no  one  nigh  lo  hender.  Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side  She  heered  a  foot,  an"  knowed  it  tu. 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in,—  A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,— 

Tliere  warn't  no  stove  (tell  comfort  died)  All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew. 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin".  Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out  He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  tlic  mat. 

Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her!  Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle; 

And  little  flames  danced  all  about  His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat. 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser.  .  .  .  But  hern  went  pity  Zekle.' 

Here  is  a  typical  theological  controversy: 

'Somewhere  in  India  upon  a  time, 
(Read  it  not  in  Injah,  or  you  spoil  the  verse) 
There  dwelt  two  saints  whose  privilege  sublime 
It  was  to  sit  and  watch  the  world  grow  worse. 
Their  only  care  (in  that  delicious  clime) 
At  proper  intervals  lo  pray  and  curse;  .  .  . 

Each  from  his  hut  rushed  six  score  times  a  day. 

Like  a  great  canon  of  the  Church  full-rammed 

With  cartridge  theologic  (so  to  say,) 

Touched  himself  off,  and  then,  recoiling,  slammed 

His  hovel's  door  behind  him  in  a  way 

That  to  his  foe  said  plainly, —  you'll  be  damned:  .  . 

Our  saints  had  [jractised  for  some  Iliirty  years: 
Tlicir  talk  beginning  with  a  single  stem. 
Spread  like  a  banyan,  sending  down  live  piers. 
Colonies  of  digression,  and,  in  Ibein 
(Jernis  of  yet  new  dispersicui:  once  by  the  ears. 
They  could  convej-  damnation  in  a  hem. 
And  blow  the  pinch  of  premise-priming  off 
Long  syllogistic  batteries,  with  a  cough.  .  .  . 

At  length,  when  their  breath's  end  was  come  about, 
And  both  could,  now  and  then,  just  gasp  "impostor!'' 
Holding  their  hfuda  thrust  menacingly  out. 
As  utaggering  corks  keep  up  their  fighting  posture. 
The  stranger  smiled  and  said,  "Beyond  a  doubt 
'Tis  fortunate,  my  friends,  that  you  have  lost  your 
I'nited  parts  of  speech,  or  it  had  been 
Impossible  for  mc  to  get  between.  .  .  . 

So  having  said  tl>e  yoiilli  was  seen  no  more, 

AthI  straightway  our  sage  Brahmin,  ilie  philosoplier. 


392  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Cried,  "  That  was  aimed  at  thee,  thou  endless  bore, 
Idle  and  useless  as  the  growth  of  moss  over 
A  rotting  tree-trunk!"    "I  would  square  that  score 
Full  soon,''  replied  the  Dervise,  "could  I  cross  over 
And  catch  thee  by  the  beard.    Thy  nails  I'd  trim 
And  make  thee  work,  as  was  advised  by  him."  .  .  . 

And  so 
The  good  old  quarrel  was  begun  anew; 
One  would  have  sworn  the  sky  was  black  as  sloe. 
Had  but  the  other  dared  to  call  it  blue ; 
Nor  were  the  followers  who  fed  them  slow 
To  treat  each  other  with  their  curses,  too, 
Each  hating  t'other  (moves  it  tears  or  laughter?) 
Because  he  thought  him  sure  of  hell  hereafterl'' 

But  more  than  the  sportive  quality  of  his  imagination  do  we 
enjoy  its  depth  and  earnestness,  its  contemplative,  ideal  vein;  as 
in  the  following  verses: 

'Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind 
That  through  the  soul  come  thronging. 
Which  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind. 
So  beautiful  as  longing? 
The  thing  we  long  for,  that  we  are 
For  one  transcendent  moment; 
Before  the  present,  poor  and  bare. 
Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

Still  through  our  paltry  stir  and  strife 
Glows  down  our  wished  Ideal; 
And  longing  moulds  in  clay  what  life 
Carves  in  the  marble  Real; 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know. 
Desire  must  ope  the  portal; 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 
Helps  make  the  soul  immortal.' ' 

And  the  lofty  faith  of  these  lines: 

'Careless  seems  the  Great  Avenger;  history's  pages  but  record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and  the  Word; 
Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold.  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne ; 
But  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and  behind  the  dim  unknown 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  His  ownl'' 

Nowhere  has  Lovvell  appeared  to  us  personally  so  attractive  as 
in  his  sonnets,  which  he  calls  'the  firstlings  of  my  muse.'  Any 
of  them  will  kindle  a  desire  to  see  its  companions.  The  moral 
beauty  of  this  one  will  excite  regret  that  strains  which  began 
.so  worthilv  were  not  more  frequently  renewed: 

'.4«  Oriental  Epilogue.  ^Lonqing. 

'Compare  the  Greek  i)oet : 

'The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  late,  but  they  grind  fine;' 
and  Lonirfi'llow's  parai)hrasc  : 

'Though  the  mills  of  (Jod  grind  slowly,  yet  they  grind  e.xceeding  small: 
Though  with  patience  He  stands  waiting,  with  exactness  grinds  He  all.' 


POETRY  —  WHITTIER.  393 

'What  were  I,  Love,  if  I  were  otripped  of  the?. 
If  thine  eyes  shut  me  out  whereby  I  live. 
Thou  who  unto  my  calmer  coul  dost  give 
Knowledge,  and  Truth,  and  holy  Mystery, 
Wherein  Truth  mainly  lies  for  those  who  see 
Beyond  the  earthly  and  the  fugitive. 
Who  in  the  grandeur  of  the  soul  believe. 
And  only  in  the  Infinite  are  free? 
Without  thee  I  were  naked,  bleuk,  and  bare 
As  yon  dead  cedar  on  the  sen-cliff"s  brow; 
And  Nature's  teachings,  which  come  to  me  now. 
Common  and  beautiful  as  light  and  air. 
Would  be  as  fruitless  as  a  stream  which  still 
Slips  through  the  wheel  of  some  old  ruined  mill.' 

It  is  impossible  to  read  Lowell's  poems  without  being  entertained 
or  improved.  We  tliink  them  valuable  not  only  for  their  intrinsic 
excellence,  but  for  the  vast  influence  which  their  increasing  circu- 
lation destines  them  to  exert. 

One  of  our  most  characteristic  and  popular  poets  is  WJlittier 
(1807-  ).  Bryant  excepted,  no  one  has  been  less  influenced 
by  other  literatures.  He  may  be  said  to  illustrate  four  prin- 
cipal phases  in  our  national  history:  Aboriginal  Life,  Mogg 
Meg  one  ;  Colonial  lAie,  Mabel  3Iartin  ;  Aho\\i\on\s,n\,  F'are  well 
of  a  J^irgifiia  Slace  Mother ^  and  the  Civil  War,  Harhara 
Fritchie.  He  was  the  poet  of  anti-slavery,  as  Phillips  its 
orator,  Mrs.  Stowe  its  novelist,  and  Sumner  its  statesman:  but 
while  his  anti-slavery  poetry  had  a  vast  effect  in  rousing  and 
condensing  public  sentiment,  it  was  more  vehement  than  inspi- 
rational; and  as  the  events  which  suggested  it  were  temporary, 
it  is  read  with  constantly  waning  interest.  Far  more  successful 
have  been  liis  narrative  and  legendary  poems.  Maud  Midler 
and  Skipjyer  lreso)i's  Ride  had  no  prototypes  ;  nor  has  T/ie 
liarefoot.  Ji<>g  a  parallel: 

'Blessings  on  thee,  little  man,  Thou  hast  more  than  ho  can  buy 

Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  I  In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye  — 

With  Iliy  turniil-up  imiitaloons,  Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 

And  tliy   iiuTry  wliistled  tunes:  Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy!  .  .   . 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still  Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 

Kissed  by  strawberries  on  tlic  hill:  Live  and  lauirh,  as  boyhood  ran! 

With  tlie  sunshine  on  thy  face,  Though  the  tlinty  slopes  be  bard, 
Throiisrh  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace:         Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward. 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,—  Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 

1  was  once  a  barefoot  boy!  Kre-h  bai)tisms  of  the  dew: 

Prince  thou  art  — the  grown-up  man  Every  evening  from  thy  feet 

Only  is  republican.  Shall  the  cool  win<l  ki--  tlie  heat: 

Let  the  million  (ioUareil  ride!  All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 

Barefoot,   trudging  at  his  side  In  the  prison  cells  of  pride. 


394  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod,  Never  on  forbidden  gronnd ; 

Like  a  coifs  for  worlc  be  shod,  Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil.  Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil:  Ah  I   that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 

Happy  if  their  track  be  found  Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  I ' 

No  writer  of  ballads  founded  on  our  native  history  and  tradition 
can  be  compared  with  him.  Much  of  his  material  appears  to 
have  been  gathered,  in  his  wanderings,  from  the  lips  of  sailors, 
farmers,  and  old  women,  as  in  the  exquisite  Rohin : 

'My  old  Welsh  neighbor  over  the  way 

Crept  slowly  out  in  the  sun  of  spring. 
Pushed  from  her  ears  the  locks  of  gray. 
And  listened  to  hear  the  robin  sing. 

Her  grandson,  playing  at  marbles,  stopped. 

And,  cruel  in  sport  as  boys  will  be. 
Tossed  a  stone  at  the  bird,  who  hopped 

From  bough  to  bough  in  the  apple-tree. 

"Nay I"  said  the  grandmother;  "have  you  not  heard. 

My  poor,  bad  boy!  of  the  fiery  pit, 
And  how,  drop  by  drop,  this  merciful  bird 

Carries  the  water  that  quenches  it? 

He  brings  cool  dew  in  his  little  bill, 

And  lets  it  fall  on  the  souls  of  sin: 
You  can  see  tht   mark  on  his  red  breast  still 

Of  fires  that  scorch  as  he  drops  it  in. 

My  poor  Bron  rhuddyn  1  my  breast-burned  bird. 

Singing  so  sweetly  from  limb  to  limb. 
Very  dear  to  the  heart  of  our  Lord 

Is  he  who  pities  the  lost  like  Him : "' 

"Amen:"  I  said  to  the  beautiful  myth; 

"Sing,  bird  of  (iod,  in  my  heart  as  well: 
Each  good  thought  is  a  drop  wherewith 

To  cool  and  lessen  tlie  (ires  of  hell. 

Prayers  of  love  like  rain-drops  fall. 

Tears  of  i)ity  are  cooling  dew, 
And  dear  to  tlie  heart  of  our  Lord  are  all 

Who  suffer  like  Him  in  the  good  they  do!"' 

We  soon  perceive  that  it  is  not  by  marvellous  finish  or  by  lofty 
irnao'iiiatioii  that  Wliittier  has  obtained  the  suffrages  of  the 
reading  public.      lie  himself  disclaims  these  eminent  merits: 

'  J  love  tlie  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through. 

The  songs  of  Spenser"s  <:olden  days. 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  i)hrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Vet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellf]us  notes  I  try: 
1  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 


POETRY  —  WHITTIEK.  395 

In  filence  feel  tin-  dewy  chowers. 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blesHing  of  the  cky.  .  .  . 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace. 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  Kupplies ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace. 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
1  view  her  common  forms  with  ununointed  eyes.' 

Yet  he  reaches  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  because  he  has  that 
touch  of  nature  which  is  beyond  art;  because  he  embodies,  in 
smooth  and  flowing  metre,  the  cardinal  qualities  of  greatness, — 
simplicity,  sincerity,  manliness,  piety.  The  ethical  element  is  not 
extraneous  and  occasional,  but  inherent  and  intense.  Who  can- 
not understand  the  aspirations  and  discontent  of  Maud  Midler? 
Who  has  not  had  the  elevated  and  thoughtful  tendencies  of  his 
mind  developed  or  encouraged  b}'  the  well-known  concluding 
couplets: 

'CJod  pity  them  both!  and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  saddest  are  these:  "It  might  have  been!" 

Ah,  well!  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  I ' 

This  devout  seriousness,  the  motive  of  such  pieces  as  Tlie  Hermit 
of  Thehdld^  is  never  long  absent.      We  quote  at  random: 

'Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot !  .\n(l  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought,  Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest. 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend  Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places. 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend.  Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces. 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke.  O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 

Hiuk  Mpon  the  living  look.  .\n  unwitting  triumph  And."' 

Agtiiii: 

'Stand  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silert  dark.  What  daunts  thee  now?  what  shakes  thee  soV 

I  would  (luestion  thee,  My  sad  soul  say. 

Alone  ill  the  shadow  drear  and  stark,  "  I  see  a  cloud,  like  a  curtain  low, 

Witti  (iod  and  nic !  Hang  o'er  my  way."  .  .  . 

What,  my  soul,  was  the  errand  here  ?  Know  well,  my  soul,  (iod's  hand  controls 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease,  Whate'cr  thou  fearest : 

Or  lieai)iiig  tip  dust  from  year  to  year?  Hound  Him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

"Nay,  none  of  these!"  .   .   .  Whate'cr  tliou  hearest. 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  ?  What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  Him  is  day. 
Canst  see  the  end  ?  .\nd  the  end  He  kiioweth, 

.■\ii(l  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine       .\iid  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 
Evermore  dotli  tend?  The  s[iirit  goctti."-' 

'  ne  New  IVife  and  the  Otit.  ''My  Soul  ami  I. 


396  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

In  these  days  of  iconoclasm  it  is  good  to  read: 

'I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 
I  feel  the  guilt  within; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries. 
The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things. 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 
To  one  fixed  stake  my  spirit  clings; 
I  know  that  God  is  good  1 ' ' 

The  manly  and  pathetic  reflections  in  Snoii)-hoii7id,  as  well  as  its 
pictures  of  winter  life  and  landscape,  are  admirable.  Questions 
of  Life  is  replete  with  felicitous  thoughts  and  phrases.  The 
7\.nt  on  the  Beach  is  celebrated.  In  these  and  later  poems,  tlie 
author  is  seen  to  be  a  poet  of  steady  growth.  There  is  no  falling 
off  as  the  shadows  thicken.  If  in  his  last  volume  we  miss  the 
fire  of  his  first,  the  loss  is  amply  compensated  by  a  more  artistic 
workmanshi}),  and  by  the  calmer,  deeper  tone  of  thought  and 
feeling.  There  is  no  probability  that  a  new  school,  of  which  the 
rough  barbaric  'realisms'  of  Whitman  are  the  supposed  nucleus, 
will  ever  draw  the  nation  away  from  the  stainless  pages  of 
Whittier  and  his  leading  contemjwraries,  chief  among  whom  is 
Longfellow — the  central  figure  in  our  }ioetical  lit(;rature. 

Drama. — The  downward  tendency  of  the  stage,  as  a  field 
for  literary  effort,  has  continued  to  the  present  hour.  However 
it  may  l)e  explained,  the  fact  is  clear,  that,  with  few  exceptions 
—  as  Bulwer's  TUcheUeu  and  Lady  of  Lyons  —  the  dramas 
written  by  men  of  genius  within  the  ]>resent  period  have  not 
been  of  the  available  kind;  Avhile  the  authors  of  successful  plays 
have  not  been  men  of  genius,  and  most  of  them  are  scarcely 
known  in  the  literary  world,  lirowning  represents  the  dramatic 
element  of  recent  times,  such  as  it  is;  l)ut,  in  the  original  sense 
of  the  term,  he  is  not  a  dramatist  at  all.  He  has  not  the  peculiar 
faculty  for  the  invention  of  incidents  adapted  to  dramatic  effect, 
nor  the  power  of  forgetting  himself  in  the  separate  creations 
which  he  strives  to  inform.  Tennyson's  Queen  Mary  is  a  forced 
effort,  tlie  result  of  deliljerate  forethought,  a  dramatic  ])oem 
rather  than  a  stage-drama.  Beyond  all  the  rest,  yet  vaiidy, 
Swinburne    se(»ks  to   renew   the   vigor   of   otlier   days,   when  the 

'  Eternal  Goodness. 


DECLINE   OF   THE    DllAMA.  397 

drama  was  the  natural  outgrowth  of  a  passionate  and  adven- 
turous era. 

If  we  seek  the  causes  for  this  decline,  we  shall  find  a  main 
one,  it  is  believed,  in  the  practical,  positive  temper  of  the  age. 
Intellect  has  been  diverted  to  other  and  utilitarian  objects, — 
invention,  discovery,  journalism.  Writers  and  readers  are  occu- 
pied with  new  ideas,  new  themes,  new  forms.  The  early  stage, 
moreover,  was  an  important  means  of  instruction,  and  a  primary 
moans  of  entertainment.  But  facilities  for  amusing  and  instruct- 
ing the  people  greatly  multiplied.  That  office  is  now  assumed 
very  largely  by  the  novel  and  the  press.  The  times  are  no  less 
stirring,  but  surjilus  desire  has  at  present  a  thousand  outlets 
where  it  then  had  one.  The  diffusion  of  literature  brings  intel- 
lectual diversion  to  every  fireside  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  dramatic 
performances.  Again,  this  degeneracy  has  been  confirmed  by 
theatrical  management.  Formerly,  while  dramatists  were  often 
actors,  managers  were  one  or  both;  to-day,  the  latter  are  merely 
a  trading,  monetary  class.  The  introduction  of  movable  scenery 
has  begotten  and  fostered  the  love  of  scenic  effects.  The  theatre, 
as  a  commercial  institution,  strives  to  draw  'the  crowd'  by  ephem- 
eral and  dazzling  display.  The  stress  is  transferred  from  the 
mental  to  tlie  physical.  Sensuous  appeals  take  the  place  of 
ideas  and  sentiments.  Pomp  and  noise  supply  the  need  of  vivid 
language  and  vigorous  thought.  Here,  as  described  by  a  news- 
paper critic,  is  the  pageant  of  a  modern  jilay: 

'It  incliHlcs  a  l)uriiiiis;  house,  a  modern  b:ir-rooni,  real  gin  cock-tails,  a  river-side 
pier,  a  steamboat  in  motion,  the  grand  saloon  or  state-caliin  of  the  steamboat,  the  deck 
of  the  same,  tlie  wheel-house,  the  funnels,  and  the  steamboat  in  flames;  and  all  these 
objects  are  presented  with  singular  fidelity  to  their  originals.' 

How  wide  the  contrast  between  this  sliow  and  the  meagre  equip- 
ment on  which  the  grantl  old  Elizabethans  could  rely  !  Of  a 
siiiiilar  play  a  like  critic  observes: 

'It  is  not  a  work  of  literature,  but  a  work  of  business.  The  piece  is  a  rough 
conglomeration  of  the  nothings  of  the  |>assing  hour  — objects  and  incidents  drawn,  but 
not  always  drawn  with  accuracy,  from  the  streets,  the  public  conveyances,  the  haunts 
of  profligacy.  Tliese  nothings  are  otTered  for  their  own  sake,  and  not  made  tributary 
to  any  intellectual  purpose  whatever." 

Finallv,  witli  the  spread  of  the  religious  movement  at  the  close 
of  the  last  century,  a  reaction  set  in  against  the  theatr(%  and  hatl 
the  natural  effect  of  lowering  its  tone  and  maimers,  as  well  as  its 


398  DIFFUSIVE  PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

literature.     Thus  an  adverse  moral  feeling  has  been  an  acceler- 
ating force  to  sink  it  below  the  level  of  high  art. 

Yet  the  general  elevation  has  told  powerfully  here  as  else- 
where; and  the  morale  of  the  theatre,  in  sympathetic  accord 
with  society,  has  improved  beyond  precedent.  The  coarseness 
and  indecency  of  the  past  have  been  left  forever  behind.  It 
were  wise  to  promote  this  advancement  by  a  discriminating 
censure  and  a  judicious  restraint.  It  were  vain  and  senseless  to 
attempt  to  destroy  what  has  sprung  from  an  instinctive  demand 
of  the  soul  for  the  incarnate  exhibition  of  the  ideals  which  it 
trusts  —  heroism,  grandeur,  beauty,  sorrow,  hope,  honor  that 
swerves  not,  virtue  triumphant.  The  dramatic  element  which 
creates  the  theatre  is  universal  and  innate.  Every  preacher  who 
would  agitate  men  out  of  moral  apathy,  and  rouse  them  to  a 
sense  of  personal  duty,  must  employ  it.  The  great  divines  of 
the  world  —  as  Chrysostom,  Whitefield,  Wesley,  Spurgeon, 
Beecher  —  have  been  essentially  great  actors  —  teachers  by 
action.  Historians,  like  Carlyle,  Froude,  and  Motley,  who  mar- 
shal ideas  as  a  living  and  breathing  host,  have  been  masters  of 
the  dramatic  manner.  Springing  from  what  is  best  in  man,  the 
theatre  is  potent  for  good.  Nowhere  can  elevated  lessons  be 
brought  home  so  directly  to  the  heart.  Every  great  emotion  is 
uplifting.  He  who  has  felt  like  a  hero  or  saint,  is  thereby  more 
heroic  or  saintly.  It  was  a  very  healthy  feeling  which  prompted 
the  boatman,  when  he  saw  Forrest  as  lago,  to  cry  out:  'I  would 
like  to  got  liold  of  you,  after  the  show  is  over,  and  wring  your 
infernal  neck.'  Said  Steele  of  Betterton:  'From  his  acting  I 
have  received  a  stronger  impression  of  what  is  great  and  noble 
in  human  nature  than  from  the  arguments  of  the  most  solid 
philosophers,  or  the  descriptions  of  the  most  charming  poets.' 
When  the  elder  Booth  had  recited  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  the 
presence  of  a  select  compaiiv,  the  host  stopped  forward  with 
streaming  eyes,  and  in  broken  accents  said:  'Sir,  you  have 
afforded  me  a  pleasure  for  which  my  whole  future  life  will  feel 
grateful.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  every  day  from  my  boyhood  to 
the  present  I  have  repeated  that  prayer;  but  I  never  heard  it 
before,  never!'  When  the  stage  is  divorced  from  its  mission,  it 
is  also  potent  for  ill;  and  liere  lies  the  secret  of  the  felt  antag- 
onism.     No    agency  can    compare  with   it   in    power  to  corrupt. 


PROSE — PERIODICAL   LITERATURE.  3% 

when  surrendered  to  shame,  when  villany  is  invested  with 
charms,  and  portraits  of  debauchery  attract  more  than  they 
repel.  Those  who  seek  its  redemption  will  condemn  its  abuse, 
and  encourage  the  *  legitimate  drama.'  Meanwhile,  there  is 
needed,  in  its  present  state,  a  more  careful  discrimination  both  of 
dramas  to  be  read  and  of  dramas  as  acted.  Pope's  lines  should 
be  remembered: 

'Vice  ip  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 
As,  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 
Yet,  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace.' 

Periodical. — One  of  tlie  most  peculiar  and  influential  of  the 
literary  forces  in  this  era  of  prose  is  the  periodical  press  in  its 
manifold  forms,  ranging  between  the  two  extremes  of  quarterly 
and  daily.  The  phenomenal  facts  are  quantity,  quality,  and  rate 
of  increase.  The  older  reviews  and  magazines,  while  much  less 
vigorous  than  formerly,  still  keep  the  lead,  thougli  having  to 
contest  the  field  with  many  younger  and  very  formidable  rivals. 
The  most  remarkable  advancement,  alike  in  ability  of  thought 
and  extent  of  power,  has  been  made  by  the  newspaper,  and  its 
(levelo])ment  in  the  United  States  —  especially  within  the  last 
decade  —  has  never  been  jiaralleled  in  any  other  country,  nor  here 
by  any  other  industry  or  pursuit.  In  1880,  nine  hundred  and 
eightv  dailies  were  witness  to  the  soul  of  enterprise  and  energy 
in  America;  while,  in  1881,  Great  Britain  had  but  one  hundred 
and  sixty-six  for  the  news  supply  of  its  population  of  thirty-five 
millions.  ^Ve  have  long  been  the  greatest  readers  in  the  world. 
Our  periodical  ])ublicatif)ns  ncarl}'  equal  those  of  the  rest  of  the 
globe,  and  the  diffusion  is  growing  annually  more  penetrating 
and  minute. 

It  is  needless  to  allude  to  the  services  of  a  free,  pervasive 
l>ress  as  a  cohesive  agent  of  civilization  ;  as  an  appliance  to 
clironicle  facts,  to  circulate  theori(\s,  to  expose  chronic  vice  and 
constitutional  al)use,'  to  report  and  enlarge  discussion,  to  correct 
the  sins  of  extravagance  and  chimera,  to  hold  the  connnunity, 
with  a  \viil(!-rcaching  sagacity,  to  a  constant  delil)eration  on  social 
and  reformatory  questions,  till  sober  principles  prevail  and  the 
elements  are  left  to  a  ])eaceful  rejul justment.      Tliat   it  has  nnilti- 

I  Fiiiir  hnr-tilf  nowspupLTs  arc  more  to  be  dreaded  than  a  hundred  thousand  bayonets. 
— XapoUon  J. 


400  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES, 

plied  readers,  and  excited  curiosity  touching  every  department  of 
knowledge,  is  beyond  dispute.  That  it  is  a  great  intellectual 
convenience,  is  equally  patent.  It  is  the  democratic  form  of 
literature  to  the  multitude  who  have  neither  the  money  to  pur- 
chase books  nor  the  leisure  to  read  tliem.  It  abbreviates  and 
systematizes  labor,  condensing  the  researches  of  the  few  for  the 
disposal  of  tlie  many. 

On  the  other  hand — while  the  evils  to  be  deplored  are  far  less 
than  the  blessings  conferred — constant  reading  of  reviews,  so  far 
as  it  accustoms  the  reader  to  accept  information  at  second-hand, 
tends  to  make  him  superficial,  to  induce  the  feeling  of  submission 
and  dependence.  So  far,  also,  as  its  attitude  is  partisan,  he  is 
liable  to  the  infection  of  partisan  habits.  CriticisTn  is  much  a 
form  of  personal  expression.  It  is  an  assistant,  not  a  finality. 
Often  it  is  only  the  self-revelation  of  a  man.  The  greatest  works 
have  made  their  way  seemingly  without  the  sliglitest  reference 
to  the  opinions  and  pi'otests  of  critics. 

Undoubtedly  the  newspaper  of  the  future  will  be  less  commer- 
cial and  more  literary.  It  will  have  a  more  catholic  spirit.  It 
will  have  a  juster  sense  of  moral  and  social  values.  It  will 
devote  more  space  to  the  remedial  and  purifying  agencies  of 
society,  less  to  the  frivolities  and  vices  which  now  exclude  so 
much  of  greater  moment  and  sweeter  import,  which  only  cater  to 
a  prurient  taste,  and  stimulate  a  morl>id  desire  for  low  excite- 
ments. A  pa})er  that  treats  crime  as  a  jest,  that  labels  immorality 
as  'rich  develoj)ments,'  that  puts  forward  uncleanness  with  start- 
ling head-lines  and  exhaustive  detail,  to  become  the  daily  food  of 
children  and  youth, —  is  a  moral  scourge.  Few  things  can  be  of 
graver  importance  to  the  parent  than  tlie  selection  of  a  family 
paper,  destined  to  occupy  tlie  thoughts  and  to  possess  the  imagi- 
nation of  forming  and  susceptive  minds.  Let  us  be  grateful  to 
the  noV)lc  men  and  women  wlio  are  honestly  trying  to  realize 
their  own  ideal,  and  to  make  the  prt>ss  what  it  ouglit  to  be, —  an 
emanation  from  tlu^  best  spirit  and  culture. 

Essay. — It  is  the  province  of  some  to  spread  out  a  topic  in 
all  its  breadth  and  vaiiety;  of  otiiers,  to  touch  upon  many  sub- 
jects, but  to  exhaust  none.  The  aggregate  of  good  done  by 
these  gleaners  in  the  fields  of  thought  is  not  easily  to  be  esti- 
mated.     How  much   should   we   lose   of  what    is   most  attractive 


PROSE — THE    ESSAY.  401 

and  valuable  in  English  literature,  if  the  productions  of  even 
the  later  essayists  were  left  out  of  the  account  !  They  are  a 
legitimate  and  most  characteristic  outgrowth  of  the  national  and 
dominant  tendencies,  reflecting  that  practical  morality  which  has 
filled  the  last  two  centuries  with  dissertations  on  the  rule  of 
duty,  and  that  freedom  of  discussion  which  has  been  asserted 
for  so  many  ages  by  English  writers,  enforced  by  the  public 
sense,  then  secured  by  the  laws. 

•  Slight  but  spirited  essays  are  no  unconnnon  feature  of  the 
daily  and  weekly  journal;  while  the  contributors  to  our  leading 
periodicals,  and  the  authors  of  the  well-known  series  of  Kmjlish 
Max  of  Letters,  represent  such  a  mass  of  critical  opinion  as  was 
never  before  brought  together.  It  is  generally  admitted,  how- 
ever, that  revieiciiKj  has  lost  something  of  its  authority  by  the 
newspaper  press,  wliich,  tending  to  constrain  it  within  the  limits 
of  a  quarter-column  and  the  party  creed,  has  in  a  measure  turned 
it  into  a  fatal  facility  of  stock  phrases  and  commonplace  ideas. 
A  few  papers,  indeed,  keep  up  the  traditions  of  better  days,  and 
a  standard  of  excellence,  in  some  respects  really  high,  is  not 
seldom  reached;  but  tlie  average  'notice'  in  even  these  is  too 
empirical  and  hasty.  The  enormous  multiplication  of  books  has 
doubtless  tended  to  this  decadence,  in  wliich,  though  the  reviewer 
may  have  a  sound  head  and  a  good  heart,  with  a  wish  to  find 
merit  and  a  purpose  to  exliil)it  it,  lu;  rarely  has  time  to  look 
beyond  the  prefaci-. 

While"  our  ci-itics  seem  not  to  have  the  collective  force,  the 
recognized  leading,  of  the  race  that  has  passed  away,  they  per- 
ha})s  have  a  more  enlarged  and  profound  conception  of  their 
fuiu'tions.  ^^'itllout  neglecting  form,  tliev  think  more  of  the 
matter, —  the  energy  and  nobleness  of  the  thoughts  and  senti- 
ments. Not  without  souK"  acrimony,  they  evince  less  jiersonal 
rancor  than  foruKM-iy,  when  the  ci-ities  eomjiosed  a.  tribunal. 
Interesting  (»xainp!es  of  this  higher,  wider,  inor(>  earnest  criticism 
may  l)e  found  in  XaugliaiTs  Iloirr^i  irlf/i  fjie  Mi/sf !<•.■<,  Taylor's 
]Vot<'.-<  on  Hooks,  Masson's  /irifis/i  Xorr/isfs,  Sliair])\s  ^i,y)t'cts 
of  l^oi'tri/;  above  all,  in  the  works  of  Carlvle,  Arnold,  Froude, 
and  IJuskin.  The  lirst,  our  'modern  Kzekiel,'  will  he  treated 
bv  himself.  He  requires  a  wi(h»  and  open  space.  Matthe'W 
Arnold.    (1S"22-  )    is    by    many    relished    rather    as    a    iiitic 

2G 


402  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

than  as  a  poet.  The  bent  of  his  faculty  lies  more  in  the 
direction  of  argument,  which  he  illustrates  by  his  poetic  imagi- 
nation. While  criticism,  with  Macaulay,  clings  to  practical  con- 
siderations, with  him,  as  with  Sainte-Beuve,  it  must  maintain 
its  independence  of  the  practical  spirit.  How  shall  it  see  things 
in  themselves,  as  they  are, —  how  shall  it  be  disinterested?  — 

'  By  keeping  aloof  from  practice:  by  resolutely  following  the  law  of  its  own  nature, 
which  is  to  be  a  free  play  of  the  mind  on  all  subjects  which  it  touches;  by  steadily 
refusing  to  lend  itself  to  any  of  those  ulterior,  political,  practical  considerations  about 
ideas  which  plenty  of  people  will  be  sure  to  attach  to  them,  which  perhaps  ought  often 
to  be  attached  to  thera,  which  in  this  country  at  any  rate  are  certain  to  be  attached  to 
them  quite  sufficiently,  but  which  criticism  has  really  nothing  to  do  with.  Its  business 
is,  as  I  have  said,  simply  to  know  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world, 
and,  by  in  its  turn  making  this  known,  to  create  a  current  of  true  and  fresh  ideas  Its 
business  is  to  do  this  with  inflexible  honesty,  with  due  ability;  but  its  business  is  to 
do  no  more,  and  to  leave  alone  all  questions  of  practical  consequences  and  applications, 
questions  which  will  never  fail  to  have  due  prominence  given  to  them.' ' 

This  is  hig'h  ground.  You  are  to  deal  with  facts  and  fancies  for 
the  sake  of  the  truth  which  is  in  them,  not  for  the  sake  of  a  sect 
or  party.  It  is  no  organized  preference  of  the  useful  to  the  orna- 
mental; for  what  can  be  more  profitable  to  the  mind  than  to 
dwell  upon  what  is  excellent  in  itself,  upon  the  absolute  beauty 
and  fitness  of  things?  Yet  do  not  suppose  that  you  are  to  ignore 
or  undervalue  consequences.  Your  main  business,  however,  is 
^to  learn  and  2yro]^o<iate  the  best  that  is  knoion  and  thoxKjht  in 
the  vwrld.^  Tliat  is,  you  are  to  be  'perpetually  dissatisfied'  with 
whatsoever  falls  'short  of  a  high  and  perfect  ideal.'  You  are 
not,  therefore,  to  be  a  mere  spectator,  though  Arnold  should 
seem  to  advise  it.  He  is  himself,  fortunately,  more  than  this  — 
he  is  also  a  judge.  Else  he  had  not  made  no  many  admirable 
observations  like  these: 

'Heine  liad  all  tlie  culture  of  (icrmany:  in  his  head  fermented  all  tlie  ideas  of 
modern  Euroiic.  And  wliat  have  we  got  from  Heine?  A  half-result,  for  want  of  more 
balance,  and  of  n')l>leness  of  soul  and  character.  That  is  wliat  I  say;  there  is  so  much 
power,  so  many  seem  al)le  to  run  well,  so  many  give  promisi^  of  running  well;  so  few 
reacli  tlie  goal,  so  few  are  chosen.     Many  are  railed,  feiv  chosen.'  ^ 

And: 

'Wliat  a  nianifi'-^t  failure  is  tliis  last  word  of  the  religion  of  ])leasure  !  One  man  in 
many  millions,  a  Heine,  may  console  liimself,  and  keep  liiniself  erect  in  sutTering,  by  a 
colossal  irony  of  this  sort,  l)y  coverini;  himself  and  the  universes  witli  tlie  red  fire  of  this 
sinister  mockery  ;  but  tlie  many  millions  cannot  —  cannot  if  they  would.  That  is  where 
the  sentiment  of  a  religion  of  sorrow  has  such  a  vast  advantage  over  the  sentiment  of  a 
religion  of  pleasure,— in  its  i)ower  to  be  a  general,  popular,  religious  sentiment,  a  stay 
for  the  mass  of  mankind,  whose  lives  are  full  of  hardshii).'  ^ 

'Essa>/xiii  Cri/ici--im.  ''■Thiil.  ^fbid. 


PROSE  —  THE    ESSAY.  403 

Nor  shall  you  assume  the  liberal  gait  of  a  Frenchman.  As  an 
Englishman  you  are  too  moral  to  consider  a  man  as  a  mere 
subject  of  painting  —  you  are  concerned  to  know  whether  he  is 
a  rascal,  or  one  on  wliose  principles  of  life  the  wayfaring  and 
the  foot-sore  may  rest. 

'  But  moral  rules,  apprehended  as  ideas  first,  and  then  rigorously  followed  as  laws, 
are,  and  must  be,  for  the  sage  only.  The  mass  of  mankind  have  neither  force  of  intellect 
enoujrh  to  apprehend  them  clearly  as  ideas,  nor  force  of  character  enougii  to  follow  them 
strictly  as  laws.  Tlie  mass  of  mankind  can  be  carried  along  a  course  full  of  hardship  for 
the  natural  man,  can  be  borne  over  the  thousand  impediments  of  the  narrow  way,  only 
by  the  tide  of  a  joyful  and  bounding  emotion.  It  is  impossible  to  rise  from  reading 
Epictetus  or  Marcus  Aurelius  without  a  sense  of  constraint  and  melancholy,  witliout 
feeling  that  the  burden  laid  ujwn  man  is  well-nigh  greater  than  he  can  bear.  Honor  to 
the  sages  wtio  have  felt  tliis,  and  yet  have  borne  it !  .  .  .  The  paramount  virtue  of  religion 
is,  that  it  has  lighted  up  morality;  that  it  has  sui)plied  the  emotion  and  inspiration  need- 
ful for  carrying  the  sage  along  the  narrow  way  perfectly,  for  carrying  the  ordinary  man 
along  it  at  all.  Even  Ilie  religions  witli  most  dross  in  them  have  had  something  of  this 
virtue;  but  the  Christian  religion  manifests  it  with  unexampled  splendor." ' 

Indeed,  Arnold's  great  charm  is  sentiment.     His  supreme  virtue 

is  his  essentially  religious  feeling, —  his  serious  intention,  and  his 

sympathetic  treatment. 

The  same  large  and  noble  way  of  treating  subjects  is  evident 

in  the  Short  Studies  of  Froude,   famous  chiefly  as  a  historian. 

This  writer  combines    an    almost    matchless    English    .style    with 

analytical  acuteness  and  a  high  spiritual  tone.      He  is,  it  is  true, 

hostile  to  most  ecclesiastical  institutions,  and  is  distrusted  by  the 

religious  public;  but  there  is  in  him  an  honest  homage  to  truth, 

while  the  conviction  of  divine  government   is  central.      We  may 

dissent    from  some  of  his  opinions,  but  we  must   allow  that  the 

spirit  of  his  teachings,  as  indicated  in  the  following  })assage,  is 

loftv  and  sound: 

'  Tlie  saint  wlien  he  has  tlie  power  calls  the  sword  to  his  aid,  and  in  his  zeal  for  what 
he  calls  tlif  lionor  (if  (Jod,  makes  war  ujton  sucli  iieojile  witli  steel  and  Are.  The  inno- 
vator, on  the  other  hand,  knowing  tliat  he  is  not  that  evil  creature  wliicli  liis  rival  rei)re- 
seiits  him  as  being,  first  suiters;  sutlers  in  roiigli  times  at  slake  and  seatloldi  sutltrs  in 
our  own  later  days  in  good  name,  in  reputation,  in  worldly  forliine;  and  as  tlie  whirligig 
of  tiiu(;  brings  round  his  turn  of  triumph,  takes,  in  French  revolutions  and  such  other  lits 
of  madness,  his  own  period  of  wild  revenge.  Tlie  service  of  truth  is  made  to  jijipear  as 
one  thiuir,  the  service  of  (iod  as  another:  and  in  that  fatal  separation  relifiioii  dishonors 
itself  witli  imavailiiif:  eiiiiiity  to  what  nevertheless  it  is  compelled  at  last  to  acee|)t  in 
liiiniilialiou  ;  and  science,  welcomiiiir  the  character  which  its  adversary  Iliiigs  upon  it, 
turns  away  with  answerini;  hostility  from  doctrines  without  which  its  own  highest 
achieveiiieiits  are  but  pyramids  of  ashes." 

lit'  e.\ists  f(jr  the  excellent  wlio  can  utter  or  entertain  such  a 
t  iiith  as  this: 

'  Essays  hi  Crithisin. 


404  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

'Property  is  consistent  with  intense  vvorldliness,  intense  selfishness,  intense  hardnege 
of  heart;  while  the  grander  fcattiroH  of  human  character,— self-sacriflce,  disregard  of 
pleasure,  patriotism,  love  of  knowledge,  devotion  to  any  great  and  good  cause, —  these 
have  no  tendency  to  bring  men  what  is  called  fortune;  they  do  not  even  necessarily 
promote  tlieir  happiness;  for  do  what  they  will  in  this  way,  the  horizon  of  what  they 
desire  to  do  perpetually  flies  before  them.  High  hoi)es  and  enthusiasms  are  generally 
disappointed  in  results;  and  the  wrongs,  the  cruelties,  the  wretchedness  of  all  kinds, 
which  forever  prevail  among  mankind, —  the  shortcomings  in  himself  of  which  he 
becomes  more  conscious  as  he  becomes  really  better, —  these  things,  you  may  be  sure, 
will  prevent  a  noble-minded  man  from  ever  being  particularly  happy.' 

They  add  points  of  light  to  our  sky  who  teach: 

'Whether  the  end  be  seventy  years  hence,  or  seven  hundred, —  be  the  close  of  the 
mortal  history  of  humanity  as  far  distant  in  the  future  as  its  shadowy  beginnings  seem 
now  to  lie  behind  us, —  this  only  we  may  foretell  with  confidence, —  that  the  riddle  of 
man's  nature  will  remain  unsolved.  There  will  be  that  in  him  yet  which  physical  laws 
will  fail  to  explain,— that  something,  whatever  it  be,  in  himself  and  in  the  world,  which 
science  cannot  fathom,  and  which  suggests  the  unknown  possibilities  of  his  origin  and 
his  destiny.' 

But  the  greatest  living  master  of  English  prose  is  Ruskin 
(1811)-  ),  the  prolific  and  versatile  art-critic,  at  once  a  theo- 
rizer  and  an  artist,  to  wlioni  conviction  gives  prophetic  fervor; 
sometimes  —  and  not  strangely  —  dogmatic;  thoroughly  partisan, 
fre(|uently  excessive  in  blame  or  praise,  and  so  to  be  read  with 
discrimination,  but  not  followed  blindly,  while  ever  impressing  us 
mon^  with  the  amplitude  of  his  genius,  with  the  loftiness  of  his 
spirit,  and  with  the  nobleness  of  his  aim.  x\fter  the  poets,  who 
had  dejjicted  Nature  in  melodious  verse;  after  the  jiainters,  who 
had  portrayed  her  in  expressive  color, —  he  it  was  who  revealed 
her  in  ])rose,  witli  the  imaginative  splendor  of  the  one  and  the 
graphic  power  of  tlu'  other.  The  first  thing  he  remembers,  we 
are  told,  was  tin;  'intense  joy,  mingled  with  awe,'  which  he  felt 
in  the  presence  of  some  natural  scene;  and  before  he  had  com- 
pleted his  ninth  year  ho  wi-ole: 

'Papa,  how  ])retty  those  icicles  are, 
That  are  seen  so  near,  tliat  are  seen  so  far; 
Those  dropping  waters  that  come  from  tlic  rocks 
.\ii(l  many  a  hole,  like  the  haunt  of  a  fox. 
That  silvery  stream  tliat  runs  babbling  along, 
Making  a  niurnuiring,  dancing  song. 
Those  trees  that  stand  waving  ui)on  the  rock's  side. 
And  men,  that,  like  spectres,  among  tliem  glide. 
.\n(l  waterfalls  tliat  are  heard  from  far, 
.\m(1  ((line  in   ^ight   when  very  near. 
\i\d  tlic  water- wliccl  that  turns  slowly  round, 
(irinding  the  cdni  that  rc(|iiires  to  lie  ground. 
.■\nd  mountains  at   a  distance  S(  en, 
.\nd   rivers  windiuL'  through  the  plain. 
And  ([uarries  witli  tlicir  cr.iggy  stones. 
And  the  wind  amouL.'  them  moans.' 


PKOSE  —  RUSKIN.  405 

It  is  beauty,  we  see,  that  expands  the  thoug'ht,  while  it  gives 
to  the  wing  liberty  and  might.  To  mediate  for  this  and  future 
generations,  between  the  materialism  which  would  depress  our 
higher  self  and  the  spiritualism  which  would  unduly  exalt  it, — 
to  divest  the  one  of  its  grossness,  and  the  other  of  its  vagueness, 
was  the  mission  of  Mr.  Kuskin.  And  how  beautifully,  how 
grandly,  beyond  all  chance  of  successful  rivalry,  has  he  spoken  ! 
The  gods  might  dream  of  writing  thus: 

'  The  iioon-diiy  sun  came  slanting  down  the  rocky  slopes  of  La  liiccia,  and  its  masses 
of  entaiiiiled  and  tall  foliage,  whose  autuninal  tints  were  mixed  with  the  wet  verdure  of 
a  thousand  evergreens,  were  penetrated  with  it  as  with  rain.  I  cannot  call  it  color,  it 
was  conflagration.  Purple,  and  crimson,  and  scarlet,  like  the  curtains  of  (Jod's  taber- 
7iacle,  tlie  rejoicing  trees  sank  into  the  valley  in  showers  of  light,  every  separate  leaf 
quivered  with  buoyant  and  burning  life;  each,  as  it  turned  to  rellect  or  transmit  the  sun- 
beam, first  a  torch  and  then  an  emerald.  Far  up  into  the  recesses  of  the  valley,  the  green 
vistas  arched  like  the  hollows  of  mighty  waves  of  some  crystalline  sea,  with  the  arbutus 
flowers  daslu'd  along  their  Hanks  for  foam,  and  silver  flakes  of  orange  spray  tossed  into 
the  air  around  them,  breaking  over  the  gray  walls  of  rock  into  a  thousand  separate  stars, 
fading  and  kindling  alteriuitely  as  the  weak  wind  lifted  and  let  them  fall.  Every  blade 
of  grass  burned  like  the  golden  floor  of  heaven,  opening  in  sudden  gleams  as  the  foliage 
broke  and  closed  above  it,  as  sheet-lightning  opens  in  a  cloud  at  sunset;  the  motionless 
masses  of  dark  rock, —  dark,  though  flushed  with  scarlet  lichen,—  easting  their  quiet 
shadows  across  its  restless  radiance,  the  fountain  underneath  them  filling  its  marble 
hollow  with  blue  mist  and  fitful  sound,  and  over  all, —  the  multitudinous  bars  of  amber 
and  rose,  the  sacred  clouds  tliat  ha\e  no  darkness,  and  only  exist  to  illumine,  were  seen 
in  fathomless  intervals. between  the  solemn  and  orbed  repose  of  the  st(UH'  i)ines,  passing 
to  lose  themselves  in  the  last,  white  blinding  lustre  of  the  measureless  line  where  the 
C'ampagna  luelted  into  the  blaze  of  the  sea.' 

With  what  e.\ul)erant  si)leii(l()r  lie  describes  the  dawn  in  tlio  Alps, 
traiisffM-ritig  to  liis  page  the  very  glorv  and  freshness  of  the 
morning: 

'Ami  then  wait  yet  for  one  hour,  until  the  east  again  becomes  i)urple,  and  the  heaving 
mountains,  rolling  again>t  it  in  darkness,  like  waves  of  ,i  wild  sea,  are  drowned  one  by 
one  in  (he  glory  of  its  l)urnuig;  watch  the  white  glaciers  l)!.-i/.e  in  their  winding  i)aths 
about  tlic  mountains,  like  mighty  serpents,  with  scales  of  fire;  wateli  the  columnar  peaks 
of  solitary  snow,  kindling  downwards,  chasm  l)y  chasm,  each  in  itself  a  new  morning; 
their  liuig  .ivahinehes  east  down  in  keen  streams  brighter  than  the  lightning,  sending  each 
his  tritiute  of  dri\en  snow,  like  altar-smoke,  iq)  to  the  heaven;  the  rose  light  of  their 
silent  domes  niishing  that  heaven  about  them  and  above  them,  piercing  with  purer  beams 
through  its  purple  lines  of  lifted  cloud,  casting  a  new  glory  on  every  wreath  as  it  passes 
by,  until  the  whole  heaven  —  one  scarlet  canopy  —  is  interwoven  with  a  roof  of  waving 
flame,  and  tossing,  vault  beyond  vault,  as  with  the  drifted  wings  of  many  companies  of 
anu'i'ls:  and  tlii'n,  wle^n  you  look  no  more  for  gladness,  and  wheiuyoii  are  bou  cd  down 
with  fear  and  love  of  tlie  Maker  and  Doer  of  tlii<,  trll  me  who  has  best  delivered  this 
His  nies^agi'  unto  men  I  ' 

We  are  pie;ise(l  with  the  stateliiiess  ol'  his  style,  tlie  chastened 
iiiagtiilieence  of  liis  diction,  and  are  grateful  ;  but  we  are  doiil)ly 
grateful  for  the  l)in-ning  purity  of  his  feeling,  the  elevation  of 
his  ideal,  his  noble  revcrtMice,  his  inspiring  truth.     All  beauty,  he 


406  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

would  teach  us,  has  a  liumaii  and  a  Divine  side.  Forms,  however 
ugly,  from  which  great  qualities  shine,  are  loved.  The  facts  in 
Nature  are  'the  nouns  of  the  intellect,  and  make  the  grammar  of 
the  eternal  language.'  Her  beauty  is  only  emblematic  of  the 
attributes  of  God.  For  how  can  an  object  be  beautiful  without 
moderation,  the  type  of  Government  by  Law,  opposed  to  every 
sign  of  violence,  to  every  sign  of  extravagance  ?  or  perfectly  so 
without  symmetry,  the  type  of  Divine  Justice?  without  repose, 
the  tvpe  of  tlie  Divine  Permanence,  the  most  unfailing  test, 
without  which  nothing  can  be  right,  with  which  nothing  can  be 
ignoble?  without  unity,  the  type  of  the  Divine  Comprehensive- 
ness, which,  connecting  change  and  contrast,  as  in  the  melodies 
of  music,  is  'at  the  root  of  all  our  delight  in  any  beautiful  form 
whatsoever'?  Have  you  understood  that  nothing,  though  it  be 
pretty,  graceful,  rich,  is  beautiful  vuitil  it  speaks  to  the  imagina- 
tio!i?  Tones  of  music,  depths  of  space,  sky  and  flower, —  have 
they  not  somewhat  immeasurable  and  divine,  as  chosen  men  and 
women  have  a  largeness  of  suggestion, —  somewhat  that  is  catho- 
lic, spiritual,  universal?  This  is  the  reason  why  Proclus  says  of 
beauty  that  'it  swims  on  tlie  light  of  forms.'  Hence,  too,  the 
remark  that  he  who  climbs  the  white  roof  of  the  Milan  Cathedral, 
and  gazes  on  the  forest  of  statues,  '  feels  as  though  a  flight  of 
angels  had  alighted  there  and  been  struck  to  marble.'  And 
in  the  same  strain  Ruskin  declares: 

'Whatever  beauty  tlierc  may  result  from  the  effects  of  light  on  foreground  objects', 
from  the  dew  of  tlic  grass,  the  flash  of  tlie  cascade,  the  glitter  of  the  birch  trimk,  or  the 
fair  dayligtit  hues  of  darker  things  (and  joyfulness  there  is  in  all  of  them),  there  is  yet  a 
light  which  the  eye  invariably  seeks  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  the  beautiful,  the  light  of 
the  declining  or  breaking  day,  and  the  flakes  of  scarlet  cloud  burning  like  watch-fires  in 
the  green  sky  of  the  horizon ;  a  deei)er  feeling,  I  say,  not  jierhaps  more  acute,  but  having 
more  of  s|)i ritual  hope  and  longing,  less  of  animal  and  i)rcsent  life,  more  manifest, 
invariably,  in  those  of  more  serious  and  determined  mind  (I  use  the  word  serious  not  as 
being  opjwsed  to  cheerful,  but  to  trivial  and  volatile) :  but,  I  think,  marked  and  unfailing 
even  in  those  of  the  least  thoughtful  disi)ositions.  I  am  willing  to  let  it  rest  on  the  deter- 
mination of  every  reader,  whether  the  pleasure  which  he  has  received  from  these  effects 
of  calm  and  luminous  distanci!  be  not  the  most  singular  and  memorable  of  which  he  has 
been  conscious;  whether  all  that  is  dazzling  in  color,  perfect  in  form,  gladdening  in 
expression,  be  not  of 'evanescent  and  shallow  ajjpealing,  when  conij)ared  with  the  still 
small  voice  of  the  level  twilight  behind  purple  hills,  on  the  scarlet  arch  of  dawn  over  the 
dark  troublous-edged  sea.' 

We  need  not  fear  too  much  admiring  this  adorer  of  beauty,  who 
at  eve  so  truly  obeys  tlic  voice  obeyed  at  prime  ;  who  never 
swerves  from  relianc<>  on  tliosc^  v(u-ities  which  have  been  the  joy 
of  all   srreat  souls;   who   never   falters  in   his  conviction  tliat  the 


PROSE — RUSKIN.  407 

principles  of  heauty  are  brought  'to  a  root  in  human  passion  or 
human  liope";  who  is  so  fine  and  high  a  lover  that  he  must  deny 
to  art  any  greatness  which  is  not  the  expression  of  a  pure  soul, 
to  the  face  any  loveliness  which  is  not  ethical,  and  to  the  voice 
any  excellence  which  is  not  born  of  virtue: 

'A  bad  woman  may  have  a  s^wet't  voice ;  but  that  sweetnoj*?"  of  voice  comeB  of  the 
past  morality  of  her  race.  Tliat  slie  can  sing  with  it  at  all  she  owes  to  the  determination 
of  laws  of  music  by  the  morality  of  the  past.  Kvery  act,  every  impulse,  of  virtue  and 
vice,  affeci«  in  any  creature,  face,  voice,  nervous  power,  and  vigour  and  harmony  of 
invention,  at  once.  Perseverance  in  Tightness  of  human  conduct,  renders,  after  a  certain 
number  of  generations,  human  art  possible;  every  sin  clouds  it,  be  it  ever  so  little  a  one; 
and  persistent  vicious  living  and  following  of  pleasure  render,  after  a  certain  number  of 
generations,  all  art  impossible." 

'That  is  ever  the  dilference,'  says  Emerson,  'between  the  wise 
and  the  unwise:  the  latter  wonders  at  what  is  unusual,  the  wise 
man  wonders  at  the  usual.'  The  artist  of  highest  aim  creates 
his  ideal  by  combining  things  which,  though  never  wanting,  are 
ordinarily  little  noticed.  It  is  in  these  that  the  lesson  of  devotion 
is  cliiefly  taught.     For  instance: 

'If  in  our  moments  of  utter  idleness  and  insipidity,  we  turn  to  the  sky  as  a  last 
resource,  whidi  of  its  phenomena  do  we  speak  of?  One  says  it  has  been  wet,  and  another 
it  has  been  windy,  and  another  it  has  l)een  warm.  Who,  among  the  whole  chattering 
crowd,  can  tell  me  of  the  forms  and  the  precipices  of  the  chain  of  tall  white  mountains 
that  girded  tlie  horizon  at  noon  yesterday?  Who  saw-  the  narrow  sunbeams  that  came  out 
of  the  south  and  smote  upon  their  summits  until  th<'y  melted  and  mouldered  away  in  a 
dust  of  blue  rain?  Who  saw  the  dance  of  the  dead  clouds  when  the  sunlight  left  them 
last  night,  and  the  west  wind  blew  them  before  it  like  withered  leaves?  .\11  has  jjassed, 
unregretted  as  unseen;  or  if  the  apathy  be  ever  shaken  off,  even  for  an  instant,  it  is  only 
by  what  is  gross,  or  what  is  extraordinary;  and  yet  it  is  not  in  the  broad  aiul  flerce 
manifestations  of  the  elemental  enertries,  not  in  the  clash  of  the  hail,  nor  the  drift  of 
the  wliirhvind,  that  the  highest  cliuracters  of  the  sublime  are  developed.  CJod  is  not  in 
the  earthquake,  nor  in  the  lire,  but  in  the  still  small  voice." 

And: 

'.Ml  those  passings  to  ami  fro  of  fruitful  shower  and  grateful  shade,  nnd  all  those 
visions  of  silver  ))alaces  built  about  the  horizon,  and  voices  of  moaning  winds  and  threat- 
ening thunders,  juid  glories  of  colored  robe  and  cloven  ray,  are  but  to  deei)en  in  our 
hearts  the  acceptaiicp,  and  distinctness,  and  dearness  of  the  simple  wor<ls,  "Our  Father, 
which  art  in  heaven." ' 

BUissiiius  upon  him  who  has  opened  so  luiiny  thousiiiul  eyes  to 
the  heautv  of  the  skv  which  is  above  us,  and  of  the  grass  which 
we  trample  under  our  feet: 

'(Jiitlier  a  single  blade  of  grass,  and  examine  for  a  minute,  (luietly,  its  narrow  --word- 
shaped  strip  of  lluted  green.  Nothing,  as  it  seems  there,  of  notable  goodness  or  beauty. 
A  very  little  slrenirth,  and  a  very  little  tallncss,  and  a  few  delicate  long  lines  meeting  in 
a  point,—  not  a  ix'rfect  point  neitlier.  but  blunt  and  unfinished,  by  no  means  a  creditable 
or  ai)parti}tly  luueli  cared  for  example  of  Nature's  workmanship;  made,  as  if  seems, 
onlv  to  be  trodden  on  to-day,  and  to-morrow  to  !)■•  cast  iiit"  the  oven:  and  a  little  pale 


408  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

and  hollow  stalk,  feeble  and  flaccid,  leading  down  to  the  dull  brown  fibres  of  roots.  And 
yet,  think  of  it  well,  and  judge- whether  of  all  the  gorgeous  flowers  that  beam  m  summer 
air,  and  of  all  strong  and  goodly  trees,  pleasant  to  the  eyes  and  good  for  food, —  stately 
palm  and  pine,  strong  ash  and  oak,  scented  citron,  burdened  vine, —  there  be  any  by  man 
so  deeply  loved,  by  God  so  highly  graced,  as  that  narrow  point  of  feeble  green.' 

Like  most  voluminous  writers,  he  shows  to  greatest  advan- 
tage  in  select  passages;  but  eloquence  and  suggestiveness  are 
his  general  features.  None  has  said  truer  or  finer  things.  Few 
have  been  so  helpful.  Who  will  not  own  the  fascination  of  such 
periods  as  we  have  read?  Who  would  not  wish  to  remember 
the  multitude  like  these? 

'The  picture  which  has  the  nobler  and  more  numerous  ideas,  however  awkwardly 
expressed,  is  a  greater  and  a  better  picture  than  that  which  has  the  less  noble  and  less 
numerous  ideas,  however  beautifully  expressed.  No  weight,  nor  mass,  nor  beauty  of 
execution  can  outweigh  one  grain  or  fragment  of  thought.' 

'Of  all  God's  gifts  to  the  sight  of  man,  colour  is  the  holiest,  the  most  divine,  the 
most  solemn.  We  speak  rashly  of  gay  colour,  and  sad  colour  is  in  some  degree  pensive, 
the  loveliest  is  melancholy,  and  the  purest  and  most  thoughtful  minds  are  those  which 
love  colour  the  most." 

'  In  mortals,  there  is  a  care  for  trifles,  wliich  ])rocccds  from  love  and  conscience,  and 
is  most  holy:  and  a  care  for  trifles,  which  comes  of  idleness  and  frivolity,  and  is  most 
base.  And  so,  also,  there  is  a  gravity  proceeding  from  dulness  and  mere  incapability  of 
enjoyment,  which  is  most  base.' 

'If  ever,  in  autumn,  a  pensivcness  falls  upon  us  as  the  leaves  drift  by  in  their  fading, 
may  wc  not  wisely  look  up  in  hope  to  tiieir  mighty  mountains  ''.  Behold  how  fair,  how 
far  prolonged,  in  arch  and  aisle,  the  avenues  of  the  valleys,  the  fringes  of  the  hills!  So 
stately, —  so  eternal;  the  joy  of  man,  the  comfort  of  all  living  creatures,  the  glory  of  the 
earth,— they  are  but  the  monuments  of  those  poor  leaves  that  flit  faintly  past  us  to  die. 
Let  them  not  jiass,  without  our  understanding  their  last  counsel  and  example;  that  we 
also,  careless  of  the  monument  by  the  grave,  may  build  it  in  the  world, —  monument  by 
which  men  may  be  taught  to  remember,  not  where  we  died,  but  where  we  lived.' 

'The  whole  i)oriod  of  youth  is  one  essentially  of  formation,  edification,  instruction. 
Tliere  is  not  an  liour  of  it  but  is  trembling  witli  destinies, —  not  a  moment  of  which, 
once  past,  the  ajjpointed  work  can  ever  be  done  again,  or  the  neglected  blow  struck  on 
cold  iron.  Take  your  vase  of  Venice  glass  out  of  the  furnace,  and  strew  chaff  over  it  in 
its  transparent  heat,  and  recover  (hat  to  its  clearness  and  rubied  glory  when  the  north 
wind  has  blown  upon  it;  but  do  not  tliink  to  strew  chalf  over  tlie  child  fresh  from  God's 
presence,  and  to  bring  the  heavenly  colours  back  to  him,— at  least  in  this  world.' 

Perha])s  next  to  T.owoll,  the  most  cajiaijle,  as  well  as  tlie  most 
po])ular    of     American    critics,    is    Whipple    (1819-  ).      He 

approaches  his  work  with  kindness  and  candor;  and  bring's  to  it 
an  irradiating  fancy,  quick  j)erception,  range  of  thought,  elabo- 
rate research,  rich  stores  of  illustration  and  ornament.  His  style, 
it  will  be  seen,  is  natural,  easy,  clear,  spirited,  and  attractive. 
For  exanq)le: 

'As  an  artist,  Mr.  Emerson  exhibits  the  satne  fidelity  to  liis  own  ideas  which  he  has 
always  taken  for  his  guide  in  the  pursuit  of  truth.    The  construction  of  his  verse  is  ns 


PROSE  —  ANGLO-AMERICAN.  409 

unique  as  his  mental  Idiosyncrasy.  It  certainly  betrays  incidentally  the  proof  of  a  rare 
politic  culture.  His  masterly  command  of  English  shows  a  careful  study  of  the  best 
sources  of  the  language;  but  not  a  sign  of  imitation  can  be  found  in  his  writings,— not 
even  the  use  of  the  imagery  which  has  been  consecrated  by  the  habit  of  ages.  His  lines 
are  often  abrupt,  sometimes  a  little  uncouth,  but  never  deflcient  in  masculine  strength. 
With  no  pretension  to  the  finish  and  smoothness  which  give  grace  to  the  poems  of 
Tennyson,  they  present  frequent  surprises  of  dainty  melody,  and  charm  as  much  by  the 
sweetness  of  their  flow  as  by  the  grandeur  of  their  thought." 

And: 

'Wit  is  abrupt,  darting,  scornful,  and  tosses  its  analogies  in  your  face;  Humor  is 
slow  and  shy,  insinuating  its  fun  into  your  heart.  Wit  is  negative,  analytical,  destruc- 
tive; Humor  is  creative.  The  couplets  of  Pope  are  witty,  but  Sancho  Panza  is  a  humor- 
ous creation.  Wit,  when  earnest,  has  the  earnestness  of  passion,  seeking  to  destroy; 
Humor  has  the  earnestness  of  affection,  and  would  lift  up  what  is  seemingly  low  into  our 
charity  and  love.  Wit,  bright,  rapid,  and  blasting  as  the  lightning,  flashes,  strikes,  and 
vani.-hcs  in  an  instant;  Humor,  warm  and  all-embracing  as  the  sunshine,  bathes  its 
objects  in  a  genial  and  abiding  light.  Wit  implies  hatred  or  contempt  of  folly  and  crime, 
produces  its  effects  by  brisk  shwks  of  surprise,  uses  the  whip  of  scorpions  and  the 
branding-iron,  stabs,  slings,  pinches,  tortures,  goads,  teases,  corrodes,  undermines; 
Huiuor  implies  a  sure  conception  of  the  beautiful,  the  majestic,  and  the  true,  by  whose 
light  it  surveys  and  shapes  their  opposites.  It  is  a  humane  influence,  softening  with 
mirth  the  ragged  inequalities  of  existence,  promoting  tolerant  views  of  life,  bridging 
over  the  spaces  which  separate  the  lofty  from  the  lowly,  the  great  from  the  humble.  .  .  . 
When  Wit  and  Humor  are  commingled,  the  result  is  a  genial  sharpness,  dealing  with  its 
objects  soniewh.it  as  old  Izaak  Walton  dealt  with  the  frog  he  used  for  bait, —  running  the 
hook  neatly  through  his  mouth  and  out  at  his  gills,  and  in  so  doing  "using  him  as  though 
he  loved  him  :  "  '' 

Was  never  a  truer  American  than  Henry  Thoreau  (1817- 
18G2),  a  disciple  of  Emerson,  a  transcendentalist,  who  demanding 
somethino:  better  than  tradition  —  the  original  atid  eternal  life 
out  of  which  tradition  sprini^s  —  foiuid  it  in  moral  isolation,  as 
a  borderer  on  tin;  confines  of  civilization.  lie  never  married, 
never  went  to  church,  never  voted;  wotdd  not  be  restricted  by 
craft  or  j)rofession,  and  declined  loni^  engaii-ements.  With  no 
talent  for  wealth,  he  knew  hou  to  be  poor;  and,  if  he  must  have 
monev,  i^referred  earninp^  ir  by  a  short  piece  of  manual  labor, — 
as  a  lan(l-surv<>y, —  tlien  back  to  his  endless  rambles  and  miscel- 
laneous studies.  lie  had  no  homajje  but  for  truth.  Advised  by 
the  Kejniblican  and  Abolitionist  committees  of  Concord  not  to 
lecture  on  .loiiii  Brown,  he  answered,  '  I  did  lu^t  send  to  you  for 
advice,  but  tt)  ainiounce  that  1  am  to  sj)eak.'  His  aim  was  'plain 
living'  and  hi<rh  thiid<ing-.'  \N'ith  no  tiiste  for  c(jnventional  ele- 
gance, he  would  not  attend  dinner-j)arties,  Ix'causi^  there  each 
was  in  the  other's  way.  'They  make  tln'ir  pride  in  makin<r  their 
dinner  cost  much;  I  make  my  ))ride  in  making  tny  diiuier  cost 
littl(\''  Asked  at  table  what  dish  he  ])refeired,  he  replied,  'The 
^LUeratHTf  and  Life.     Hi-  "ihicf  work  is  lAteratnrf  of  Hi''  Age  of  EUzaheth. 


410  DIFFUSIVE    PKRIOD — FEATURES. 

nearest.'  A  mind  of  rare  quality,  with  a  temper  of  natural 
sweetness  ;  indigenous  as  the  oak,  untouched  by  English  and 
European  manners, —  a  sturdy,  independent  son  of  nature,  like 
the  primeval  Teuton  whose  name  he  bore, —  Thor,  the  Northman. 
He  had  a  profound  passion  for  the  wild,  and  was  happy  in 
solitude: 

'I  And  it  wholesome  to  be  alone  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  To  be  in  company, 
even  with  the  best,  is  soon  wearisome  and  dissipating.  I  love  to  be  alone.  I  never 
found  the  companion  that  was  so  companionable  as  solitude.  We  are  for  the  most  part 
more  lonely  when  we  go  abroad  among  men  than  when  we  stay  in  our  chambers.  A 
man  thinking  or  working  is  always  alone,  let  him  be  where  he  will.  Solitude  is  not 
measured  by  the  miles  of  space  that  intervene  between  a  man  and  his  fellows.  The 
really  diligent  student  in  one  of  the  crowded  hives  of  Cambridge  College  is  as  solitary 
as  a  dervis  in  the  desert.' 

With  an  axe,  a  few  dollars,  and  none  but  the  clothes  he  wore, 
he  went  into  the  woods,  on  the  edge  of  Walden  Pond,  and 
unaided,  except  at  the  raising,  built  himself  a  house  fifteen  feet 
long,  ten  feet  wide,  eight  feet  high,  at  an  expense  of  about 
twenty-eight  dollars,  and  lived  there  by  himself  over  two  years, 
at  a  total  net  cost  of  about  twenty-five  dollars  !  He  would  not 
starve  for  want  of  luxuries: 

'  I  have  made  a  satisfactory  dinner,  satisfactory  on  several  accounts,  simply  off  a 
dish  of  purslane  {Porfnlaca  oleracea)  which  I  gathered  in  my  cornfield,  boiled  and  salted. 
I  give  the  Latin  on  account  of  the  nnsavoriness  of  the  trivial  name.  And  pray  what  more 
can  a  reasoiial)le  man  desire,  in  peaceful  times,  in  ordinary  noons,  than  a  sufficient 
number  of  ears  of  green  sweet  corn  l)oikd,  with  the  addition  of  salt?' 

He  would  be  no  butterfly  entangled  in  a  spider's  web: 

'  My  furniture,  part  of  which  I  made  myself,  and  the  rest  cost  nie  nothing  of  which  I 
have  not  rendered  an  account,  consisted  of  a  bed,  a  table,  a  desk,  three  chairs,  a  looking- 
glass  three  inches  in  diameter,  a  pair  of  tongs  and  andirons,  a  kettle,  a  skillet,  and  a 
frying-pan,  a  dipper,  a  wash-bowl,  two  knives  and  forks,  three  plates,  one  cup,  one 
spoon,  a  jug  for  oil,  a  jug  for  molasses,  and  a  japanned  lamp.  Xone  is  so  poor  that  he 
need  sit  on  a  pumpkin.' 

The  chairs  were, — 

'One  for  solitude,  two  for  friendship,  three  for  society.  When  visitors  came  in 
largiT  and  unexpected  numbers  there  was  but  the  third  chair  for  them  all,  but  they 
generally  econonii/ed  the  room  by  standing  up." 

There  was  one  incoiiveiiience,  however, —  the  difl^culty  of  getting 
to  a  sufficient  distance  from  Ills  guests: 

'1  have  found  it  a  !-inL'ul:ir  luxury  to  talk  across  the  pond  to  a  comijanion  on  the 
o])p()site  side.  In  uiy  house  \vc  were  so  near  that  we  could  not  begin  to  hear,  —  we  could 
not  spi'uk  low  enough  to  be  heard:  as  when  you  throw  two  stones  into  calm  water  so 
near  that  they  break  each  otlu/rs  undulations.  If  we  are  merely  loquacious  and  loud 
talkers,  then  we  can  afford  to  stand  very  near  together,  chetk  by  jowl,  and  feel  each 
others  breath;  but  if  we  speak  reservedly  and  thoughtfully,  we  want  to  be  farther  apart. 


PKOSE  —  THOKKAl.  411 

that  all  animal  heat  and  moistiiro  may  have  a  chance  to  evaporate.  If  we  would  enjoy 
the  most  intiinale  s^ociety  with  that  in  each  of  US'  which  i>  without,  or  above,  being  epoken 
to,  we  must  not  only  be  silent,  but  commonly  so  far  apart  bodily  that  we  cannot  possibly 
hear  each  other's  voice  in  any  case." 

Reading'  and  meditation,  the  sig^hts  and  sounds  of  the  pathless 
forest,  were,  his  rarest  society: 

'  I  kept  neither  do-j;,  cat,  cow,  pig,  nor  hens,  so  that  you  would  have  said  there  wa>  a 
deilciency  of  domestic  sounds;  neither  the  churn,  nor  the  spinning;- wheel,  nor  even  the 
singing  of  the  kettle,  nor  the  hissing  of  the  urn,  nor  children  crying,  to  comfort  one. 
An  old-fashioned  man  would  have  lost  his  senses  or  died  of  ennui  before  this.  Not  even 
rats  in  the  wall,  for  they  were  starved  out,  or  rather  were  never  baited  in, —  only  squirrels 
on  the  roof  and  under  the  floor,  a  whippoorwill  on  the  ridge  pole,  a  blue-jay  screaming 
beneath  the  window,  a  hare  or  woodchurk  under  the  house,  a  screech-owl  or  a  cat-owl 
behind  it,  a  flock  of  wild  geese  or  a  laughing  loon  on  the  pond,  and  a  fox  to  bark  in  the 
night.  .  .  .  Wild  sumachs  and  blackberry  vines  breaking  through  into  your  cellar;  sturdy 
pitch-pines  rul)l)ing  and  creaking  against  the  shingles  for  want  of  room,  their  n>ot8 
reaching  (|uile  under  the  house.'' 

Such  liearts  liold  their  fortunes  within.  They  have  liberty  vast 
as  the  sky.  Like  birds  which  come  and  go,  they  enjoy  the  most 
valuable  part  of  every  domain,  while  themselves  live  free  and 
uncommitted: 

•  In  imagination  I  have  bought  all  the  farms  in  succession,  for  all  were  to  be  Iwught, 
and  I  knew  their  price.  I  walked  over  each  farmer's  premises,  tasted  his  wild  apples, 
discoursed  on  husbandry  with  him,  took  his  farm  at  his  i)rice,  at  any  price,  mortgaging 
it  to  him  in  my  mind;  even  put  a  higher  price  on  it,—  took  <'verything  but  a  deed  of  it,— 
took  his  word  for  his  deed,  for  I  dearly  love  to  talk,— cultivated  it,  and  him  too  to  some 
e.^ctent,  I  trust,  and  withdrew  when  I  had  enjoyed  it  long  enough,  leaving  him  to  carry  it  on.' 

We  iiiav  o'uess  that  he  knew  the  country  like  a  bird,  and  had 
{)ath.s  of  his  own.  On  a  walk  with  PJmerson  he  drew  out  a  <liary, 
and  rcail  tin;  names  of  all  the  plants  that  should  bloom  on  that 
day.  'He  saw  as  with  microsco])e,  heard  as  with  ear-trumpet; 
and  his  m<>mory  was  a  photogriii)hic  regi-ster  of  all  he  saw  and 
licjird.''     Thus: 

•  I  could  always  tell  if  visitors  had  called  in  my  absence,  either  by  the  liendins.'  twigs 
or  grass,  or  the  print  of  their  shoes,  and  generally  of  what  sex  or  age  or  (|uality  thi  y 
were  by  some  slight  trace  left,  as  a  flower  dropp<'d,  or  a  bunch  of  grass  plucked  and 
thrown  away,  even  as  far  off  as  the  railroad,  half  a  mile  distant,  or  by  the  lingering  odor 
of  a  cigar  or  pipe.  N.iy.  I  was  rre(|U(ntly  notified  of  the  passage  of  a  traveller  alouL'  the 
higlnvav  sItIv  rods  otT.   by  tlic  scent  of  his  pipe.' 

.\u'aiii : 

•One  cl.iy  ulit'ii  1  U(  111  to  my  wood-pile,  or  r:ilhcr  my  pili'  of  slump'-,  I  observed  two 
large  ants,  \hf  one  red,  lli(>  other  much  laru'er,  nearly  half  an  inch  long,  and  black, 
fiercely  contindiiiLr  with  one  another.  Having  once  trot  hold  they  never  let  go,  but  strug- 
■.^led  and  wre-lled  and  rolU^d  on  the  chips  incessantly.  Looking  farther,  I  was  surprised 
to  find  that  the  chips  were  covered  with  such  combatants,  thai  it  was  not  a  iluflliim,  but 
a  bfllurn,  a  war  between  two  races  of  ants,  the  red  always  pilled  against  Hie  black,  and 
fre(incntly  two  red  ones  to  one  black.  ...  It  was  evident  that  their  ballle-cry  was — 
Concpieror  die.     In  the  meanwhile  there  came  along  a  single  red  ant  on  tlie  hill-side  of 


412  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

this  valley,  evidor.tly  full  of  excitement,  wlio  either  had  despatched  his  foe,  or  had  not 
yet  taken  part  in  llic  battle ;  probably  the  latter,  for  he  had  lost  none  of  his  limbs ;  whose 
mother  had  charged  him  to  rctnrn  with  his  shield  or  npon  it.  Or  perchance  he  was  some 
Achilles,  who  had  nourished  his  wrath  apart,  and  had  now  come  to  avenge  or  rescue  his 
Patroclns.  He  saw  this  unequal  combat  from  afar, —  for  the  blacks  were  nearly  twice  the 
size  of  the  red, —  he  drew  near  with  rapid  pace  till  he  stood  on  his  guard  within  half  an 
inch  of  the  combatants;  then,  watching  his  opportunity,  he  sprang  upon  the  black  war- 
rior, and  commenced  his  operations  near  the  root  of  his  right  fore-leg,  leaving  the  foe  to 
select  among  his  own  members;  and  so  tliere  were  three  united  for  life.  ...  I  should 
not  have  wondered  by  this  time  to  find  tliat  they  had  their  respective  musical  bands  sta- 
tioned on  some  eminent  chip,  and  playing  their  national  airs  the  while,  to  excite  the  slow 
and  cheer  the  dying  combatants.' 

Here  are  the  heroism  and  courage  of  Austcrlitz.  Here  is  the 
patriotism  of  Bunker  Hill,  Doubtless  they  are  fighting  for  a 
principle,  and  the  result  will  be  as  important  and  memorable  to 
them  as  was  Gettysburg  to  those  there  engaged: 

'I  took  up  the  chip  on  which  the  three  I  have  particularly  described  were  struggling, 
carried  them  into  my  house,  and  placed  it  under  a  tumbler  on  my  window-sill,  in  order  to 
Bee  the  issue.  Holding  a  microscope  to  the  first-mentioned  red  ant,  I  saw  that,  though 
he  was  assiduously  gnawing  at  the  near  fore-leg  of  his  enemy,  having  severed  his 
remaining  feeler,  his  own  breast  was  all  torn  away,  exposing  what  vitals  he  had  there  to 
the  jaws  of  the  black  warrior,  whose  breast-plate  was  apparently  too  thick  for  him  to 
pierce;  and  the  dark  carbuncles  of  the  sufferer's  eyes  shone  with  ferocity  such  as  war 
only  could  excite.  They  struggled  half  an  hour  longer  under  tlie  tumbler,  and  when  I 
looked  again  the  black  soldier  had  severed  the  heads  of  his  foes  from  their  bodies,  and 
the  still  living  heads  were  hanging  on  cither  side  of  him,  like  ghastly  trophies  at  his 
saddle-bow,  still  apparently  as  firmly  fastened  as  over,  and  he  was  endeavoring  with 
feeble  struggles,  being  without  feelers  and  with  only  the  remnant  of  a  leg,  and  I  know  not 
how  many  other  wounds,  to  divest  himself  of  them;  which  at  length,  after  half  an  hour 
more,  he  accomplished.  I  raised  the  glass,  and  he  went  off  over  the  window-sill  in  that 
crippled  state.  .  .  .  I  never  learned  whicli  party  was  victorious,  nor  the  cause  of  the  war; 
but  I  felt  for  tlie  rest  of  that  day  as  if  1  had  had  my  feelings  excited  and  harrowed  by 
witnessing  tlie  struggle,  the  ferocity  and  carnage,  of  a  human  battle  before  my  door.' 

The  world  was  full  of  poetic  suggestion  to  him.  It  existed,  to 
his  imagination,  for  the  uplifting  and  consolation  of  human  life. 
The  things  seen  symbolized  the  things  unseen.     Thus: 

'The  winds  which  i)assed  over  my  dwelling  were  sucii  as  sweep  over  the  ridges  of 
mountains,  bearing  the  broken  strains,  or  celestial  parts  only,  of  terrestrial  music.  The 
morning  wind  forever  blows,  the  poem  of  creation  is  uninterrujited ;  but  few  are  the 
ears  that  hear  it.    Olympus  is  but  the  outside  of  the  earth  everywhere." 

And: 

'When  other  l)irds  are  still  the  screech-owls  t:ike  up  the  strain,  like  mourning  women 
their  ancient  r,-ln-lii.  Tlicir  dismal  scream  is  truly  Ben  .Tonsonian,  Wise  midniglit 
hags!  .  .  .  Yet  I  l<)\e  to  liear  their  wailing,  tlieir  doleful  res])onses,  trilling  along  tlie 
wood-side;  reminding  me  sometimes  of  music  and  singing  birds:  a-f  if  it  were  the  dark 
and  tearful  side  of  7n>is7t\  the  regrets  and  sighs  that  noidd  fain  Ije  sung.' 

We  may  .see  clearly,  though  it  be  less  obtrusive  than  his  nature- 
worship,  that  the  })riiiiarv  ("Icmeut  in  him  was  the  ideal.  Con- 
gratulated by  his  friends  that  he  had  opened  his  way  to  fortune 


PROSE — THOREAU.  418 

by  the  manufacture  of  a  superior  pencil,  he  said  that  he  should 
never  make  another.  '  Why  sliould  I?  I icould  not  do  again 
irfirit  I  have  done  once.''  His  religion  was  deep  and  essential, 
though  of  a  primitive  and  absolute  kind.  This  is  his  obedience 
to  the  Highest: 

'Chastity  is  the  flowering  of  man:  and  wljat  are  called  Genius,  Heroism,  Holiness, 
and  The  like,  are  but  various  fruits  whicli  succeed  it.  Man  tlows  at  once  to  (Jod  wlien 
the  channel  of  purity  is  open.  By  turn  our  purity  inspires  and  our  impurity  casts  us 
down.  He  is  blessed  who  is  assured  thai  the  animal  is  dying  out  in  him  day  by  day,  and 
the  divine  being  established.' 

His  Engli.sli,  we  might  judge,  was  acquired  from  the  poets  and 
prose-writers  of  its  best  days.  'His  n)etaphors  and  images  have 
the  freshness  of  the  soil.  His  range  was  narrow,  but  within  his 
limits  he  was  a  master.  He  needed  only  a  tender  and  pervading 
sentiment  to  have  been  a  Homer.  Pure  and  guileless,  and  fond 
of  sympathy,  he  yet  was  cold  and  wintry.  'I  love  Henry,'  said 
one  of  his  friends,  'but  I  cannot  like  him;  and  as  for  taking  his 
arm,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  taking  the  arm  of  an  elm-tree.' 
His  works  are  rej)lete  with  fine  observations,  finely  expressed. 
One  cannot  fail  to  see  the  resemblance  of  his  style  to  Emerson's 
and  Alcott's.  Nothing  that  he  wrote  can  be  spared.  We  subjoin 
several  of  liis  compact  and  vigorous  sentences: 

'The  blue-bird  carries  the  sky  on  his  back." 

'  Moral  reform  i-  tln'  elTorl  to  tlirow  off  sleep.' 

'Who  but  tho  Y.y'u  One  has  ~aiil,  "  Whoa  I  "  to  mankind  ?' 

'  How  can  we  e.xpect  a  harvest  of  thoii>,'ht  who  have  not  a  seed  time  of  character  ?' 

'Only  he  can  be  tri;>t(d  with  i;ifts  who  can  present  a  face  of  bronze  to  expectations.' 

•Mylholoi,'y  is  the  crop  which  the  Old  World  bore  before  its  soil  was  exhausted, 
before  the  fancy  and  imaLTinalion  were  atTected  with  bllLjht." 

•Any  nobleness  bcL'ins  at  once  to  refine  a  man's  features,  any  lui'anness  or  sensuality 
to  imbnite  llieui.' 

'(ioodnos  is  the  only  invi-stment  that  never  fails.  In  the  music  of  the  harj)  which 
tmnliles  round  the  world  it  is  the  insi^lini:  on  this  which  thrills  us.' 

•(;iv(>  me  a  culture  which  imports  much  muck  from  the  meadows,  and  deei)cns  the 
soil. —  not  tliat  which  trusts  to  heating  manures,  and  improved  imi)lements  and  modes 
of  culture  only  ! ' 

•No  humane  l)eing,  past  the  fhou<;htless  aire  of  boyluxid,  will  wantonly  murder  any 
creatiiri',  which  hold"  its  life  by  the  same  tenure  that  he  does.    The  hare  in  its  extremity 

crie-  like  a  cliild.' 

■Tinie  is  but  the  stream  I  1:0  a-lisliini:  in.  I  drink  at  it;  but  while  I  drink  I  see  the 
•^ancly  iiottom  and  detect  how  shallow  it  is.  Its  thin  current  slides  away,  but  eternity 
remains.     I  would  drink  deeper:  Ush  in  the  sky,  whose  bottom  is  jiebbly  with  stars.' 


414  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATUHKS. 

Here,  finally,  is  the  mythical  record  of  his  disapjwinttnents: 

'I  lotiK  afro  los^t  a  hound,  a  bay  horr**',  and  a  turtle-dove,  and  am  .still  on  their  trail. 
Many  are  the  traveller?  I  have  spoken  to  concerning  them,  describinK  their  tracks  and 
what  calls  they  answered  to.  I  have  met  one  or  two  who  liad  heard  the  hound,  and  ilie 
tramp  of  the  horse,  and  even  seen  the  dove  disappear  behind  a  dimd,  and  they  seemed 
as  anxious  to  recover  them  as  if  they  had  lost  them  themselves.' 

It  is  not  tile  fact  that  imports,  but  tlic  imjircssion.  K,\p<'riciicc 
has  a  triple  value  under  a  poetic  veil.  Thoreau,  in  tone  and 
ima<>:ery,  is  American;   fresh,  free,  generous,  and  bold. 

Two  men  of  sujierior  talent  will  hereafter  claim  our  atten- 
tion,—  the    subtle-niind(>d    Hawthorne,    and    the   wide-minded 

Emerson.'  * 

Novel. — This,  next  to  the:  newspa])er,  is  that  form  of  litera- 
ture which  has  the  widest  popular  inlluence  and  is  most  charac- 
teristic of  the  period.  It  is  distributed  amono-  all  classes  by  ten 
thousand  agencies, —  publishing  houses,  Sunday-school  libi-aries, 
magazines,  and  weeklies.  It  is  the  daily  food,  for  good  or  evil, 
of  the  civilized  world.  So  great  is  the  interest  whicli  the  Imman 
mind  takes  in  human  life  —  in  the  doubts  and  fears,  the  hojies, 
ambitions,  and  pa.ssions,  of  the  peojj/e. 

The  pictorial  novel  —  which  is  predominantly  of  a  descript  ive 
and  historical  cast,  and  in  which  the  romance  element  is  (ncr 
liable  to  appear — affords  no  parallel  to  the  multifarious  power  of 
Scott.  Its  most  illustrious  representative  is  Lord  Lytton* 
(1805-18T;)).  His  likiizl.  The.  Last  J>aiif.  of  P»iiij>iii,  and  Tlo 
Lii.^t  of  the  JBoroii.'i^  are  fascinating,  in.structive,  and  nobly 
ambitious.  Few  have  lieen  so  brilliantly  e(|uip))ed  for  literary 
))erformance,  and   none  could   liave  used   his  gifts  more   industri- 

'  Other  (■".■iyi~t~  :niil  critic-.  Kiii:lish  ;uid  Anieric;iii,  -onic  of  whi>in  iire  well-UiKiwii 
poet--,  all  of  u  hniu  ha\c  added  Id  our  sum  nf  knouicdLTf  and  iiiciins  of  enlerlaiiiineiil, 
.ire:  .1.  Rrown.  Spart  J/oiir.-i :  -I.-imcs  Marliiieaii.  /i'ssdi/.^,  /'/li/oyoji/iicd  mid  'JVifolot/iral  : 
(iohlwin  Sniilli.  /.fr/,/)-f.f  on  the  Sliifhi  of  [I'lslDrn :  •••  A.  Symoiids,  ^/i-etc/ifx  out/  .Sh/r/i/s 
ill.  Soutlif-rn  h'liropfi  :  It.  II.  lliiltoii,  /■'>'S/ti/,<i,  Tlifohxi'irot  and  IMiranj  :  I!a\ard  'I'a.vior. 
HIiKlifx  in  (ifnnan  Lit^roturr  :  IJidiard  (Jrant  White,  Sh.-ikespearean  critic,  Wonla  oi.il 
IhOr  Vitfit:  Ilenrv  N.  lliid-on.  Sh.-ikesiiearcan  editor  and  critic;  H.  II.  Stoddard,  lirh-ii- 
liror  StrUx;  Ileiirv  Itccd.  Lfi-I n n >:  on  KnqVish  U'iaIovij  o.<  JHhk/ rated  l»j  Sliukexpfor'' s 
Ploi/s:  C.  .1.  and  .\.  Hare,  Oi/^s.-)>.-:  of  'I'nilh  :  I'eler  IJavne.  Hssayf!  in  Jiioc/ro/i/n/  and 
ariticifin  :  \.  Hronsoii  .\lcoit.  Tidde -  Talk :  T.  W.  IliL'^'in-ou.  Allonlir  Kkmijx  ;  1).  .J. 
Mitchell,  Hn-friex  of  ii  haihi'lor:  .\.  K.  II.  Uoyd,  Th.''.  Country  I'arxon  :  II.  \V.  lleeclier, 
/,i7>  'riiniKilitx  :  (".  II.  SpiirLreoii.  .Jolin  I'lonqlnniin'K  Talk:  V .  W .  Farrar.  Eternal  Hope: 
Di'an  Staiiley.  Mrjnoriids  of  Weximi nater  Alihfy :  T.  I)e  Witt  Talmatre,  Dailij  Tlioiifjhty  : 
.lohii  Kiske.'  'I'll)  fn.-'efn  World:  Leslie  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  TMirary :  \V.  K.  Cre;:, 
Kniqinas  of  l.iff  :  Thonia-  Starr  Kiiii:,  Sidixlanrf  and  Slioir  ;  (Jail  Ilami'ltoii,  Skirjniflif 
and'  Skftr'lif.-i :  .] .  (;.  ilolland.  Erny-Daij  'I'opirn :  .lames  T.  Field,  Yfrttfrilirijx  nitli 
Aiithorit:  v..  ('.  Stedman,  Victorian  1'op'l.t:  (i.  W.  ( 'noke,  /i'(7/////  ]V(ddo  Emirsoi, .  'I'lie 
list  could  be  extended  almost  iiidetinitely. 

2  Edward  I.ytton  ISulwer.  No  novel  or  no\  cli-t  is  purely  of  one  kind.  .No  cliissitKJition 
can  be  made  exci-pt  by  predomjnanl  features. 


PhOSE — THE    NOVEL.  415 

ously.  Vet  his  works  enter  no  more  into  the  life  of  the  world. 
Politically  and  socially,  he  was  a  power  in  his  day;  the  admired, 
courted,  titled,  rich  litterateur:  but  he  was  poised  in  a  superb 
scltishness,  and  his  fame  was  loveless.  Much  that  he  wrote  sus- 
tains the  testimony  of  his  wife  and  neighbors,  that  his  personal 
•  haructer  was  not  admirable.  Marvellous  jewelry  of  thought  and 
fancy,  brilliant  with  many  dyes,  has  he  bequeathed  us;  but  he 
needed  the  heart  that  should  bring  him  into  symj)athy  with  the 
piias(!s  of  humanity,  and  give  him  permanency  in  popular  regard. 
'A  thousand  brilliant  men  have  risen  and  passed  away,  attracting 
wide  attention  while  they  lived,  but  warming  and  fructifying  no 
niiml  h\  their  light,  and  expiring  at  last  like  a  bui'ned-out  star, 
leaving  no  trace  in  the  sky.  So  near  the  earth  were  thev,  that 
theii'  light  faded  at  once  when  the  fountain  faile<l,  while  many  a 
lesser  star,  l)y  burning  nearer  heaven,  has  been  able  to  send  down 
its  rays  for  centuries  after  its  fires  were  extinguished." 

The  ethical  novel — which  is  preeminently  a  study  of  life, 
(lehiiitelv  in  the  interest  of  reform,  or  penetratively  in  view  of 
its  many  issues  —  has  had  innumerable  cultivators,  some  of  whom 
are  not  likelv  soon  to  be  equalled.  It  was  Thackeray'S  mission 
to  paint  the  manners  of  a  day  and  of  a  class,  to  renew  the  com- 
bative spirit  of  Swift  and  the  realistic  spirit  of  Fielding.  He  was 
a  relormer,  a  satirist,  who  brought  to  the  aid  of  satire  an  al^ound- 
ing  triitli,  consummate  humor,  a  clear  understanding,  a  profound 
knowledge  of  the  heart,  an  unfailing  skill  to  detect  the  good  or 
the  vile.  Hating  distinctions  of  rank,  he  wrote  the  JJonk  of 
Sinifi.f.  ( )ut.side  of  an  aristocracy,  where  each  on  the  social  ladder 
respects  the  man  above  him  and  (lespis(>s  the  ont^  below,  solelv  on 
account  of  tlunr  j)(>sition,  this  would  have  been  impossible: 

'  If  cM-r  our  r,)ii-iii.<  tlic  Sini<,'-iiiai,'s  asked  iiiu  to  inoi't  Lord  l.oiii,'iars,  I  would  like 
111  taki-  Jill  ojipDrtiiiiiiv  aflcr  diniiiT,  and  say,  in  tlic  most  ^'ood-natiircil  way  in  the  world: 
Sir.  Kdrtunc  niakrs  yoti  a  i)ri'scnl  of  a  ninubcr  of  thousand  ponnds  every  year.  The 
ir.ilTalile  \vi>(ii)in  of  our  ancestors  ha^  |)laced  you  as  a  ehief  and  hereditary  leirislator  over 
Ml'.  I  )iir  adiiiir;ible  ( On-tilntion  i  the  pride  of  Hritons  and  envy  of  snrruuudini:  nations) 
oIiliL;e^  me  t')  reeeivc  you  a~  my  senator,  siijierior,  anil  iruardian.  Your  ehle^t  son,  Kitz- 
lleiliaw.  is  ■^ure  of  a  place  in  Parliament;  your  younirer  sons,  the  l)e  Urays,  will  kindly 
roude-rend  to  ))e  post-(  ai)tairi~  and  lieutenant-colonels,  and  to  repre-eut  ns  in  foreiijii 
court-,  or  to  take  :i  u'ood  li\ini,'  when  it  fall-  convenient.  'l"he-<'  ])ri/es  our  admirable 
(,'onstilution  (the-  pride  and  eu\yor.  ctc.i  pronounce-  to  l>i' your  due :  witliout  count  of 
_\our  diilne--,  your  vice-,  your  selli-hne-'^ ;  of  your  entire  incapacity  or  folly.  Dull  as 
you  may  bi'  i  and  ue  luise  a-  irood  a  riirlii   to  belit^ve  that   my  lord  i-  an  a--,  as  the  other 

'J.  <i.  Holland. 


416  DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

proposition  that  he  is  an  enlightened  patriot)  — dull,  I  say,  as  you  may  be,  no  one  will 
accuse  you  of  such  monstrous  -folly,  as  to  suppose  that  yon  are  indifferent  to  the  good 
luck  which  you  i)Ossess,  or  have  any  inclination  to  part  with  it.  No— and  patriots  as  we 
are,  under  happier  circumstances,  Smith  and  I,  I  have  no  doubt,  were  we  dukes  ourselves, 
would  stand  by  our  order. 

We  would  submit  good-naturedly  to  sit  in  a  high  place.  We  would  acquiesce  in 
that  admirable  Constitution  (pride  and  envy  of,  etc.)  which  made  us  chiefs  and  the 
world  our  inferiors;  we  would  not  cavil  particularly  at  that  notion  of  hereditary  superi- 
ority which  brought  so  many  simple  people  cringing  to  our  knees.  May  be  we  would 
rally  round  the  Corn  Laws;  we  would  make  a  stand  against  the  Reform  Bill;  we  would 
die  rather  than  repeal  the  acts  against  Catholics  and  Dissenters;  we  would,  by  our  noble 
system  of  class  legislation,  bring  Ireland  to  its  present  admirable  condition.' 

Hating  the  emptiness  of  pretentious  and  uncultured  fashion,  he 
wrote  Pendennis,  in  which  the  hero,  sighing  after  the  ideal  and 
beginning  an  epic,  falls  in  love  with  a  stupid  actress,  who  learns 
her  parts  mechanically.  She  has  just  been  playing  Ophelia,  and 
he  asks  her  if  Ophelia  loved  Hamlet: 

'"In  love  with  such  a  little  ojous  wretch  as  that  stunted  manager  of  a  Bingley''"' 
She  bristled  with  indignation  at  the  thought.  Pen  explained  it  was  not  of  her  he  spoke, 
but  of  Ophelia  of  the  play.  "Oh,  indeed;  if  no  offence  was  meant,  none  was  taken:" 
but  as  for  Bingley,  indeed,  she  did  not  value  him  —  not  that  glass  of  punch.  Pen  next 
tried  her  on  Kotzebue.  "Kotzebuc?  who  was  he?"  "The  autlior  of  the  play  in  which 
she  had  been  performing  so  admirably."  She  did  not  know  that — "the  man's  name  at 
the  beginning  of  the  book  was  Thompson,"  she  said.  Pen  laughed  at  her  adorable 
simplicity.  Pendennis,  Pendennis,  how  she  spoke  the  words!  Emily,  Emily!  how  good, 
how  noble,  how  beautiful,  how  perfect,  she  is.' 

With  the  same  justified  and  contained  hatred  he  lashes  in 
Vayiity  Fair  the  vulgarity  of  snobbery,  the  flimsincss  of  shams, 
gilded  ignorance,  blustering  hypocrisy,  legacy-hunters,  illustri- 
ous fools,  the  flatteries  and  intrigues,  the  villanies  and  miseries, 
of  money  worship.  The  satire  may  develop  itself  in  the  person- 
ages, naturally,  psychologically,  in  the  literary  form,  or  exhibit 
itself  alone,  in  dissertations,  as  here: 

'What  a  dignify  it  gives  an  old  lady,  that  balance  at  the  banker's!  How  tenderly  we 
look  at  her  faults,  if  she  is  a  relative  (and  may  every  reader  have  a  score  of  such),  what 
a  kind,  good-natured  old  creature  we  find  her!  IIow  the  junior  partner  of  llobbs  and 
Dobbs  leads  her  smiling  to  the  carriage  with  the  lozenge  upon  it,  and  the  fat,  wlieezy 
coachman!  How,  when  she  comes  to  pay  us  a  visit,  we  generally  find  an  opportunity  to 
let  our  friends  know  her  station  in  the  world!  We  say  (and  with  perfect  truth)  I  wish 
I  had  Miss  Mac  Whirtcr's  signature  to  a  che(ine  for  five  thousand  pounds.  She  wouldn"t 
miss  it,  says  your  wife.  She  is  my  aunt,  say  you,  in  an  easy,  careless  way,  when  your 
friend  asks  if  Miss  Mac  Whirter  is  any  relative?  Your  wife  is  |)eri)etually  sending  her 
little  testimonies  of  affection:  your  little  girls  work  endless  worsted  baskets,  cushions, 
and  foot-stools  for  her.  What  a  good  fire  there  is  in  her  room  when  she  comes  to  pay 
you  a  visit,  although  your  wife  laces  her  stays  without  one!  The  house  during  her  stay 
assumes  a  festive,  neat,  warm,  jovial,  snug  apjiearance  not  visible  at  other  seasons. 
Yon  yourself,  dear  sir,  forget  to  go  to  sleep  after  dinner,  and  find  yourself  all  of  a  sudden 
(though  you  invariably  lose)  very  fond  of  a  rubber.  What  good  dinners  you  have  — 
game  every  day.  Malmsey,  Madeira,  and  no  end  of  fish  from  London  !  Even  the  servants 
in  the  kitchen  share  in  the  general  prosperity;  and,  somehow,  during  the  stay  of  Miss 


PKOSE  —  THACKERAY.  417 

Mac  Whirter's  fat  coacliman.  the  hccr  is  grown  much  ctronper,  and  the  consuraption  of 
tea  and  sugar  in  the  nursery  (where  her  maid  takes  her  mealsi  is  not  regarded  in  the 
least.  Is  it  so,  or  is  it  not  so*  I  appeal  to  the  middle  classes.  Ah,  gracious  power*'. 
I  wish  you  would  send  me  an  old  aunt  — a  maiden  aunt  —  an  uiint  with  a  lozenge  on  her 
carriage,  and  a  front  of  light  coffee -coloured  hair  —  how  my  children  should  work  work- 
bags  for  her,  and  my  Julia  and  I  would  make  her  comfortable!  Sweet  —  sweet  vision! 
Foolish  —  foolish  dream  ! ' 

There  is  the  like  reiterated  irony  in  JVie  ^eweomen,  the  like  san- 
guinary sarcasm,  the  studied  presence  of  a  moral  intention.  Here 
is  one  of  his  caustic  essays  on  forced  and  ill-sorted  marriages, 
that  unhallowed  tratlic  of  the  great  and  worldly: 

'  Poor  Lady  Clara !  I  fancy  a  better  lot  for  you  than  that  to  which  fate  handed  you 
over.  I  fancy  there  need  have  been  no  deceit  in  your  fond,  simple,  little  heart,  could  it 
have  been  given  into  other  keeping.  But  you  were  consigned  to  a  master  whose  scorn 
and  cruelty  lerrifted  you;  under  whose  sardonic  glances  your  scared  eyes  were  afraid 
to  look  up,  and  before  whose  gloomy  coldness  you  dared  not  to  be  happy.  Suppose  a 
little  plant,  very  frail  and  delicate  from  tlie  first,  but  that  might  have  bloomed  sweetly 
and  home  fair  flowers,  had  it  received  warm  shelter  and  kindly  nurture:  suppose  a 
young  creature  taken  out  of  her  home,  and  given  over  to  a  hard  master  whose  caresses 
are  as  insulting  as  his  neglect:  consigned  to  cruel  usage,  to  weary  loneliness,  to  bitter, 
insulting  recollections  of  the  past:  suppose  her  schooled  itito  hypocrisy  by  tyranny, — 
and  then,  quick  let  us  hire  an  advocate  to  roar  out  to  a  British  jury  the  wrongs  of  her 
injured  husband,  to  pai.it  the  agonies  of  his  bleeding  heart  (if  Mr.  Advocate  gets  plain- 
tiff's brief  in  time,  and  before  defendant's  attorney  has  retained  him>,  and  to  shew 
society  injured  through  him!  Let  us  console  that  martyr.  I  say,  with  thumping  damages: 
and  as  for  the  wonnm  —  tlie  guilty  wretch  !  —  let  us  lead  her  out  and  stone  her.  ...  So 
Lady  Clara  flies  from  the  custody  of  her  tyrant,  but  to  what  a  rescue !  The  very  man 
who  loves  her,  and  gives  her  asylum,  pities  and  deplores  her.  She  scarce  dares  to  look 
out  of  the  windows  of  her  new  home  u\inu  the  world,  lest  it  should  know  and  rei)roach 
lier.  .Ml  her  sisterhood  of  friendship  is  cut  off  from  her.  If  slie  dares  to  go  abroad,  she 
feels  tlie  sneer  of  the  world  as  slie  goes  tlirough  it,  and  knows  that  malice  and  scorn 
whisjier  behind  her.  People  as  criminal,  but  undiscover(>(l,  make  room  for  her,  as  if  her 
touch  were  pollution.  She  knows  she  has  darkened  the  lot  and  made  wretched  the  home 
of  the  man  she  loves  best,  that  his  friends  who  see  her  treat  her  with  but  a  doubtful 
resiiecl,  and  the  domestics  who  attend  her,  with  a  suspicious  obedience.  In  the  country 
laius,  or  the  streets  of  the  country  town,  n;'iglibors  look  aside  as  the  carriage  passes  in 
wtiich  she  is  sjileiidid  and  lonely.  Rough  hunting  companions  of  her  hushand's  come  to 
the  table:  he  is  drivtMi  perforce  to  the  couijiany  of  flatterers  and  men  of  inferior  sort:  his 
eiiuals,  at  least  in  his  own  lionie,  will  not  live  with  hini.  Slie  would  be  kind,  perhaps, 
and  charitable  to  the  cottagers  around  her,  hut  she  fears  to  visit  them,  lest  they  too 
should  scorn  her.  The  clergyman  who  di.-tributes  her  charities  blushes  an<l  looks 
awkward  on  i)assiiig  her  in  the  village,  if  he  sliould  be  walking  with  his  wife  or  one 
of  his  cliildreii.' 

To  l)laiii('  a  vice  is  to  laud  the  contrary.  To  al)ase  the  false 
is  to  cxnlt  the  true.  To  sacrilicc  selfishness  and  pride  is  to  raise 
an  altar  to  s\v(>etness  and  tenderness.  We  perceive  that  satire 
veils  the  essential  side  of  Thackeray's  character;  that  he  adores 
l(iv(>  and  kindness:  that  he  reveres  the  family,  siin]>le  sentiments, 
juire  contenlnieiits  :  that,  so  far  from  l)eiiiu'  onlv  a  cold  and 
sneerinir   cvnic,   his   crown   and   irlorv   is  his   humtmitv.      V'isiblv, 


418  DIFFL'SIVE    PERIOD — FKATURES. 

incessantly,  this  appear-s, —  above  all,  in  the  Jlistori/  of  ITetiry 
I'Jantoiid,  the  least  ])Oj)ular,  but  the  most  elevated,  touehinfr, 
and  artisti(^  of  his  stories.  Forg-etting-  the  author,  we  listen  to 
the  hero,  a  (H)nteniporarv  of  (^Hieen  Anne,  a  writer  of  memoirs, 
whose  observations  are  microscopical,  whose  details  are  photo- 
graphic, who  carries  us  back,  in  style  and  majuiers,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years.  Here  are  some  illustrations  of  his  modulated 
and  noble  tone,  t)f  his  .sym})athy  with  the  tender,  good,  and 
})eautiful: 

'With  a  look  of  intiiiitf  piry  aiiil  tt.'iitleriK'!<s  in  lu-r  I'j'fs,  she  took  his  liand  again, 
placing  lnT  other  fair  hand  on  his  head,  and  saying  some  words  to  him,  which  were  so 
kind  and  said  in  a  voice  so  sweet,  that  tlie  boy,  who  had  never  looked  npon  so  inticli 
boanty  liefore,  felt  as  if  the  touch  of  a  snperior  being  or  angel  smote  him  down  to  the 
ground,  and  kissed  the  fair  protecting  hand  as  he  knelt  <m  one  knee.  To  the  very  last 
hour  of  his  life,  Esmond  remembered  tlie  lady  as  .she  then  spoke  and  looked,  the  rings 
on  her  fair  liands,  the  very  .scent  of  her  robe,  the  beam  of  lier  eyes  ligtiting  up  with 
surprise  and  kindness,  her  lips  blooming  in  a  smile,  the  sun  making  a  golden  halo 
round  her  liair." 

And: 

'.\s  1  think  of  llie  immense  liappiness  which  was  in  store  for  me,  and  of  tlie  depth 
and  intensity  of  that  love  which,  for  so  many  years,  hath  blessed  me,  1  own  to  a  transport 
of  wonder  and  gratitude  for  such  a  boon, —  nay,  am  thankful  to  have  been  endowed  witli 
a  heart  ca])al)!e  of  feeling  and  knowing  the  immense  beauty  and  value  of  the  gift  whlcli 
Ood  hath  liestowed  upon  me.  Sure,  love  r'lneit  omnia,  is  immeasurably  above  all  ambi- 
tion, more  precious  than  wealth,  more  noble  tlian  name.  He  knows  not  life  who  knows 
not  that:  he  hatli  iiot  felt  the  highest  faculty  of  the  soul  who  hath  not  enjoyed  it.  In  ttu' 
tiame  of  my  wife  I  write  the  completion  of  hope,  and  tlie  >umniit  of  liiijipiness.  To 
have  such  a  love  is  tlie  one  lilessing,  in  comparison  of  whicli  all  earthly  joy  is  of  no 
value:  and  to  think  of  her,  i>  to  praise  (Jod.' 

Al.so: 

'They  walked  out,  hand-in-haiid,  through  the  court,  and  to  the  terrace-walk,  where 
the  u'ra-^s  was  glislening  with  dew,  iind  tlie  birds  in  the  green  woods  above  were  singing 
their  delicious  choruses  under  the  blushing  morning  sky.  How  well  all  things  were 
remembered!  The  ancient  towers  and  gables  of  the  hall  darkling  against  the  east,  the 
purple  shadows  on  the  green  slo])es,  the  (luaint  devices  and  carvings  of  the  dial,  the 
forest -crowned  heiu'lits,  the  fair  yellow  j)lain  cheerful  with  crops  and  corn,  the  shining 
river  rolling  through  il  towards  the  pearly  hills  beyond;  all  these  were  before  us,  along 
with  a  thousand  beautiful  memories  of  our  youth,  beautiful  and  sad,  l)ut  as  real  and 
■.  i\i(l  ill  our  minds  a-  that  fair  and  always  reuietiibered  scene  our  eyes  beheld  once  more. 
\V''  fnrircl  nothiiii:.  Tlie  nieiiiory  -leeps,  but  \vak<'iis  airaiu;  1  often  think  how  it  shall 
l)e  when,  after  the  la-t  -leep  of  death,  the  i;'reille  sliall  rouse  us  forever,  and  the  past  in 
one  Ihi-h  of  ■^elf-ci)n-i  i(iu>ii(~s  rush  liack,  like  the  soul  revi\ilie(l.' 

That  novel  is  truly  hist(jric  wiiicli  attains  illusion,  which  ])uts  us 
in  living  contact  with  tii(>  vnricd  spectacle  of  its  era,  alTording  us 
the  rxti-cmc  ])l('jistirc  of  bcli<'ving  in  what  wc  read. 

riic  most  obvious  charjictcrist ic  of  fiction  in  .\mcrica,  as  on 
till'  oj)|i()siti'  shores  of  tln'  .\tlaiitic,  is  brilliant  jirofusion.  in 
this   i-i>sp('ct    it    iiiav  be   said   to  occii])v  the   position    of   the   Kli/a- 


PROSE — HiaXOKY.  419 

bethaii  flranm.  Here,  however,  witli  some  qualification,  the 
reseml)laMce  eeases.  The  eHloresceiiee  of  the  present  has  little 
of  tlie  powerful  vitality,  the  rich  color,  of  that  wonderful  bloom. 
Novels  there  are,  in  perilous  abundance,  technical  finish,  talent 
of  a  high  order;  but  they  lack  the  baptism  of  fire,  the  heat  that 
breeds  excellence.  Deficient  in  ardor,  energy,  depth  of  feeling, 
depth  of  thought,  the  multitudinous  tones  —  though  each  in  turn 
clear  and  bell-like  —  lose  their  n)usic  day  by  day. 

The  wi(h'st  fame  yet  attained  by  American  novelists  has  been 
won  by  Cooper  and  MtS.  StOWG,  each  of  whom  had  the  rare 
fortune  to^introduce  a  new  and  conquering  figure  to  European 
letters, —  first  the  Indian,  tiien  the  Negro.  Theme,  more  than 
form,  renders  them  imperishable.  No  other,  pursuing  the  virgin 
vein,  can  hope;  to  repeat  their  successes;  for  the  conditions  on 
whicii  they  were  based  will  never  recur.  But  a  higher  triumph, 
by  a  profounder  treatment,  is  possible  to  others.  It  is  truth  to 
human  nature  l)eyond  anything  else  —  external  phenomena  or 
nationality  —  that  makes  the  novel  great;  and  by  this  criterion 
will  the  slow  alembic  of  years  extract  the  innnortal  from  the 
transient.  .Meanwhile,  in  the  fading,  ever-shifting  train,  one 
man  stands  out  thus  in  clear  relief,  above  the  accidental  caprice 
of  time  and  j>lace,  one  who  will  hold  his  own  before  the  master- 
artists  of  tlie  world, —  Hawthome.  (^n  other  jjages  we  shall 
endeavor  to  comprehend  him.  and  Dickens,  and  (Jeorge  Eliot, — 

'Aiilliors  i)f  <lclii;lit 
Anil  hiii)i)iiit's>,  wliicli  to  tln'  ciul  of  liin>' 
Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindli-." ' 

History. —  The  jxTiod  devel()])s,  witli  more  or  less  distiiict- 
iM'ss,  three  schools  of  historians, —  the  imaginative  or  romantic, 
which  makes  the  luost  lavish  elTort  to  reaiiiniat»>  souls,  to  picture 
tile  past  dramatically,  vividly;  the  realistic,  which  aims  to  sliow 
e\cnts  and  people  as  they  wci'e;  and  the  |)liilosopliic,  which  seeks 

'  ( >lh('r  nii\  clNt^.  .<i>iin'  of  whom  will  he  iccoL'ni/('<l  as  cinim-nl  in  other  dc)iartini'nls, 
•Tre;  Ilenjaniin  Disraeli,  Lotlui'ir:  liavard  'I'avlor.  .Julm  timli'i-ni'i  F(irlin,i':  'riioMian 
llanly.  Fnr Jrinii  thf  .]/ii'/i/i„g  Cro/n/:  Will^ic  ('ollins.  no>,„ii,  ',i,  U'/ii/,:  W.  I).  Ilowetis, 
l.dihl  III'  III!  Aroii-ttiirik:  Meiirv  .(anie-,  .Ir.,  .1  Pussioiiiit-  I'iliirnn:  Cliarli-s  l{cade.  \f>fr 
too  'l.<ilf  l<>  Meii'l;  .).  <i.  IlollMnil,  Ar/Jnir  Ji')/iiiir,ix/U:  Kdward  K-L'hslon.  T/'»  lliioxor 
Sr/iiiiihii'i--'fer:  Francis  lirel  llarle,  h'oiiriint  ramp:  Tlioinas  Hiii.'lies,  7'.<///  Ifrit  i  n  al 
(txfiiril:  Cliarles  Lever,  ■foul  /liirf.f  of  Our,.':  Cc'orire  Maedonahl,  h'nl,>-rt  FitnlkHfr:  V..  I'. 
Ii(ie.  Tlif  OiifiiU'ii  111'  (I  Oiiitlnnl  lliirr:  A  W.  TourL'ee,  .1  Fun''--'  Frruinl:  William  Ware. 
■/miiliiii;  .Inli.m  Ilawtliorne,  tiintli:  Charle-  KiniTsh'V,  Ihiiiiil'm :  Cliavloll,-  Mronle.  ./<;//> 
Fi/n:  Mi-s  Muloek,  ./'^///(  IlnVifiu  :  Mrs  Uolm.'s.  '/Vni/i^x/ inul  Snn-^li'ine:  Mr-.  Whitney, 
F'aUh  l..i)'f/,n/'--<  (iiilliiioil:  Mrs.  Oliph.aiit.  Sun  of  llif  Soil;  Mis-  I'helps,  T/i>  (i<it.-<  ^IJnr; 
Miss  Burnett.  /'A-//  [.(i.^is  n'  I.o,inf's:  Mi-s  SiM>tTord.  Ainhtr  fiii'/y;  Mis-es  Warner,  The 
yV'di'jyii/fl  Will  III.     We  are,  a-  liillierto.  fore-'d  to  omit  -omi- di-rr\  inu' n.ames. 


420  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — 'FEATURES. 

to  show  that  historical  phenomena  have  a  system  and  a  sequence, 
determined  by  natural  laws.  We  have  seen  that  Macaulay  set 
the  fashion  of  the  first.  To  it  belong  the  sinister  and  furious 
Carlyle,'  the  more  popular  and  paradoxical  Froudc  ; "  to  the 
second,  the  calm  and  scholarly  Freeman/  the  spirited  and  artistic 
CJroen:*  to  the  third,  tlie  learned  and  ambitious  Buckle,''  the 
careful  and  comprehensive  Lecky." 

Froude  is  a  portrait-painter,  and,  wantinj2:  the  scientific  qual- 
ity which  clings  to  facts,  is  often  led  astray  by  liis  vivid  genius. 
He  is,  it  is  needless  to  add,  widely  read,  and  might  be  broadly 
characterized  by  Carlyle's  advice  to  an  invalid,  to  'read  the  last 
volume  of  Macaulay's  History,  or  any  other  new  novel.'  Here  is 
his  conception  of  history: 

'  It  often  set'iiif;  to  iiu'  as  if  History  was  like  a  chiUl's  box  of  letters,  with  wiiieh  we 
can  spell  any  word  we  please.  We  have  only  to  pick  out  such  letters  as  we  want,  arrange 
them  as  we  like,  and  say  nothing  about  those  things  which  do  not  suit  our  purpose." 

Ill  other  words,  let  your  theory  be  what  it  will,  history  will  not 
o})ject  —  it  will  ])rovidc  you  abundant  facts  to  prove  whatever 
you  wish  to  believe.  Nevertheless,  like  Matthew  Arnold,  who 
yet  would  have  a  book  consist  only  of  premises,  one  must  have  a 
theory,  higher  or  lower:  an  ignoble  one,  it  may  be,  like  that  of 
Comte,  or  a  noble  one  like  that  of  Froude  —  life  a  bailling  duality 
of  ])rineiple,  a  drama  whore  good  and  evil  light  out  their  ever- 
la.'^tiiig  l)attle.      Very  naturally  he  adds: 

'The  address  of  history  is  less  to  the  nnderstandint;  than  the  higher  emotions.  ^Ve 
learn  in  it  to  synipatliize  with  what  is  great  and  good:  we  learn  to  hate  what  is  liasc.  In 
the  anomalies  of  fortune  we  feel  the  mystery  of  our  mortal  existence:  and  in  the  com- 
l)ani()nship  of  the  illustrious  natures  who  have  shaped  the  fortunes  of  the  world,  we 
escape  from  the  littlenesses  which  cling  to  the  round  of  common  life,  and  our  minds  arc 
tuned  in  a  luL'her  and  nohU'r  key." 

Buckle  (1S-2-.3-1802),  a  man  of  rare  talent,  was  the  first  to 
ajjply,  on  a  coiisidcM-ablo  scale,  scientific  treatment  to  the  fact.s  of 
hiiinaii  experience,  and  the  first  tr)  attempt,  by  such  means,  to 
bring  history  into  the  category  of  the  exact  sciences.  This 
iitijtlies  tlie  belief,  exidently,  that  human  actions  are  determined 

U^romirtl! .      Till'  Vrf-m-li  Iterolni'ion. 

'iKiifiliiii'l  frniii  thf  /-'(ill  of  Wnlxfii  In  tlif  Detitli  of  Klizabelh. 

'•'Thf  Xnnitiin  (Uiii(iiirist .  ('(tiKi'iei^t  of  the  .Snrdi-eiiK.  FcJeral  Corernmful.  old 
HiitiUxli  H'lsloni. 

«.l  SHinrl  Ihxloni  of  the  Ei,<iVish  P.oiil,.     Tlif-  Midhig  of  EikiIuiuL 

•■'(rrnVizuDoi,  h,   Kidjl'mil. 

'■lidl'iondVmm.  K'lrotifHii  MoTdlx  from  Augufliin  to  Charleiiuujne.  Kn gland  in  the 
K'Kilii/fiitli  I '( nliiry. 


PROSE — HISTOIIY.  421 

by  natural  causes  —  by  influences  which  are  palpable  and  ponder- 
able; that  men,  as  much  as  the  acorn,  are  a  phy.siolog;ical  growth. 
That  there  is  in  this  general  view  a  large  element  of  truth,  is 
quite  certain;  but  it  ocludes  special  and  personal  agencies. 
Hence  arises  the  one-sidedness  of  the  author,  his  exaggeration  of 
physical  considerations,  his  depreciation  of  moral  ones.  A  not 
strange  reaction  from  the  credulous  annalists  and  chroniclers, 
with  whom  the  two  forces  of  history  were  arbitrary, —  individual 
volition  and  supernatural  caprice.  Never  was  a  work,  not  ficti- 
tious, the  subject  of  so  nmch  interest  to  minds  so  numerous  and 
diverse.  The  worlil  was  startled  into  admiration  by  its  bold 
assuiii])tioiis,  vigorous  style,  and  vast  reading.  Only  a  fraction 
of  the  inmiense  design  was  accomplished.  'My  book,  my  book  ! 
I  shall  never  iinisli  my  book  I '  was  his  dying  lament.  But  the 
labor  was  not  in  vain.  The  effect  was  unmistakable.  Seeds  were 
dropjied  to  germinate, —  the  fragment  notes  an  epoch. 

Buckle  ae(juired  the  sudden  brilliancy  of  the  meteor,  and  has 
suffered  an  at)atement  of  his  lustre.  Lecky,  on  the  contrary, 
the  truer  ])hiloso[)lier,  just,  candid,  liljcrai,  and  broad,  always  the 
historian,  iKn-er  the  partisan, —  is  growing  into  the  permanent 
illumination  of  the  ])lanet. 

Bancroft's  iliitcd  Stattf<,  thus  far  the  standard,  is  accorded 
a  high  rank  in  the  historical  literature  of  the  age.  The  labor  of 
more  than  forty  years,  and  still  incomplete,  it  is  far  the  most  suc- 
cessful elTort  to  reduce  to  order  and  beauty  the  chaotic  materials 
of  Aniciicaii  history.  His  style  coml^ines  the  poetic  and  ihe 
philosopliic,  with  a  strong  inclination  to  declamatory  magnifi- 
cenei'.  Such  a  taste  is  liable  to  produce  a  historical  romance,  and 
to  sacrifice  accuracy  fi^r  eloquence.  It  is  dangerous,  also,  to  that 
unitv  which,  in  tiie  midst  of  comple.xity,  we  perceive  or  feel  in 
the  liistoi-ies  of   such  as  (iiblton,  (Jrote,  and  .Macaulay. 

For  its  research,  ficsliiiess,  (low,  and  finish,  the  Jiisf  oj'  the 
I)nt,'h  111 i»ihll<-,  by  Motley  (1814-lSTT),  was  hailed  as  the  dawn 
of  a  new  star.  It  has  attracted  readers  and  translators  oniv  fewer 
than  Pr(\scott's.  The  promise  given  bv  this  was  at  an  earlv  date 
fnlfilled  bv  its  continuation.  The  I  nlttd  \i  ffn  I'hotJs.  The 
faults  ol'  this  eminent  writer  are  an  occasional  redundance  and  a 
rather  over-zealous  ])artisanship;  his  merits  —  labor,  })atience, 
consistency,    lift -like    represcMitat ion  —  have    inscribed    his    name 


422  DIFFUSIVK    I'ElirOI) — KKATLKES. 

inipcrisliahly  on  the  scroll  of  fame.  A  brief  extract  or  two  will 
give  a  fair  idea  of  his  vivid,  ])ictorial  style.  He  is  speaking  of 
the  cathedral  of  Antwerp: 

•The  oliiirch,  placid  in  the  ct-iiltc  of  tlio  city,  with  ilie  noisy  streets  of  tlio  busiest 
metropolis  in  Kuroiie  eddying  around  its  \vall.s,  was  a  sacred  islanil  in  tlie  tiiinnltuoUB 
main.  Tlirongh  tlie  perpetual  twilight,  tall  columnar  trunlts  in  thick  profusion  grew 
from  a  door  chequered  witli  i)rismatic  lights  and  sepulchral  shadows.  Kach  shaft  of  the 
petrilied  forest  rose  to  a  jjretcrnatural  lieight,  their  many  branches  intermingling  in  the 
space  above  to  form  an  impenetrable  canopy.  Foliage,  flowers  and  fruit  of  colossal 
luxuriance:  strange  birds,  beasts,  grifllns  and  chimel•a^  in  endless  multitudes;  the  rank 
vegetation  and  the  fantastic  zoology  of  a  fresher  or  fal)uloii.s  world  seemed  to  decorate 
ami  to  animate  the  screened  trunks  and  pendant  branches:  while  the  shattering  sym- 
phonie>  or  dying  murmurs  of  the  organ  suggested  the  rushing  of  the  wind  through  the 
forest,— now  the  full  diapason  of  the  storm,  and  now  the  gentle  cadence  of  the  evening 
breeze." 

And  of  the  reforniing  fury  of  the  image  breakers: 

•And  now,  as  the  shadows  of  night  wcri'  deepening  the  j)erpetual  twilight  of  tlie 
church,  the  work  of  destruction  commenced.  Instead  of  vesjjers  rose  the  lierce  music 
of  a  psalm  yelled  by  a  thousand  angry  voices.  It  seemed  the  j)recoiicerted  signal  for  a 
general  attack.  A  band  of  marauders  Hew  upon  the  image  of  the  Virgin,  dragged  it  forth 
from  its  receptacle,  plunged  daggers  into  its  inanimate  l)ody,  tore  off  its  jewelled  and 
embroidered  garments,  broke  the  whole  tigure  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  scattered  the 
fragments  along  the  floor.  A  wild  shout  succeeded,  and  then  the  work,  which  seemed 
delegated  to  a  comi>aratively  small  number  of  the  assembled  crowd,  went  on  with  incred- 
ible celerity.  Some  were  armed  with  a.\es,  some  with  bludgeons,  some  with  sledge- 
hammer", others  brought  ladders,  jjulleys,  ropes,  and  levers.  Every  statue  was  hurled 
from  its  niche,  every  i)icture  torn  from  the  wall,  every  painted  window  shivered  to  atoms, 
every  ancient  monument  shattered,  every  scnli)tured  decoration,  however  inaccessilih!  in 
appearance,  hurled  to  the  ground.  Indefatigably,  audaciously,  endowed,  as  it  seemed, 
with  i)reternatural  strength  and  niu>bleness,  these  furious  iconoclasts  clambered  up  the 
dizzy  heitrhts,  shrieking  an<l  r-hattering  like  malitrnanl  apes,  as  they  tore  off  in  triumph 
the  slowly-matured  fruit  of  centuries.  In  a  sjiace  of  lime  wonderfully  brief  Iliey  had 
accoui))lislied  their  task.' 

Draper's  IiitdhcfHal  JJi-rtlopuietit  of  Knrope  must  take  its 
place  among  tht;  valuable  contributions  of  the  iige  to  the  pliilos- 
o])hy  of  history.  It  is  inttMided  to  demonstrate  n  jxjstcrlorl  that 
human  life,  colhu-tive  and  individual,  is  subjiuU  to  the  donunion 
of  law.  \aricti(>s  of  antecedent  and  concomitant  conditions 
determine  social  advan(M'ment  :  and  its  stages  —  the  same  for 
the  miniature  man  as  for  a  nation — -are  the  Age  of  C'rediditv, 
tlie  Age  of  Inquiry,  th(^  .Vge  of  Kaith,  the  Age  of  IJeason,  and 
the  .\ge  of  Decrepitude.  We  are  thus  reminded  of  Jiuckle  and 
of  ("om^e,  with  their  one-sided  aceiimulation  of  facts,  and  their 
fatalistic    views  of  causation. 

We  MTe  also  remiiid<Ml  of  the  two-fold  evil  of  ])livsical  study, 
wh'Mi     iiiaile    e.vclusive  —  t  lu^    disposition    to    reduce   all    facts  of 


PROSE  —  THEOLOGICAL    DEVELOl'MENT.  423 

intelligence  to  phenomena  of  matter,  and  to  res(jlve  all  existence 
into  niechanisiii.' 

Theology. — We  live  in  an  age  of  unsparing  research,  an 
age  in  which  ra})i(lity  of  transition  is  a  marked  feature,  an  age 
in  which  alterations  are  being  wrought,  l)y  luimerous  and  subtle 
forces,  upon  current  Ijeliefs.  The  changing  spirit  of  the  times 
—  so  far  as  it  has  a  rationalistic  drift  —  niay  be  represented  by 
<'hurchmen  like  Maurice,  Newman,  Kingsley,  Stanley,  Martineau; 
l)y  transcendentalists  like  Carlyle  and  Emerson;  by  speculativ** 
thinkers  liki;  Spencer  and  Mill;  by  refined  i)hvsicists  like  Tyndall 
and  Huxley;  by  advanced  critics  like  Froude,  Arnold,  Midler, 
and  Lecky.  Some  of  these,  it  will  be  understood,  arc  merely 
liberal  ;  some  are  in  the  line  of  materialism,  bvit  will  not  be 
called  materialists;  others  are  moderate  or  intermediate  sc-epti<-s, 
giving  the  j)r('cedenc(!  to  Reason  wh<'n  the  alternative  is  Reason 
or  Revelation  ;  all,  directly  or  iiulirectly,  promotive  doubtless 
of  the  elTort  of  man  to  rise  higher  in  the  a]i|)rehension  of  the 
Infinite,  to  descend  deeper  into  the  eternal  ground  of  things. 

Let  three  o\'  them  exhil)it  the  ])romineiit  attitudes  of  cultured 

Free  Thought.      W'e  arc  told   by  J.  S.  Mill  that  'in  the  i)resent 

state  of  our  knowledge  the  adaptations  in  nature  afford  a  large 

balance  of  pi(>l)al)ility  in  favor  of  creation  by  intelligi'nce ';  that 

miracles — which  it  were   better  to  call  wouilers  —  are   not   of   the 

character  to  convince  eye-witnesse.s,   l)ut   may   be  explical)le    by 

natural    law   vet    undiscovered  ;    that    it   can   only   be   hoped,   not 

scieni  iticiillv  l)eliev<'(l,  that   .lesus   is  a  divine   messenger;   that   of 

tlit>  origin  <>{'  ( 'hristianit  v  we  know  nothing  more  than   that  '(Jod 

made  pro\  ision   in    the  scheiiie  of  creation  for  its  arising  at   the 

;i|)pointed  time  [)\    natui-a!  development';   that  'familiarity  of  the 

imagination  with  the  con<'eption  of  a  morally  })erfect    lieing,  and 

the    h;d)it    oi     taking    the    approl)ation    of    such    a    Being    as    the 

staminnl   of  conduct,"   is  a   l)enetit    jirecious  beyond  calcidation  to 

mankind;    that, — 

■Tln'  iiiilulu'iiKi'  (if  li(i|)i'«illi  ifiraril  to  tlu'  ^'ovcniiuciii  of  ilu-  iiiiivir-c  and  the 
ilr-iiiiy  of  111:111  after  dcatli,  wliili-  n  c  r<co;.'ni/.c  as  a  clear  truth  tliat  wo  liave  110  i;roiiii<l 
for  more  ilian  hope,  is  leu'itiiiiate.  ami  ijliilot-oiiliically  defi'iisililc.  The  heiieticial  elTeet 
of  ~ueh  ,1  hope  is  far  from  trilliiii.'.     It   makes  life  and  hiiiiiaii   nature  a  far  L'realer  tliiiiL' 

'Two  literary  historians  in  this  (■(uintry  must  lie  re;:arded  as  doiti;:  honor  to  the 
literature  of  our  nuilhertontriie,  — Tieknor  aiid  Tyler:  the  one  in  his  Sjid/iia/i  /.i/frahirf, 
the  other  in  his  Ai/ierir/i/i  /Affrdhirf  :  hoth  enthusiastic  in  rcsearcli.  tioth  \ii:or(>iis  and 
\ivi(i  in  style,  with  a  sii^^iaiiied  moral  di'_'nity  thai  not  seldom  rises  to  <lo(iiience. 


424  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

to  tho  feelings,  and  gives  greater  strength,  as  well  aw  greater  solemnity,  to  all  the  senti- 
ments which  are  awakened  in  us  by  our  fellow-creatures  and  by  mankind  at  large.' 

Finally,  that  the  standard  of  excellence  in  Christ,  held  up  to 
believers  as  a  model  for  imitation,  is  a  gift  of  inestimable  value 
which  can  never  be  lost: 

'About  tho  life  and  sayings  of  Jesus  there  is  a  stamp  of  personal  originality,  com- 
bined witli  pmfundity  of  insight,  which,  if  we  abandon  tlie  idle  expectation  of  finding 
scientific  precision  where  sometliing  very  different  was  aimed  at,  must  place  the  Prophet 
of  Xazaretli,  even  in  the  estimation  of  those  who  have  no  belief  in  his  inspiration,  in  the 
very  first  rank  of  the  men  of  sublime  genius  of  whom  our  species  can  boast.  When  this 
[jreeminent  genius  is  combined  with  the  qualities  of  probaljly  the  greatest  moral  n^former 
and  martyr  to  that  mission  who  ever  existed  upon  the  earth,  religion  cannot  be  said  to 
have  made  a  l>ad  clioice  in  pitching  on  tliis  man  as  the  ideal  representative  and  guide  of 
humanity ;  nor  even  now  would  it  be  easy,  even  for  an  unbeliever,  to  find  a  better  transla- 
tion of  the  rule  of  virtue  from  the  abstract  into  the  concrete,  than  to  endeavor  so  to  live 
that  Christ  would  approve  our  life.  When  to  this  we  add  that  to  the  conception  of  tlie 
rational  sceptic,  it  remains  a  possibility  lliat  Christ  actually  was  what  he  supposed  him- 
self to  be,— not  God,  for  he  never  made  the  smallest  pretension  to  that  character,  and 
would  probably  liave  thought  such  a  pretension  as  blasphemous  as  it  seemed  to  the  men 
who  ct)ndemned  him, —  but  a  man  charged  with  a  special,  express,  and  unique  commis- 
.sion  from  God  to  lead  mankind  to  truth  and  virtue,  we  may  well  conclude  that  the  influ- 
ences of  religion  on  the  churacter  which  will  remain  after  rational  criticism  has  done  its 
utmost  against  the  evidences  of  religion,  are  well  worth  preserving,  and  that  what  they 
lack  in  direct  strength,  as  compared  with  those  of  a  firmer  i)elief,  is  more  than  compen- 
sated by  the  greater  truth  and  rectitude  of  the  morality  they  sanction.' 

Lecky  dclines  the  position  of  a  large  class  of  rationalists, 
when  he  says  of  their  profession: 

•It  regards  Christianity  as  designed  to  preside  over  the  moral  development  of  man- 
kind, as  a  conception  which  was  to  become  more  and  more  sublimated  and  spiritualized 
as  tlie  human  mind  i>assed  into  new  jihases,  and  was  able  to  bear  the  splendour  of  a  more 
unclouded  light.  Religion  it  believes  to  l)e  no  exception  to  the  general  law  of  i)rogress, 
but  rather  the  highest  form  of  its  manifestation,  and  its  earlier  systems  but  the  neces- 
sary steps  of  an  imperfect  development.  In  its  eyes  tlie  moral  element  of  Christianity 
is  as  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  dogmatic  systems  are  as  the  clouds  that  intercept  and  temper 
the  exceeding  l)riglitness  of  its  ray.  The  insect  whose  existence  is  but  for  a  moment 
might  well  imagine  that  tliesc  were  indeed  eternal,  that  their  majestic  columns  could 
never  fail,  and  that  their  luminous  folds  were  the  very  source  and  centre  of  ligtit.  And 
yet  they  sliift  and  vary  with  each  changing  breeze;  they  blend  and  separate;  they 
assume  niw  forms  an<l  exliibit  new  dimensions;  as  the  sun  that  is  aitove  them  waxes 
more  glorious  in  its  jjower,  they  are  permeated  and  at  last  absorbed  by  its  increasing 
splendour:  they  recede,  and  wither,  and  disappear,  and  the  eye  ranges  far  beyond  ilie 
sphere  they  had  occui)ied  into  the  infinity  of  glory  that  is  above  them.  Any  one  tvho 
has  attentively  examined  that  great  school,  which  exercises  so  vast  an  influence  over 
the  literature  and  policy  of  our  age,  must  liave  jx-rceived  that  it  is  in  many  resjjects 
widely  removed  froui  the  old  Voltaireau  spirit.  It  is  m>  )')iiger  exclusively  negative  and 
destructive,  but  is,  on  the  conlrary,  intensely  jjositivc,  and  in  its  moral  aspect  intensely 
r'hristian.  It  clusters  arouixl  a  scries  of  essentially  f'liristian  conceptions, —  equality, 
fraternity,  the  suppression  of  war,  the  elevation  of  th<!  poor,  the  love  of  truth,  and  the 
diffusion  of  liberty.  It  revolves  aroun<l  tlie  ideal  of  C;liristianity,  and  rejiresents  its  sjiirit 
without  its  dogmatic  system,  and  its  sn|)ernatural  narratives.  From  both  of  these  it 
unhesitatingly  recoils,  while  deriving  all  its  slrengU)  and  nourisliinent  from  Cliristiau 
ethics." 


PROSE  —  OLD    AND    NEW   THEOLOGY.  425 

Next  to  Carlyle,  EmerSOIl  presents  the  highest  type  of 
the  antagonism  whicli  literature  assumes  towards  tlie  Christian 
faith.  A  lover  of  the  truth,  who  will  not  commit  his  trust  to  the 
limits  of  any  formula,  he  says: 

'I  am  glad  to  hear  each  sect  comi)lain  that  they  do  not  now  hold  the  opinions  thoy 
are  charged  with.  The  earth  moves  and  the  mind  opens.  I  am  glad  to  believe  society 
contains  a  class  of  hnnible  souls  who  enjoy  the  Ui.\nry  of  a  religion  that  does  not  degrade ; 
wlio  think  it  the  highest  worship  to  e.xpect  of  Heaven  the  most  and  best;  who  do  not 
wonder  there  was  a  Christ,  but  there  were  not  a  thousand;  who  have  conceived  an  infinite 
hope  for  mankind;  who  believe  that  the  history  of  Jesus  is  the  history  of  every  man, 
written  large." 

And  these  are  the  'excelsior'  heights  which  he  sees  from  afar 

in  the  empyrean: 

'There  will  be  a  new  church  founded  on  moral  science,  at  first  cold  and  naked,  a 
babe  in  the  manger  again,  the  algebra  and  mathematics  of  ethical  law,  the  church  of 
men  to  come,  without  shawms  or  psaltery  or  sackbut;  but  it  will  have  heaven  and  earth 
for  its  beams  and  rafters;  science  for  symbol  and  illustration;  it  will  fast  enough 
gather  beauty,  music,  picture,  poetry.  Was  never  stoicism  so  stern  and  exigent  as  this 
shall  be.  It  shall  send  man  home  to  his  central  solitude,  shame  these  social  supplicating 
manners,  and  make  him  know  that  much  of  the  time  he  must  have  himself  to  his  friend, 
lie  shall  expect  no  cooperation,  he  shall  walk  with  no  companion.  The  nameless 
thought,  the  nameless  Power,  the  super-personal  Heart, —  he  shall  repose  alone  on  that.' 

With  this  j)artial  introductory  survey  of  influences,  we  may  now 
offer  some  general  reflections  on  their  sj)irit,  significance  and 
effect : 

1.  It  cannot  escape  observation  tliat  unbelief,  the  extreme  of 
dissent,  lias  the  characteristic  of  present  thought  —  increased 
moral  earnestness.  It  is  far  more  sincere,  discriminating,  and 
just,  than  formerly.  Instead  of  revelling  in  the  ruin  which  it 
effects,  it  confesses  with  ])ain  its  inevitable  conflict  with  human 
aspirations,  and  bewails  the  impossil)ility  of  solving  the  enigma. 
It  has  a  deeper  appreciation  of  the  system  it  j)rotests  against  or 
a.ssails,  and,  not  destructive  only,  it  aims  to  b(>  rcM'onstructive. 
The  dilTcrence  lies  in  the  more  subjective  and  spiritual  tone  which 
has  pa.s.sed  into  every  department  of  mental  activitv,  which  lifts 
even  the  man  of  science  —  as  in  the  noble  instance  of  Tvndall  — 
above  the  grovelling  idea  that  facts  are  to  be  sought  solely  for 
the  purpose  of   utilitv. 

2.  Jt  must  be  clear  that  the  history  of  religious  itleas  has  been 
ail  onward  ])roc(>ss  of  devel()])nuMit.  Theology,  for  example,  has 
abandoned  the  geocentric  theory  of  tlu^  univers(\  which  there 
once  seemed  ])lenty  of  texts  to  suj>port.  It  no  longer  combats 
the  discoveries  of  geology  which  have  renovated  and  transformed 


426  DiFFUsiv?:  period — fkaturbs. 

the  six-day  interpretations  of  Genesis.  Death  and  pain,  once 
believed  with  unfaltering  assurance  to  be  the  fruit  of  disobedience 
in  Paradise,  are  acknowledged  to  have  raged  and  revelled  on  the 
globe  ages  before  it  was  trodden  by  man.  The  alarm  over  evolu- 
tion, once  considered  subversive  of  the  Bible,  has  subsided  in  the 
gradual  conviction  that  the  question  at  bottom  is  one  of  method, 
and  that  Darwinism  needs  a  God  as  much  as  does  the  old  view. 
Witchcraft,  to  disbelieve  which  was  once  the  eccentricity  of  the 
few,  has  passed  into  the  region  of  fables.  The  old-fashioned 
doctrinal  sermon  has  almost  totally  disappeared.  Hell-fire,  once 
deemed  fundamental,  has  become  a  metaphor.  The  words  'eter- 
nal punishment'  stand;  but  in  how  many  ways  are  they  defined? 
The  God  of  wrath  is  displaced  by  the  God  of  love,  whose  judg- 
ments are  meant  only  for  correction.  Would  you  realize  how 
completely  the  aspect  and  complexion  of  religion  have  altered, 
consider  your  feelings  as  you  read  the  following  passage  from 
The  Su/Jit  of  I  fell,  a  tract  'for  children  and  young  persons,'  by 
a  priest  of  the  Roman  church,  who,  living  in  the  present,  is  still 
in  the  bondage  of  the  Middle  Ages: 

'St'i',  on  the  miucile  of  that  riul-hot  floor  ^<talld8  a  girl:  she  lookfi  about  sixteen  years 
old.  Her  feet  are  bare.  She  has  neither  shoes  nor  stockings.  .  .  .  Listen  I  she  speaks. 
Slie  says,  "  I  have  been  standing  on  tliis  red-liot  floor  for  years.  Day  and  night  my  only 
standing-place  has  been  this  red-hot  floor.  .  .  .  Look  at  my  burnt  and  bleeding  feet.  Let 
me  go  off  this  burning  floor  for  one  moment,  only  for  one  single  short  moment.'"  .  .  . 
The  fourth  dungeon  is  the  boiling  kettle  ...  in  the  middle  of  it  there  is  a  boj'.  .  .  .  His 
eyes  are  burning  like  two  burning  coals.  Two  long  flames  come  out  of  his  ears.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  he  opens  his  mouth,  and  l)lazing  flr(!  rolls  out.  But  listen!  there  is  a  sound 
like  a  kettle  boiling.  .  .  .  The  blood  is  boiling  in  the  scalded  veins  of  that  boy.  The 
brain  is  boiling  and  buhbling  in  his  head.  The  marrow  is  boiling  in  his  bones.  .  .  .  The 
fifth  dungeon  is  the  red-hot  oven.  .  .  .  Tlie  little  child  is  in  this  red-hot  oven.  Hear  how- 
it  screams  to  come  out.  See  how  it  turns  and  twists  itself  about  in  the  tire.  It  beats 
itself  against  the  roof  of  the  oven.  It  stamps  its  little  feet  on  the  floor.  .  .  .  (iod  was 
very  good  to  this  child.  Very  likely  (iod  saw  it  would  get  worse  and  worse,  and  would 
never  repent,  and  so  it  would  have  to  l)e  punished  much  more  in  hell.  So  God  in  His 
mercy  called  it  out  of  the  world  in  its  early  childhood." 

("oiisidcr  the  surprise,  the  rej)ugnaiice,  the  horror  wliich  these 
infamous  sentences  now  excite;  yet  consider  again  how  perfectly 
they  hai'iuoiiize  with  the  realizations  of  rather  more  than  two 
hundred  years  ago,  when  even  the  latitudinarian  and  impassioned 
Taylor  could  write: 

'.Mcxander,  the  son  of  Hyrcanus,  caused  eight  hundred  to  he  crncifled,  and  whilst 
they  were  yet  alive  caused  their  wives  and  children  to  be  murdered  before  their  eyes,  eo 
that  they  might  not  die  once,  but  many  deaths.  This  rigour  shall  not  be  wanting  in  hell. 
.  .   .   Mezcntius  tied  a  living  body  to  the  dead  until  the  putretted  exhalations  of  the  dead 


PROSE  —  SPKCI'LATIVE    MORALITY.  427 

had  killed  the  living.  .  .  .  What  i«  Ihic  in  respocl  of  lifll,  wlien  each  body  of  the  damned 
is  more  loathsome  and  un.savonry  than  a  million  of  dead  dogs?  .  .  .  What  comparison 
will  there  be  between  burning  for  an  hundred  years"  space,  and  to  be  burning  without 
interruption  as  long  as  God  is  God?' 

3.  To  suppose  religion  endangered  by  these  changes,  or  future 
ones,  is  altogether  misleading.  As  the  satisfaction  of  an  ineradi- 
cable want,  it  is  deathless.  Only  the  visible  body  waxes  old  as  a 
garment.  •  The  vital  element  is  indestructible,  growing  with  the 
race  and  revealing  itself.  The  dogma  perishes;  the  intuition  — 
the  instinct  of  devotion  —  can  never  die.  Transition  is  the  sign 
of  life.  The  'increasing  purpose'  of  the  ages,  by  the  orderly 
processes  of  natural  law,  brings  ever  to  the  front  fresh  moditica- 
tions  of  belief.  Without  change,  no  expansion.  To  be  perfect 
is  to  have  changed  often. 

Ethics. — It  accords  with  the  hard,  Philistine  temper  of  the 
age,  that  the  utilitarian  school  of  morals  and  politics  should  be  at 
present  extremely  infliunitial  in  England.  Spencer  and  Bain  are 
prominent  names,  but  John  Stuart  "IVr^n  has  done  more  to  pop- 
ularize and  spread  it  than  any  other  of  its  members.  His  father, 
stern  and  repellant,  was  an  uncompromising  disciple  of  Bentham. 
'  He  resembled,'  says  the  son,  'most  Englishmen  in  being  ashamed 
of  the  signs  of  feeling,  and  by  the  absence  of  demonstration 
starved  the  feelings  themselves.'  'His  entering  the  room  where 
the  family  was  assembled,  was  observed  by  strangers  to  oj)erate 
as  an  immediate  tlamper.'  He  resolved  so  to  educate  his  son 
that  he  should  be  'a  worthy  successor.'  'In  all  his  teaching  he 
demanded  of  me  not  only  the  utmost  I  could  do,  but  much  that 
I  could  by  no  possibility  have  done,'  The  child  began  Greek 
at  th<»  age  of  three,  by  means  of  'lists  of  common  Greek  words, 
with  their  signification  in  English,'  written  out  for  him  on  cards 
by  his  father.  At  eight  he  had  read  the  Amtbasis,  the  Mouora- 
bilia,  part  of  Lucian,  two  orations  of  Isocrates,  and  six  dialogues 
of  Plato.  In  addition  to  this,  lessons  in  arithmetic  in  the  even- 
ing; then,  according  to  his  taste,  the  histories  of  Robertson, 
Hume,  (iibbon,  Hooke,  or  the  A/uiiud  Jicf/Lifir.  At  twelve  he 
was  put  uj)on  a  severe  course  of  logic,  begiiniiiig  with  Aristotle's 
Or;/a}iON,  followed  by  the  <\ini/>i(t<itio  of  Hobbes.  As  he  read 
and  studied,  he  made  notes  on  slij)s  of  pujjer  for  the  dailv  report 
required  to  he  given,  while  father  and  son  took  their  morning 
walk.      .\lready.  at   .seven,  in   the  composition   of  a  brief   Hdiiian 


428  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD— FEATURES. 

history,  he  had  made  his  debut  in  authorship.  Is  it  a  matter  of 
wonder,  after  such  an  education,  that  this  man  should  be  true  to 
the  theoretical  convictions  in  which  he  had  been  drilled?  Is  it 
surprising  that  he  should  define  happiness  to  be  'the  sole  end  of 
human  action,  and  the  promotion  of  it  the  test  by  which  to  judge 
of  all  human  conduct'?     Here  is  the  formal  statement: 

'The  croed  which  accepts  as  the  foundation  of  morals,  utility  or  the  greatest  happi- 
ness principle,  holds  that  actions  are  right  in  proportion  as  they  tend  to  promote  hap- 
piness, wrong  as  they  tend  to  produce  the  reverse  of  happiness.' 

If  it  be  observed,  as  a  fact,  that  virtue  is  often  desired  for  its 
own  sake,  the  explanation  is: 

'We  gradually,  through  the  intluenco  of  association,  come  to  desire  the  means 
without  thinking  of  the  end;  the  action  itself  becomes  an  object  of  desire,  and  is  per- 
formed withont  reference  to  any  motive  beyond  itself.  Thus  far,  it  may  still  be  objected 
that  the  action  having,  through  association,  become  pleasurable,  we  are  as  much  as 
before  moved  to  act  by  the  anticipation  of  pleasure,  namely,  the  pleasure  of  the  action 
itself.  But  granting  ttiis,  the  matter  does  not  end  here.  As  we  proceed  in  the  formation 
of  habits,  and  become  accustomed  to  will  a  particular  act  .  .  .  becansc  it  is  pleasurable, 
we  at  last  continue  to  will  it  without  any  reference  to  its  being  pleasurable.' 

Very  plausible,  but  no  essential  modification  of  Hartley's  doc- 
trine of  association,  and  —  we  need  not  further  argue  —  unable 
to  account  for  the  unique  and  preeminent  position  which  man- 
kind have  assigned  to  virtue.  The  prniciple  is  the  same,  but  the 
spirit  has  altered.  We  have  travelled  far  since  we  left  Hobbcs. 
The  main  object  was  then  to  depress  human  nature  by  resolving 
the  noblest  deeds  into  gross  elements;  the  main  object  is  now  to 
suljlimate  conceptions  of  happiness  so  as  to  include  the  highest 
disj)lays  of  heroism.  Bentham  held  that  nothing  but  self-interest 
would  '  serve  for  diet,'  though,  '  for  a  dessert,  benevolence  is  a 
very  valuable  addition';  Mill  aflRrms  that  even  hygienic  precepts 
should  be  inculcated,  not  chiefly  on  prudential  grounds,  but 
because  '  by  squandering  our  health,  we  disable  ourselves  from 
rendering  services  to  our  fellow-creatures.'  Not  less  significant 
is  the  position,  that  'the  mind  is  not  in  a  state  conformable  to 
utility,  unless  it  loves  virtue  as  a  thing  desirable  in  itself.' 
Rather  conciliatory,  and  very  gratifying.  At  this  rate  there 
will  soon  bo  no  quarrel  (because  so  slight  dift'erence)  l:)etvveen 
utilitarian  and  intuitive  moralists.  Still  more  important  are  the 
concessions  that  there  is  a  distinction  of  kind  in  pleasures,  and 
that  human  action  mav  have  'its  aesthetic  aspect,  or  that  of  its 
beauty.'      We  remember,  however,  that  his  boyish  fancy  revelled, 


PROSE — KEFINEMKNT   OF    UTILITARIANISM.  429 

when  permitted,  in  liobinson  Crusoe,  Arabian  Nights,  and  Don 
Quixote;  that  he  was  often  mentally  depressed,  as  if  the  spirit 
were  struggling  to  rend  the  bonds  which  had  been  laid  upon  it; 
that  he  four)d  genuine  comfort  in  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth; 
that  he  himself  had  a  poetic  temperament,  starved  in  the  train- 
ing; that  of  liis  dead  wife  he  has  said,  'her  memory  is  to  me  a 
religion,  and  her  approbation  the  standard  by  which,  summing 
up  as  it  does  all  worthiness,  I  endeavor  to  regulate  my  life'; — 
then  we  see  that  the  foundation  of  him  is  the  ideal;  that  utili- 
tarianism only  separates  him  from  the  ethical  idealism  to  which 
his  inmost  self  is  inclined;  that  the  beauty  of  his  style,  the 
admissions  (inconsistent  with  his  method)  into  which  he  i^ 
frequently  betrayed  by  his  sympathy  with  the  spiritual,  are  the 
overflowings  of  the  ideal  nature,  which  transcends  the  boundaries 
vainly  set  for  it.     Therefore  is  he  better  than  his  logic. 

'Below  the  surface  stream,  sliallow  and  light, 
Of  what  we  .^ay  we  feel ;  below  the  stream. 
As  light,  of  what  we  think  we  feel,—  there  flows. 
With  noiseless  current  strong,  obscure  and  dcop, 
The  central  stream  of  what  we  feel  indeed.' 

We  quote  once  more: 

'The  contest  between  the  morality  which  appeals  to  an  external  standard,  and  that 
which  grounds  itself  on  internal  conviction,  is  the  contest  of  progressive  against  sta- 
tionary morality,  of  reason  and  argument  against  the  deification  of  mere  opinion  and 
habit.' 

Notliing,  as  we  have  before  had  occasion  to  explain,  could  be 
more  fallacious.  That  the  standard  of  duty  may  become  pro- 
gressively higher  is  fully  admitted  ;  but  the  change  is  only  a 
development.  The  moral  idea  is  original  and  uiiderived  ;  cir- 
cumstances determine  the  nature  and  range  of  its  application. 
In  itself  iininutahle,  tlie  future  will  but  give  it  a  grander  sweep. 
Tfie  o]>p().site  .system  of  morals  is  represented  by  the  learned 

Whewell,  the  judicial  Lecky,  and  the  brilliant  Martineau. 

Forty  years  ago  Tocquevilie  declared: 

'The  Americans  do  not  read  the  works  of  nescartes,  because  their  social  condition 
deters  thciii  from  speculative  studies;  but  they  follow  his  maxims,  because  this  very 
social  condition  naturally  disposes  their  understanding  to  adopt  them.' 

fie   concluded   that    the    Americans  display   more   readiness  and 

taste  for  general  ideas  than  their  transatlantic  forefathers,  because 

democratic  institutions  tend  to  expand  and  dilate  thought,  and 

to  suggest   the  indefinite   })erfectibility  of  man.      He  this  how  it 

may,  our  foremost  speculative  thinkers  —  as  BaSCOm,  Haven, 


430  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — FEATURES. 

Hickok,  McCosh,  and  Porter  — are  of  the  intuitive  school. 
Here,  wliere  men  are  immersed  in  love  of  coal,  steam,  and  elec- 
tricity, absorbed  in  pursuit  of  the  'means, —  worshipping  the 
machinery,  losing  sight  of  the  ends, —  it  is  reassuring  to  hear 
a  voice  like  this: 

'  There  is  an  awful  sanctuary  in  every  immortal  spirit,  and  man  needs  nothing  more 
than  to  exclude  all  else,  and  stand  alone  before  himself,  to  be  made  conscious  of  an 
authority  he  can  neither  dethrone  nor  delude.  From  its  approbation  comes  self-respect; 
from  its  disapprobation  comes  self-contempt.  A  stern  behest  is  ever  upon  him  that  he 
do  nothins;  tqdei^rade  the  real  dignity  of  his  spiritual  being.  lie  is  a  law  to  himself,  and 
has  both  the  judge  and  executioner  within  himself,  and  inseparable  from  him.' 

Science. —  Perhaps  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the 
age  is,  that  it  draw^.s,  far  more  largely  than  heretofore,  upon  experi- 
ment as  a  means  of  arriving  at  truth,  while  the  knowledge  thus 
acquired  is  applied  to  art  and  investigation  with  a  freedom  and 
boldness  hitherto  unknown.  The  innovations  thus  made  upon 
other  modes  of  thought  are  without  parallel.  New  direction 
has  been  given  to  inquiry  and  aspiration.  Gifted  intellects  have 
been  diverted  from  poetry, —  from  the  S(nirch  for  the  ideal  to  the 
search  for  the  real.  We  have  seen  how  profoundly  historical 
method  has  been  influenced  by  the  conception  of  order.  Meta- 
physicians study  the  nervous  system,  and  speak  of  the  dyiKiiiiles 
of  mind.  All  departments  have  the  scientific  coloring, —  the 
widened  survey  of  man  and  of  nature. 

The  highest  generalization  of  science  is  dev<;lopinent, — devel- 
opment from  the  homogeneous  to  th(>  heterogeneous,  from  the 
general  to  the  special,  from  the  .simple  to  the  com[)lex.  This 
process  is  considered  by  Spencer  to  be  traceable  '  in  tli(>  formation 
of  the  worlds  in  space,  in  the  multiplication  of  the  types  and 
species  of  plants  and  animals  on  the  globe,  in  the  organization 
and  diversity  of  languages,  .  .  .  and  in  all  the  changes  of  human 
institutions  and  society.'  P] volution, —  theistic,  not  atheistic, — 
once  opposed  I)y  naturalists  themselves,  and  still  contested  by 
sf)me,  may  almost  be  regarded  as  an  establishe(l  law.  In  biology, 
it  was  famotisly  reinforced  in  1,S51)  by  Darwin's  (1809-1882) 
Oriffiti  of  Spiri(s^  and  in  18T1  l)y  his  hrf^unt,  of  Man.  The 
former,  though  it  may  be  tracked  in  th<>  snow  of  the  ancients, 
was  the  first  ehil)f)rate  essay  to  exj)lain  tlie  mode  in  which  the 
allegefl  progressive  transmutation  of  organic  bodies  from  the 
lowest  to  tlie  highest  has  been  conducted.      '  Darwinism'  passed 


PROSK  —  DARWINISM.  431 

into  current  use  as  expressing  a  stron<r  theory  of  the  differen- 
tiation of  species, —  a  proposed  solution  of  the  problem  how 
animals  and  plants  came  to  have  the  structure  and  habits  that 
characterize  them  as  distinct  classes.  Organisms  multiply  so 
rapidly  that,  were  all  to  live,  there  would  be  neither  room  enough 
nor  subsistence.  Each  struggles  to  adapt  itself  to  the  constantly 
altering  condition  of  its  environment.  Eacli,  in  this  manner,  is 
slowly  modified  in  its  natural  state,  as  a  rose  or  a  dog  under  arti- 
ficial cultivation  and  breeding.  Each  resembles  its  parents  in 
generic  jjoints,  but  varies  in  particulars: 

'Amid  the  strugglu  for  existence  which  has  been  always  going  on  among  living 
ln'ini^s,  variations  of  bodily  conformation  and  structure,  if  in  any  degree  profitable  to 
an  individual  of  any  species,  will  tend  to  the  preservation  of  that  individual,  and  will 
generally  be  inherited  by  its  offspring." 

Jn  the  battle  for  life,  the  strong  prevail,  the  weak  die, —  those 
least  adapted  to  the  situation  giving  way  before  those  better 
adapted;  and  this  is  Darwin's  celebrated  principle  of  Natural 
Selection,  or  '  survival  of  the  fittest.'  Tragical  and  depressing  in 
sonic  of  its  asj>ccts,  sublime  and  j)oetical  in  others: 

'It  is  interesting  to  contemplate  a  tangled  bank  clothed  with  many  plants  of  many 
kinds,  witn  birds  singing  on  tlie  bushes,  with  various  insects  tlitling  about,  and  with 
worms  crawling  through  the  damp  earth,  and  to  reflect  that  these  elaborately  constructed 
forms,  so  different  from  each  other,  and  dependent  upon  each  other  in  so  comple.Y  a 
manner,  have  all  been  produced  by  laws  acting  around  us.  These  laws,  taken  in  the 
largest  sense,  being  growth  with  reproduction:  inheritance,  which  is  almost  implied  by 
reproduction;  variability  from  the  indirect  and  direct  action  of  the  conditions  of  life, 
and  from  use  and  disuse;  a  ratio  of  increase  so  higli  as  to  lead  to  a  struggle  for  life,  and 
as  a  consequence  to  natural  selection,  entailing  divergence  of  character  and  the  extinc- 
tion of  less-improved  forms.  Thus,  from  the  war  of  nature,  from  famine  and  death,  the 
most  exalted  object  wliich  we  are  cajiablc  of  concei\ing  —  namely,  the  production  of  the 
higlier  animals  —  directly  follows.  There  is  trraudetir  in  this  view  of  life,  with  its 
several  powers,  having  been  originally  breatlied  by  the  t'reator  into  a  few  forms  (>r  into 
our;  and  that,  whilst  this  planet  lias  ^'oiie  cycling  on  according  to  the  fixed  laws  of 
L'ravily,  from  so  simple  a  beginning,  endless  forms  most  beautiful  and  most  wonderful 
have  1)1(11  and  are  bidng  evolved.' 

Every  full-(jrl)c(l  soul  feels  the  uplift  of  the  ideal.  Tyndall 
(l.S".*0-  ),    ill    recasting   the    definitions   of    inattor  and    force, 

illustrates  the  ground-idea  of  mail,  which,  though  restricte<l,  has 
a  uiovahlc  bomidarv,  and  tends  ('vcr  outward  into  the  illimitable. 
*  These  evolutitm  notions,'  he  e.xclaims,  'are  absurd,  monstrous, 
and  fit  only  for  the  intellectual  gibbet,  hi  rehitlon  to  the  ideas 
coxceniliitj  )Hiitti:r  u'li'n-lt  ircrc  tfrllhif  iitfo  us  tr/ie/i  i/dhikj.'' 
There  is,  he  decides,  but  one  substance;  not  matter  as  vulgarly 
understood,  nor  yet  spirit,  but  the  (jriginal  of  b(jth,  possessing 


432  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

therefore  a  physical  and  a  spiritual  side.  Hence  '  matter  is 
essentially  mystical  and  transcendental.'  '  Emotion,  intell(;ct, 
will,  and  all  their  phenomena,  were  once  latent  in  a  fiery  cloud.'' 
Again: 

'Supposing  that,  in  youth,  we  had  been  iinprej^nated  with  the  notion  of  the  poel 
Goethe,  in.stead  of  the  notion  of  the  poet  Young,  loolving  at  matter  not  as  brute  matter, 
butasflie  living  garment  of  (iO'l,  is  it  not  probable  tliat  our  repugnance  to  the  idea  of 
primeval  union  between  (-pirit  and  matter  niiglit  be  considerably  abated?' ' 

Sain   (1818-  )  is  more  explicit:   'The  ar<ruments  for  the 

two  substances  have,  we  believe,  now  entirely  lost  their  validity. 
The  one  substance  with  two  sets  of  properties,  two  sides, —  the 
physical  and  the  mental, —  (/  donhle-faced  loiity,  would  appear  to 
comply  with  all  the  exigencies  of  the  case.' 

As  often  as  supposed  isolated  ])henoiuena  have  been  seen  to 
occupy  fixed  places  in  invariable^  sequences,  tliey  have  been 
regarded  as  accoinited  for  and  explained,  without  recourse  to  the 
volition  of  superior  beings,  who,  to  such  extent,  have  retired  from 
participation  in  the  world's  affairs.  Hence  science  has  seemed  to 
antagonize  the  religious  sentiment.  But  no  fundamental  Ijelief 
is  possibly  in  danger.  The  concessions  of  Hlixley  (18"^5-  ), 
added  to  the  utterances  of  Tyndall,  should  compose  the  popular 
apprehension: 

'The  properties  of  living  matter  distintrnish  it  absolutely  from  all  other  kinds  of 
things;  and  the  present  state  of  knowledge  furnishes  us  with  no  link  between  the  living 
and  the  not-living.' 

Nothing  has  been  found  to  bridge  the  chasm  between  the  inor- 
ganic and  the  organic.  Minuteness  of  change  does  not  account 
for  the  introduction  of  a  new  principle,  f.ife  must  have  been  put 
originally  into  tlic  series  from  which  it  is  at  last  evolved.  In 
other  words,  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  supernatural  act,  directly 
or  indirectly,  originated  life  in  the  primordial  c-ell. 

'Has  matter  more  than  motion?   has  it  thouglit, 
Judgiiienl,  and  genius?   is  it   deeply  lenni'd 
In  iiiathematic^  ?   has  it  framed  such  law-^ 
Wliieli  l)ut  to  guf-s-^,  a  Xewton  made  immortal  ? 
If  so,   licivv  c.ieh  saire  atom  laugh-;  at  me 
Who  think  a  clod  infeiior  to  a  man: 
If  art   to  form,  and  cowiisel  to  direct, 
And  tlial  which  irreatcr  far  than  liumaii  ^kill. 
Resides  not   in  each  block, —  a  god- head  rcignw:' 

Be  not  frightened  witli  a  woid.    '  lieign  of  law"  can  tneari  nothing 

'  FriigiMnls  of  Sciirire. 


PROSE— THE   BRIDGELE8S   CHASM.  433 

more  than  the  universal  prevalence  of  methodical  succession. 
When  events  are  said  to  '  come  by  law,'  they  are  explained  scien- 
tifically, not  exhaustively.  You  frain  no  further  insight  into  why 
the  apple  falls  when  you  say  that  it  does  so  by  the  force  of  gravi- 
tation. You  are  merely  able,  by  this  expression,  most  usefully  to 
relate  it  to  other  phenomena,  as  the  fall  of  a  rose-leaf  and  the 
velocities  of  comets.  Molecular  groupings,  molecular  motions, 
explain  nothing.  Rarely  is  our  patience  so  severely  tried  as  by 
the  flippant  blasphemy  of  those  arrogant,  Si^ientists  (or  scientific 
attaches)  who  inscribe  on  their  banners,  'full  high  advanced,'  A^o 
faith,  Believe  not  him/.  Science,  that  can  catalogue  the  stars, 
calculate  eclipses,  girdle  the  globe  with  lightning,  and  send  youc 
messages  upon  flaming  wings,  is  impotent,  with  all  her  vaunted 
resources,  to  produce  one  fibre  of  a  blade  of  grass,  to  tell  the 
cause  of  one  vein  in  the  radiant  tracery  of  a  flower,  or  approxi- 
mate to  the  most  distant  definition  of  what  thought  may  really 
be.  Let  a  poet  rebuke,  with  an  emphasis  of  far-reaching  instinct, 
the  audacious  materialist: 

'Flower  in  the  crannied  wall. 
I  pluck  yon  out  of  the  cranuieis; 
Hold  yon  here  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower,  root  and  all. 
And  if  1  could  understand 
What  yon  are,  rootrf  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  i^hould  know  what  CJod  and  man  is.' ' 

Philosophy. — As  the  dominant  ethics  is  utilitarian,  so  the 
dominant  psydiology  is  empirical  or  sensational.  First  among 
the  representatives  of  the  latter  school  are  Mill,  Lewes,  Spencer, 
and  Bain.  They  have  powerful  auxiliaries  in  'ryndall  and  Hux- 
ley, who  are  not  philosophers,  but  scientists.  All  our  knowledge 
comes  primarily  from  the  senses.  All  our  ideas  —  as  of  right  and 
wronsr,  truth  and  heautv,  duty  and  honor  —  are  derived  from 
experience.  If  any  an;  admittedly  in  the  mind,  yet  admittedly 
Ix'yond  exjiericiice,  they  are  pronounced  delusive.  Xotliing  is 
true  necessarily  and  a  priori.  The  only  certitude  is  that  we 
have  such  and  such  impressions.  You  are  convinced  that  two 
parallel  lines  cannot  meet,  that  a  part  is  less  llian  the  whole;  but 
it  laiu'lit  be  otherwise  in  the  luiiversities  of  tiie  Dog-Star.  Some 
boldlv  resolve  all  thought   into  the  mere  action  of  nervous  cen- 

'  Tennyson. 

28 


434  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

tres,  induced  by  purely  physical  forces.  Others  identify  the  lawn 
of  matter  and  mind.  Some,  like  Spencer,  unlike  Mill,  adopt 
the  Hamiltonian  test  of  belief  —  the  inconceivableness  of  the 
opposite,  the  inability  to  think  a  g-iven  proposition  false.  All 
decline  to  recognize  intuitive  elements.  Space  and  time  are 
evolved  from  sensation,  though  themselves  the  conditions  of  sen- 
sation. Causation  means  invariable  antecedence,  though  it  must 
be  evident  that  no  phenomenon  comes  into  existence  because 
another  phenomenon  precedes.  Precedence  is  but  the  sif/n  of 
antecedent  efrcioiri/.  As  a  class,  they  reduce  the  idea  of  the 
Infinite  to  a  inere  negation,  an  impotency.  If  there  are  feelings 
which  spring  up  in  an  unknown  way  by  means  of  association, 
these  in  turn  generate  no  reality.  Ask  what  assurance  you  have 
for  your  highest  hopes,  and  the  reply  is.  Whence  gravitation? 
They  will  utter  no  profession  of  faith,  but  leave  you  on  a  wide 
sea  of  conjecture  —  in  the  open  polar  zone  — 

'To  starve  in  ice, 
Immovable,  infixed,  and  frozen  round.' 

This  is  the  principle  employed  by  the  subtlest  form  of  infidelity 
to-day, — that  man  knows  nothing  except  appeai'ances  or  relations 
between  things  unknown.  Its  logical  issue  is  Af/nosticism,^  and 
this  is  its  final  message  'unto  men': 

'An  ininiense  golitarj"  si)ectre  waits: 
It  has  no  sliape,  it  lias  no  sound;   it  has 
No  place,  it  has  no  time:   it  is,  and  was. 
And  will  1)0 ;   it  is  never  more  nor  less, 
Nor  triad  nor  sad.     Its  name  is  Nothingness. 
Power  walketh  hitrh;   and  misery  doth  erawl; 
And  the  clepsydron  drips:   and  the  sands  fall 
Down  in  the  honr-f^lass:   and  the  shadows  sweep 
Around  the  dial;   and  men  wake  and  sleep, 
Live,  strive,  regret,  foriiet,  and  love,  and  hate. 
And  know  it.     This  speetrc  saith,  I  wait. 
And  at  the  last  it  heekons.  and  they  pass; 
And  still  the  red  sands  fall  within  the  ulass. 
And  still  the  shades  around  the  dial  sweep; 
And  still  th(!  wati^r-cloek  doth  drip  and  weej). 
And  this  is  all." 

Th(^  soul,  like  the  bare  and  rayloss  moon,  is  left  with  only  its 
rocks  and  its  extinct  volcaiKX's.  Contemplating,  in  this  darkness, 
tlie  jierjx'tual  struggle  for  (\\i.steiice,  it  j)lunges  into  a  lower  deep, 
—  Pess>'»i)S//i,  the  religion  <jf  the  1 -'nconscious,  the  pliilosoj)hy  of 
(ji'.spair,  whose!  'Mid  is  the  IJyronic  wail: 

'A  c.iitradirtion  in  tirnn.      \Vi:  know,  if  only  It  be  in  knowing  that  we  do  not  knr)w. 


PROSE  —  THE   CONFLICT   OF   STUDIES.  435 

'Count  o'er  the  joyH  thine  hours  have  seen. 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free; 
And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'Tis  something  better  —  not  to  be.' 

True,  possibly,  when  you  mistake  the  meaning  of  pleasure  and 
the  object  of  life,  which,  as  we  shall  forever  insist,  is  not  to 
derive  the  greatest  enjoyment,  but  — 

'To  strive,  to  seeJc,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield.' 

Against  this  materialistic  drift  there  have  been  protests. 
Poetry  attests  the  strength  and  continuity  of  the  supernatural. 
The  satire  that  covers  with  ridicule  the  revived  doctrine  of  Lucre- 
tius voices  the  imperishable  instinct  which  refuses  to  abide  in  a 
vacuum  or  to  accept  a  .stone  when  it  asks  for  bread:  , 

'From  tloating  elements  in  cliaos  hurled. 
Self-formed  of  atoms,  sprang  the  infant  world. 
No  great  First  Cause  inspired  the  liappy  plot. 
Hut  all  was  matter, —  and  no  matter  what, — 
Atoms  attracted  by  some  law  occult, 
Settling  in  spheres,— this  globe  was  the  result. 
I  sing  how  casual  bricks,  in  airy  climb, 
Encountered  casual  cow-hair,  cusniil  lime; 
IIow  rafters,  borne  through  wondering  clouds  elate. 
Kissed  in  tlieir  slope  blue  elemental  slate. 
Clasped  solid  l)eams  in  chance-directed  fury. 
And  gave  to  birth  our  rctiovated  Drury.'  ' 

The  .s{)iritual  and  inner,  as  distinguished  from  the  exterior  and 
cariuil,  iiiid  ini])assi()nod  e.xpression  in  Carlyle.  Stirling,  Mar- 
tineau,  and  others,  ])romiso  not  a  little  in  the  way  of  qualifying 
favorablv  the  niotaphysics  of  Britain.  "^I'he  chief  resistance  has 
been  olTered  by  the  hereditary  moral  tone.  It  is  this  that  has 
made  the  name  of  ninterinllst  oj>probrious, —  a  designation  which 
few  of  the  school  are  now  willing  to  acce])t.  The  effort  to  spirit- 
ualize matter  jiroves  tlieir  reluctance,  as  well  as  the  existence  of 
a  hiu'lier  nature,  which  will  not  allow  them  to  rest  satisfied  in 
their  <Te(>d.  Tlicv  incline  to  say  with  Iluxlev, 'Tf  I  were  com- 
])elleil  to  choose,  1  do  not  know  whether  I  should  express  the 
facts  of  nature  in  t<>rms  of  matter  or  terms  of  spirit.' 

In  .\mcrica,  admiring  Tyndall  discovers  an  authority  in  Dr, 
Draper,  and  Spencer  has  jin  accomplished  ex|»ounder  in  I"'iske; 
but  niateriaiisiii,  on  tlu^  whole,  has  little  ac(M>plancc.  Its  entrance 
and  proiifcss  have  been  opposed  by  the  Concord  transcendeiital- 
ists,— Emerson  and    his  associates;   ])v  our  foremost  scientists, 

'/^V-'W"/  Ailiireafie.t ;  <>ii  the  rulxiJl.liiii:  of  Dniry  I,.-iiie  Theatre. 


436  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  FEATURES. 

as  Winchell,  Gray,  and  Agassiz;  by  the  entire  class  of  metaphy- 
sicians, as  McCosh,  Porter,  and  Bascom;  above  all,  by  the 
religious  seiitimcnt,  by  democratic  tastes  which  tend  to  create  a 
more  flowing  and  aspiring  type  of  thought. 

But  the  scientific  current,  as  we  before  intimated,  is  moving 
more  or  less  all  schools  of  thought.  Scientific  methods  are  intro- 
duced into  all  parts  of  philosophical  speculation.'  Theories  of 
mental  processes  which  despise  or  ignore  the  disclosures  of  phys- 
iology and  natural  history,  cannot  hope  to  receive  favor.  The 
mistake  is  in  making  physiological  investigation  the  sole  or 
chief  guide.  All  its  achievements  have  only  illuminated  the 
old  statement  that  soul  and  body  are  here  intimately  related. 
'The  problem  of  the  connection  of  soul  and  body,'  says  Tyndall, 
*is  as  insolvable  in  its  modern  form  as  it  was  in  the  pre-scientific 
ages.'  No  light  has  been  shed  upon  the  arcana  of  intellect  and 
volition  ;  nor  can  there  be,  by  exclusive  approaches  from  the 
outside.  No  sage  of  physical  wisdom  can  bring  word  of  solace 
or  vision  of  peace  to  the  troubled  and  weary  who  ask: 

'Can!~t  thon  not  minister  to  ii  mind  lli^<('ascd, 
Pluck  from  tiie  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
And  by  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuflfod  bosom  of  the  perilous  stufl 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart?" 

Resume. — Tlie  many,  growing  intelligent,  guide  the  Avorld. 
Tlic  universal  tendency  is  towards  popvilar  institutions.  Govcrn- 
■ni'.Tit,  it  is  now  understood,  exists  not  for  the  pomp  or  pleasure 
of  a  few,  but  for  the  good,  the  safety,  the  rights  of  all.  Educa- 
tion becomes  the  work  of  nations.  In  religion,  the  tone  of 
authority  gives  place  to  reason  and  persuasion.  An  enlarged 
and  trustful  ])hilanthropy  springs  up  amidst  the  prevalence  of 
selfisiuiess  and  crinic.  lienevolence  gathers  its  armies.  Bevond 
all  former  experience,  evil  awakens  antagonistic  effort.  Woman 
becomes  an  evangelist.  In  one  age  a  drudge,  in  another  a  toy, 
the  inspirations  of  her  genius,  tlirough  the  agency  of  the  ])ress, 
are  now  felt  far  and  wide.  Literature  of  an  increasingly  high 
order,  sends  its  light  into  cottages.  Discoveries  and  theories, 
once  the  niono])oly  of  philosophers,  b(!Come   the  ])ropertv  of  the 

'  Notablv  illu^trutcil  irj  .Mr.  lia-coiir-  lati   yvork.  Srienre  of  Mind. 


RESUME.  437 

multitude.     Science,  passinjr,  beyond  precedent,  from  speculation 
into  life,  confers  dominion  over  earth,  sea,  and  air. 

In  bulk  and  quality  of  productiveness,  the  supremacy  passes 
to  prose.  In  historical  labors  the  period  is  rich.  The  leading 
characteristics  here  are  fulness  of  treatment,  vividness  of  style, 
depth  of  insight,  breadth  of  generalization.  Fiction  and  journal- 
ism are  preponderant.  The  newspaper  addresses  every  age, 
class,  and  calling.  Ej>sayists  of  various  schools, —  Positive, 
/Esthetic,  Agnostic,  Satiric, —  keep  historical,  religious,  and 
social  dogmas  in  perpetual  agitation.  A  pronounced  feature  is 
literary  criticism;  not  seldom  false  and  malicious  in  fact,  but 
fearless,  flexible,  ardent,  cosmopolitan  in  tendency,  seeking  to 
find  and  propagate  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought.  The 
novel,  pictorial  and  ethical,  realistic  and  ideal,  is  cultivated  with 
preeminent  assiduity  and  success.  From  Scott  to  George  Eliot 
it  has  been,  in  fruitfulness  and  favor,  what  the  drama  was  to 
Elizabethan  times.  The  number  of  singers  is  prodigious,  but 
the  great  are  few,  and  none  reaches  the  level  of  the  voices  whose 
earlier  music  we  have  heard.  As  the  average  in  every  other 
department  is  higher,  so  never,  on  the  whole,  was  so  much  good 
po(>try  produced;  yet  is  it  ratlier  the  literature  of  culture  than 
the  literature  of  power.  It  lias  exactness,  finish,  art,  but  lacks 
spoiitiiiH'ousncss  and  glow.  Taste  has  changed,  inspiration  has 
declined,  the  practical  temper  is  dominant.  Theological  thought, 
whose  controversies  are  tlie  phases  of  its  evolution,  proves  in  the 
jicrpetual  vicissitude  of  forms,  the  continuity  Jind  development 
of  its  spirit.  Philosopliy  is  disparaged.  Its  prevailing  drift  is 
on  tli(^  side  of  material  rather  than  spiritual  interests.  Aspira- 
tion that  looks  for  guidance,  finds  it,  not  in  the  regular  meta- 
])hvsieians,  but  in  the  moral  teachers, — Wordsworth,  Carlyle, 
l']iuers()ti. 

Xot  many  years  ago  it  was  said  in  England  that  no  one  ever 
read  an  American  book.  Iteeeiitly,  in  an  address  at  the  opening 
(if  i'lniiiiiuliain  l>ihnii'v,  Bright,  the  English  statesman,  dwelt 
part  ieiilarlv  on  the  growth  and  iiu])()rtaiice  of  American  litera- 
tui'e.  WC  have  attained  our  majDritv.  The  bonds  of  foreign 
fashion  are  broken.  Our  exeelleiices  are  lieing  accorded  candid 
recognition.  We  an*  less  fre(|uently  reminded  of  oui'  innna- 
tmitv.      Critics  of  the  old  country  are  <lropj)ing  the  aristocratic 


438  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

hitutenr  with  which  they  were  wont  to  bear  down  upon  the 
writers  and  thinkers  of  the  new.  Some  of  the  ablest  English 
scholars,  on  the  contrary,  express  a  preference  to  ])ublish  origi- 
nally in  American  periodicals.  Br^'ant,  Whittier,  Longfellow, 
Emerson,  and  Hawthorne,  are  the  leaders  of  the  select  band 
who  have  signed  the  declaration  of  intellectual  independence, 
and  are  raising-  the  nation  above  the  'rustic  murmur'  of  provin- 
cial life  into  '  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  the  world.' 

Two  important  characteristics  of  the  day  merit  emphasis. 
One  is  the  activity  and  universality  of  scientific  influence.  The 
idea  of  law  has  been  so  extended  and  generalized  as  to  dwarf 
its  former  pro])ortions.  It  is  diffused  throughout  the  mental 
atmosj)here,  and  pow(>rfully  affects  every  department  of  tluught. 
Again,  literature,  English  and  American,  is  distinguished  by  a 
profounder  moral  consciousness  than  ever  before,  a  greater  deli- 
cacy of  analysis,  a  deeper  ground  of  sentiment  and  reflection. 
High  and  low  run  tlie  race  of  accumulation,  but  human  interest 
circles  with  giowing  appreciation  altout  tlie  moral  man, —  his 
origin,  his  possibilities,  his  aspirations,  his  destiny. 


13  I  C  K  E  N  S. 

VVt>  cloiil)t  wliothcr  there  has  ever  lieen  :\  writer  oT  fiction  wlio  took  siicli  .1  real  and 
lovinu'  interest  in  the  world  about  liini. — S?r  Artliur  I[elp,f. 

Biograpliy. — Born  at  T^and})ort,  in  \i>\'Z,  s(H'oiid  in  a  family 
of  eight;  at  two,  was  l)rought  to  London,  but  soon  removed  to 
Chatham,  where  he  livcMl  till  the  ago  of  nine.  Here,  d(^l)arred 
from  boyish  sj)oits  bv  a  delictite  constitution,  he  sought  the  com- 
panionship of  books: 

'My  father  had  left  a  small  eolleetion  of  l)()oks  in  a  little  room  iip-stairs  to  wliich  1 
had  access,  and  which  nohodv  else  in  our  house  ever  troubled.  From  that  blessed  litth' 
room,  "Roderick  Random. "'  '•  I'irejjrine  Pickle,"'  "  IInmi)lire.v  Clinker,"'  "Tom  Jones," 
"  \icar  f)f  Waketield,"'  "  Doji  (Quixote,"  "(ill  Ulas,"  and  "Kobinsou  Crusoe,"  came  out, 
a  '_'lorious  host,  to  keej)  me  company.  They  ke))!  ali\e  my  fancy,  and  my  hope  of  sonie- 
thini,'  beyond  that  jilaee  and  time.'  ' 

From  (  ■lijitliam  Ijack   to  London,  whore  his  fatluM"  was  iinj)risoi)ed 

for    <lof)t.       liv   degr<'e.s    tlie    I'uniiture    w;is    sold    or    pawiiofl,    the 


DICKENS.  439 

library  with  the  rest  ;  and  the  boy,  weakly  and  sensitive,  was 
put  to  work  in  a  blacking-house  at  six  or  seven  shillings  a  week, 
his  occupation  being  to  cover  the  blacking-pots  with  paper.  He 
has  described  his  sense  of  degradation,  which  grew  larger  and 
more  ghastly  in  the  retrospect: 

'  Xo  words  can  express  the  cecret  agony  of  my  soul  ii»  1  sunk  into  thin  companion- 
sliip:  conipareil  these  every -day  associates  with  those  of  my  happier  childhood;  and  felt 
my  early  ho))es  of  growing  up  to  be  a  learned  and  distinguished  man  crushed  in  my 
breast.  The  deep  remembrance  of  the  sense  I  had  of  being  utterly  neglected  and  hope- 
less; of  the  shame  I  felt  in  my  position;  of  the  misery  it  was  to  my  young  heart  to 
believe  that,  day  by  day,  what  I  had  learned,  and  thought,  and  delighted  in,  and  raised 
my  fancy  and  my  emulation  up  by,  was  |)assing  away  from  nie,  never  to  be  brought  back 
any  more,  cannot  be  written." 

The  family  resources  improving,  he  was  .sent  to  school,  where 
'the  boys  trained  white  mice  much  better  than  the  master  trained 
the  boys';  at  fifteen,  an  oftice-lad  to  attorneys,  then  a  student  of 
short-hand,  frequenting  the  British  Museum  and  reading  dili- 
gently. 'Pray,  Mr.  Dickens,'  said  a  friend  to  the  father,  'where 
was  your  .son  educated?'  'Why,  indeed,  sir  —  ha,  ha!  —  he  may 
be  said  to  have  (nlucated  himself.'  Tn  a  similar  strain,  Weller  in 
Picki'uck  s|)eaks  of  his  hopeful  Sam:  'I  took  a  good  deal  o'  })ains 
with  his  eddication,  sir;  let  him  run  in  the  .streets  when  he  was 
wery  young,  and  shift  for  his-self.'  At  nineteen,  in  the  Gallery 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  where  he  was  (piickly  acknowledged 
the  best  of  eighty  or  ninety  re{)orters.  Three  years  later,  having 
ventured  one  evening  to  drop  a  story  into  the  letter-bo.\  of  the 
0/J,  Moiit/ili/  Mdi/ozlne,  he  saw  himself  in  print.  'On  which 
occasion  1  walked  down  to  Westminster  Hall,  and  turned  into  it 
for  hair  an  hour,  because  my  eyes  wtuv  so  dimmed  witli  joy  and 
])ri(le  that  tliev  could  not  bear  the  street,  and  were  not  fit  to  be 
s('en  tlierc'  (  )tli('r  sketches  followed,  signed  'Boz';  and  in  183(i 
tiu^sc  wci'c  i-iillected  into  two  volumes, —  his  first  work,  the  copy- 
right of  wlii(^h  was  sold  for  one  hundred  atul  fifty  pounds,  and 
slioitiv  repurehased  for  two  thousand  pounds!  ( )n  tlie  thirty- 
first  of  .MiU<'li  lie  Ix'gaii  the  Plckirick  Pdjtrrs  ;  on  the  second  of 
April,  married  ;  in  .\ugust,  <|uit  the  Reporter's  CJallery,  and 
entered  literature  as  a  pi'ofession.  Travelled  in  the  Highlands, 
visited  Switzerland  and  tlu^  I'nited  States,  resided  in  Italv  and 
1"" ranee,  engage(l  in  {)ul)iii'  readings  from  his  novels,  and  in  this 
way  alone  gained  forty  thousand  poinuls  in  Britain  and  America. 
Health  declined,   but   love  of   money  and   love  of  a])plause   urged 


440  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — UEPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

him  on,  till  at  last  he  was  stricken  with  apoplexy,  and  died  in  a 
state  of  unoonsciousness  on  the  evening  of  the  ninth  of  June, 
1870.  Though  he  had  desired  to  be  laid  quietly  in  the  old 
church-yard  amidst  the  scenes  that  were  dear  to  memory,  the 
national  cemetery  claimed  him,  and  he  was  buried  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 

Writings. — It  was  the  mission  of  Dickens  as  an  artist  to 
give  a  masterly  realism  to  the  good  and  ill  of  every-day  life. 
Oliver  7\oist  is  the  story  of  a  child  born  in  a  workhouse  and 
brought  up  by  the  parish,  thrown  amid  scenes  of  vice,  wretched- 
ness, and  misery,  yet  preserved  from  pollution  by  an  exquisite 
delicacy  and  strength  of  natural  sentiment.  Call  it  a  series  of 
pictures, —  portraits  of  associates  in  crime,  who  forever  skulk 
uneasily,  with  the  ghastly  gallows  closing  up  their  prospect. 
Here  is  the  ruffian  Sykes,  who  has  horribly  nuirdered  a  trusted 
girl  that  betrayed  him : 

'The  sun  — the  bright  sun,  that  brings  back,  not  light  alone,  but  new  life,  and  hope, 
and  freshness  to  man— burst  uijon  tlie  crowded  city  in  clear  and  radiant  glory.  Through 
costly  colored  glass  arid  paper-mended  window,  through  cathedral  dome  and  rotten 
crevice  it  shed  its  equal  ray.  It  lighted  \\\>  the  room  where  the  murdered  woman  lay.  It 
did.  lie  tried  to  shut  it  out,  but  it  would  stream  iu.  If  Ihe  sight  had  been  a  ghastly  one 
in  the  dull  morning,  what  was  it  now,  in  all  that  brilliant  light  1 

He  had  not  moved;  he  had  been  afraid  to  stir.  There  had  been  a  moan  and  motion 
of  the  hand;  and,  with  terror  added  to  rage,  he  had  struck  and  struck  again.  Once  he 
threw  a  rug  over  it:  but  it  was  to  fancy  the  eyes,  and  imagine  them  moving  toward  him, 
then  to  sec  them  glaring  upward,  as  if  watching  the  reflection  of  the  pool  of  gore  that 
quivered  and  danced  in  the  sunlight  on  the  ceiling.  lie  had  plucked  it  off  again.  And 
there  was  the  body— mere  flesh  and  blood,  no  more  —  but  such  flesh,  and  so  much  blood! 

He  struck  a  light,  kindled  a  tire,  and  thrust  the  club  into  it.  There  was  hair  upon  the 
end,  which  blazed  and  slirunk  into  a  light  ciu<ler,  and,  caught  by  the  air,  whirled  up  tlu! 
chimney.  Even  that  frightened  him,  sturdy  as  he  was;  but  he  held  the  weapon  till  it 
broke,  and  tlieii  i)iled  it  on  the  coals  to  burn  away,  and  smoulder  into  ashes.  He  washed 
himself,  and  rubl)e(l  his  clotlics:  there  were  s])ots  that  would  not  be  removed,  hut  he  cut 
the  i)ieces  out,  and  burnt  tlu'iu.     How  those  stains  were  dispersed  aljout  the  room!' 

In  vain  he  flies,  hitlier  and  thither,  from  memory  and  himself. 
'Yho,  very  children  seem  to  view  him  with  suspicion.  Waking  or 
sleeping,  the  dreadful  vision  is  before  him, —  the  room  with  its 
familiar  contents,  each  well-known  object  in  its  accustomed  place; 
above  all,  the  wi(h']y  staring  eyes,  so  lustreless  and  so  glassy: 

'He  went  on  doggedly:  but  ns  he  left  the  town  behind  him,  and  plunged  into  the 
solilu'li'  and  darkness  of  the  road,  he  filt  a  dread  and  awe  creei)ing  upon  him  which 
shook  hhu  to  the  core.  Kvery  ol)je(t  before  him,  substance  or  shadow,  still  or  moving, 
took  the  seml)lauee  of  some  fearful  tiling:  hut  these  fears  were  nothing  compared  to  the 
sense  that  haunted  him  of  that  morning's  ghastly  figure  following  at  his  heels.  He  could 
trace  its  shadow  in  the  gloom,  su])ply  the  smallest  iteiii  of  the  outline,  and  note  how  stiff 
and  solemn  it  seemed  to  stalk  along.     He  could  hear  its  garments  rustling  in  the  leaves; 


DICKENS.  441 

?nd  every  breath  of  wind  came  laden  with  that  laot  low  cry.  If  he  stopped,  it  did  the 
same.  If  he  ran,  it  followed —not  running  too;  that  would  have  been  a  relief;  hut  like 
a  corpse  endowed  with  the  mere  machinery  of  life,  and  borne  on  the  r^low  melancholy 
wind  that  never  rose  or  fell. 

At  times,  he  turned,  with  desperate  determination,  resolved  to  beat  this  phantom 
off,  though  it  should  l(X)k  him  dead;  but  the  hair  rose  on  his  head,  and  his  blood  sUxmI 
still:  for  it  had  turned  with  him  and  was  behind  him  then.  lie  had  kept  it  before  him 
that  morning,  but  it  was  behind  him  now  — always.  He  leaned  his  back  against  a  bank, 
and  felt  that  it  stood  above  him,  visibly  out  against  the  cold  night-sky.  He  threw  himself 
tipon  the  road  — on  his  back  upon  the  road.  At  his  head  it  stood,  silent,  erect,  and  stilt  — 
a  living  gravestone,  with  its  epitaph  in  blood.' 

Since  Shakespeare  there  has  been  no  such  depicture  —  so  lucid 
and  so  powerful.  Fagin,  the  abhorred  Jew,  overwhelmed  by  a 
sense  of  the  grave  that  opens  at  his  feet,  has  heard  mechanically, 
like  a  marble  figure,  the  sentence  that  dooms  him  to  die,  and, 
hurried  to  one  of  the  condemned  cells,  is  left  —  alone: 

'  He  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  opiwsite  the  door,  which  served  for  seat  and  bed- 
stead; and  casting  his  bloodshot  eyes  u|>on  the  ground,  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts. 
After  a  while  he  began  to  remember  a  few  disjointed  frairmcnts  of  what  the  judge  had 
said:  Ihouirli  it  had  seemed  to  him,  at  the  time,  that  he  could  not  hear  a  word.  These 
gradually  fell  into  their  proper  places,  and  by  degrec^s  suggested  more;  so  that  in  a  little 
time  he  had  the  whole,  almost  as  it  was  delivered.  To  be  hanged  by  the  neck,  till  he 
was  dead  —  that  was  the  end.    To  l)e  hanged  by  the  neck  till  he  was  de:id. 

As  it  came  on  very  dark,  he  began  to  think  of  all  the  men  he  had  known  who  had 
died  upon  the  scaffold,  some  of  them  through  his  means.  They  rose  up,  in  such  (piick 
surcession  that  he  co\ild  hardly  count  them.  He  had  seen  some  of  them  die, — and  had 
joked  too,  because  they  died  with  prayers  upon  their  lips.  With  what  a  rattling  noise 
the  drop  went  down;  and  how  suddenly  they  changed,  from  strong  and  vigorous  men  to 
dandling  heaps  of  clothes  I 

Some  of  them  might  have  inhabited  that  very  ctdl  —  sat  upon  that  very  spot.  It  was 
very  dark;  why  didn't  they  bring  a  light?  The  cell  had  been  built  for  many  years. 
Scores  of  men  must  have  i)assed  their  last  hours  there.  It  was  like  silting  in  a  vault 
strewn  with  dead  bodies  —  the  cap,  the  noose,  the  pinioned  arms,  the  faces  that  he  knew, 
even  beneatli  tliat  hideous  veil  — Light,  light!' 

In    7//''    O/rZ   Ctn'fos/fi/   Shop  we    have   the    like    wealth    and 

fulno.s.s    of     individual     oddities    ami     striking    contrasts.      Dick 

Swivellor  is  wortliv  of  a   liigli   place   in   P]nglish   comedy.      lie   is 

a   gocxl-iiaturod    vagaboml,    a    I'lover    com])Ound    of    coiict'it    ami 

assurance.      Me    j)urchases,    notoriously   without    means    to    pay, 

promising   with    dignified    carelessness    to    call    and    settle    when 

hi>  'should  1)e  ])assiiig  presently.'      To  sparc^  himself  tmiK'cessary 

aiiiiovance.  he  makes  a  memorandum  of  the  localitv: 

'I  enter  in  tiiis  little  book  the  names  of  the  streets  that  T  e:in't  go  down  while  the 
shops  are  ())>(ii.  This  dinner  to-day  closes  Long  .\ere.  I  bouLrhl  a  ]):iir  of  boots  in  Great 
Queen  Slri'ct,  and  made  that  no  thoroughfare  ton.  Tlicre's  only  one  .•iv.iiui'  in  tlie 
Strand  left  open  now,  and  I  shall  have  to  stop  up  tliat  toiiiirlit  with  a  ])air  of  gloves. 
The  roads  are  closing  so  fast  in  every  tlirection,  that  in  about  a  n>onth's  time,  unle-is  my 
aunt  sends  me  a  remittance,!  shall  have  to  go  three  or  four  miles  out  of  town  to  get  over 
the  way.' 


442  DIFFUSIVE    FEKIOI) — KKFKKSENTATIVE    ALTHOKS. 

His  head  is  stored  witli  scraps  of  songs  and  plays,  ready  for  the 
sentiment  of  the  motnent.  Jilted,  as  he  thinks,  by  Miss  Wackles, 
he  takes  leave  of  her  in  the  following  style: 

'My  boat  is  on  the  inhere  and  my  bark  is  on  the  sea,  but  before  I  pass  tliis  door  1  will 
say  farewell  to  thee.  ...  I  believed  you  true,  and  I  was  blest  in  so  believinf?,  but.  now  1 
mourn  that  e'er  I  knew  a  girl  so  fair  yet  so  dceeiving.  ...  I  came  here  .  .  .  with  my 
bosom  expanded,  my  heart  dilated,  and  my  sentiments  of  a  corresponding  description. 
1  go  away  with  feelings  that  may  be  conceived  but  cannot  be  described:  feeling  within 
myself  the  desolating  trutli  that  my  best  affections  have  experienced,  this  night,  a  stiller! 
.  .  I  wish  you  a  very  good  night;  concluding  with  this  slight  remark,  that  there  is  a 
young  lady  growing  up  at  this  present  moment  for  me,  w  ho  has  not  only  great  personal 
attractions,  but  groat  wealth,  and  who  has  requested  lier  next  of  kin  to  propose  for 
my  hand,  which  having  a  regard  for  some  ineml)ers  of  her  family,  I  have  consented  to 
promise.  It's  a  gratifying  circumstance  which  you'll  be  glad  to  hear,  that  a  young  and 
lovely  girl  is  growing  into  a  woman  expressly  on  my  account,  and  is  now  saving  up  for 
me.  I  thought  I'd  mention  it.  I  have  now  merely  to  apologise  for  trespassing  so  long 
upon  your  attention.    Good  night  I ' 

In  tbe  pangs  of  disappointed  love,  he  exhibits  to  Quilp,  the 
wolfish  dwarf,  a  piece  of  the  indigestible  wedding-cake: 

'  "What  should  you  say  this  was  '?''  demanded  Mr.  Swiveller. 

"It  looks  like  bride-cake,"  replied  the  dwarf,  grinning. 

".\ud  whose  should  you  say  it  was  ?'' inquired  Mr.  Swiveller,  rubbing  the  pastry 
against  his  nose  with  a  dreadful  calmness.     "  Whose.  ?  " 

"Not—" 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  "the  same.  You  needn't  mention  her  name.  There's  no  suc.li 
name  now.  IltT  name  is  Cheggs,  now,  Sophy  Oheggs.  Yet  loved  I  as  man  never  loved 
that  hadn't  wooden  legs,  and  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking  for  the  love  of  Sophy 
Cheggs."  ' 

In    his  own    bed-chamber,    having   divested    himself  of   one   boot 

and  forgotten  the  other,  he  falls  into  deep  cogitation: 

'"These  rubbers,'"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  on  his  night-cap  in  exactly  the  same 
style  as  he  wore  his  hat,  "remind  me  of  the  matrimonial  liresidj'.  .  .  .  Hy  this  time,  1 
should  say,"  added  Richard,  getting  his  left  cheek  into  proflle,  and  looking  comiilacently 
at  the  reflection  of  a  very  little  scrap  of  whisker  in  the  looking-glass:  "by  ftiis  time,  T 
should  say,  the  iron  lias  entered  into  her  soul.     It  serves  her  right !  "  ' 

With  a  va.st  opinion  of  his  own  abilities,  he  is  the  victim  of  (wery 
knave  he  encounters.  His  life  is  a  .series  of  failures  and  defeats, 
but  all  his  woes  are  beguiled  with  tliis  cIkm  rful  pliilosophy: 

'"No  money:  no  credit:  .  .  .  notice  to  quit  the  old  lodgings  —  staggerers,  three, 
four,  live,  and  six!  I'nder  an  acrumiilation  of  staggerers,  no  man  can  tx?  considered  a 
free  agent.  No  man  knocks  himself  down:  if  his  destiny  knocks  him  down,  his  destiny 
must  pick  him  up  again.  Then  I'm  very  glad  that  mine  has  brought  all  this  ni)on  itself, 
and  I  shall  be  as  careless  as  I  {^an,  and  nr.ikc  inys<'lf  (piite  at  home  to  spite  it.  So  go  on, 
Miy  buck,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  takini;  his  leave  of  the  celling  willi  a  significant  nod,  "and 
let  us  see  which  of  us  will  be  tired  first  I   "  ' 

in  contrast  with  these  grotesciiie  and  reckless  characters  is  the 
trusting  and  loving  little  Nell,  a  frail  and  charming  child,  with  a 
sad  matnritv  of  experi(uice,  miicli-wandering,  much-suffering,  yet 


DICKENS.  443 

always  patient,  always  helpful,  a  ministering  angel  that  wins  and 
holds  all  hearts: 

'The  roughest  among  them  was  sorry  if  he  mUsed  her  in  the  usual  place  upon  bis 
way  to  fichiK)!,  and  would  turn  out  of  the  path  to  ask  for  her  at  the  latticed  window.  If 
she  were  sitting  in  the  church,  they  perhaps  niiglit  peep  in  softly  at  the  open  door;  but 
they  never  spoke  to  her,  unless  she  rose  and  went  to  speak  to  them,  ^^o^le  feeling  was 
abroad  which  raised  the  child  above  them  all. 

So,  when  Sunday  came.  They  were  all  poor  country  people  in  the  church,  for  the 
castle  in  which  the  old  family  had  lived  was  an  empty  ruin,  and  there  were  none  but 
humble  folks  for  seven  miles  around.  There,  as  elsewhere,  they  had  an  interest  in  Nell. 
They  would  gather  around  her  in  the  i)orch,  before  and  after  service;  young  children 
would  cluster  at  her  skirts;  and  aged  men  and  women  forsake  their  gossips  to  give  her 
kindly  greeting.  None  of  them,  young  or  old,  thought  of  passing  the  child  without  a 
friendly  word.  Many  who  came  from  three  or  four  miles  distant  brought  her  little 
presents;  the  humblest  and  rudest  had  good  wishes  to  bestow.'' 

There  is  but  one  way  in  which  forms  so  young,  so  good,  so  beau- 
tiful, may  be  immortal  to  the  fancy  in  their  youth,  innocence,  and 
beauty, —  they  must  die.  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to 
dust.  Decrepit  age  and  helpless  infancy,  the  pride  of  strength, 
the  bloom  of  promise,  the  deaf,  the  blind,  tlie  lame,  the  palsied, 
gather  round  her  tomb: 

'One  called  to  mind  how  he  had  seen  her  sitting  on  that  very  spot,  and  how  her 
book  had  fallen  on  her  lap,  and  she  was  gazing  with  a  pensive  face  upon  the  sky. 
Another  told  how  he  had  wondered  much  that  one  so  delicate  as  she  should  be  so  bold; 
how  she  had  never  feared  to  enter  the  church  alone  at  night,  but  had  loved  to  linirer 
there  when  all  was  fiuiet,  and  even  to  climb  the  tower  stair,  witli  no  more  light  than  that 
of  the  moon's  rays  stealinLC  throuirh  the  looplioles  in  rhe  thick  old  wall.  .\  whisi)er  went 
about  anion;:  the  oldest,  that  she  had  seen  and  talked  witli  anirels:  and  when  tliey  called 
to  mind  how  she  had  looked,  and  spoken,  and  lier  early  death,  some  thouirht  it  ir.iglit  be 
so,  indeed.' 

Dickens  is  said  never  to  have  closed  a  tale  with  such  a  sorrowful 
reluctance.  '  I  tremble  to  approacli  the  place  a  great  deal  more 
than  Kit.  ...  I  sha'n't  recover  it  for  a  long  time.  Nobody  will 
miss  her  like  I  shall.'  All  his  sorrow  and  the  wi.sdom  of  it  are 
told  in  this  burst  of  pathetic  eloquence: 

'Wlien  Peatli  strikes  down  the  innocent  ;ind  yotin-j;,  for  every  fragile  form  from 
whicli  lie  lets  the  panting  s|)irit  free,  a  luindred  virtues  rise,  in  sliajies  of  mercy,  charity, 
and  ioxe.  to  walk  the  world,  atid  bless  it.  Of  every  tear  tliat  sorrowing  mortals  shed  on 
^tu•h  L'leeii  graves,  st)ine  irood  is  Iiorii,  some  Lrentler  nature  comes.  In  tile  Destroyer's 
>Ie]i~  tlnre  ^lJriM•_'  up  hriirlit  creations  that  defy  his  jiower,  and  lii>^  dark  path  becomes  a 
way  of  liL-'lit  to  Heaven.' 

ITvpocrisv  and  selfishness  are  the  central  themes  of  Jf((rt/'/i 
ChuzzJi  ti-it.  PecksnifT  is  one  of  those  who  affect  i)iety  because  it 
is  serviceable,  who  regard  morality  as  a  needfid  coin: 

'Perliap-^  there  never  was  a  more  moral  man  than  Mr.  I'eek'iiilT:  e>i)erially  in  his 
conver-ation  aiid  corresixtndence.     It  was  once  said  of  him  by  a  lioiiiely  admirer,  that  he 


444  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

had  a  Fortunatus'  pursie  of  good  sentiments  in  his  inside.  In  this  particular  he  was  like 
the  girl  in  the  fairy  tale,  except  that  if  they  were  not  actual  diamonds  which  fell  from  his 
lips,  they  were  the  very  brightest  paste,  and  shone  prodigiously.  He  was  a  most  exem- 
plary man:  fuller  of  virtuous  precept  than  a  copy-book.  Some  people  likened  him  to  a 
direction -post,  which  is  always  telling  the  way  to  a  place,  and  never  goes  there:  but 
these  were  his  enemies;  the  shadows  cast  by  his  brightness;  that  was  all.  His  very 
throat  was  moral.  You  saw  a  good  deal  of  it.  You  looked  over  a  very  low  fence  of  white 
cravat  (whereof  no  man  had  ever  beheld  the  tie,  for  he  fastened  it  behind),  and  there  it 
lay,  a  valley  between  two  jutting  heights  of  collar,  serene  and  whiskerless  before  yon. 
It  seemed  to  say,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Pecksniff,  "There  is  no  deception,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, all  is  peace,  a  holy  calm  pervades  me."  So  did  his  hair,  just  grizzled  with  an  iron- 
gray,  which  was  all  brushed  off  his  forehead,  and  stood  bolt  upright,  or  slightly  drooped 
in  kindred  action  with  his  heavy  eyelids.  So  did  his  person,  which  was  sleek  though 
free  from  corpulency.  So  did  his  manner,  which  was  soft  and  oily.  In  a  word,  even  his 
plain  black  suit,  and  state  of  widower,  and  dangling  double  eye-glass,  all  tended  to  the 
same  purpose,  and  cried  aloud,  "  Behold  the  moral  Pecksniff!  "  ' 

He  names  his  daughters  Mercy  and  Charity.  When  visited,  he 
displays  the  family  virtues.  All  desirable  qualities  are  blended 
in  a  flexible  adaptability  to  persons  and  occasions.  He  receives, 
for  instance,  a  speculator  and  capitalist: 

'"Welcome,  respected  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  "to  our  humble  village!  We  are  a 
.simple  people;  primitive  clods,  Mr.  Montague;  but  we  can  appreciate  the  honor  of  your 
visit,  as  my  dear  son-in-law  can  testify.  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  pressing 
his  hand  almost  reverentially,  "but  I  seem  to  know  you.  That  towering  forehead,  my 
dear  Jonas,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff  aside ;  "  and  those  clustering  masses  of  rich  hair— I  must 
have  .seen  you,  my  dear  sir,  in  the  sparkling  throng." ' 

With  the  plea  of  usefulness  to  his  fellow-creatures,  he  enters  into 
a  compact  with  the  two  rascals,  which  must  succeed  '  as  long  as 
there  are  gulls  upon  the  wing';  then  passes  out,  and  soars  above 
the  earth  into  the  region  of  pure  ideas: 

'"How  glorious  is  this  scene!  When  I  look  up  at  those  shining  orbs,  I  think  that 
each  of  them  is  winking  to  the  other  to  take  notice  of  the  vanity  of  men's  pursuits.  My 
fellow-men!"'  cried  Mr.  Pecksniff,  shaking  his  head  in  pity,  "you  are  much  mistaken; 
my  wormy  relatives,  you  are  much  deceived!  The  stars  are  perfectly  contented  (I  sup- 
l)ose  so)  in  their  several  spheres.  Why  are  not  you  ?  Oh!  do  not  strive  and  struggle  to 
enrich  yourselves,  or  to  get  the  better  of  each  other,  my  deluded  friends,  but  look  up 
there,  with  ine  !  " 

Mrs.  Liiiiiu  shook  her  head,  and  heaved  a  sigh.     It  was  very  affecting. 

"Look  HI)  there,  with  Tne !  "  repeated  Mr.  Pecksniff,  stretching  out  his  hand;  "with 
me,  an  huml)le  individual  who  is  also  an  Insect  like  yourselves.  Can  silver,  gold,  or 
precious  stones,  sparkle  like  those  constellations!  I  think  not.  Then  do  not  thirst  for 
silver,  gold,  or  precious  stones ;  but  look  up  there,  with  me ! '" 

Ho  moralizes  on  cream,  sugar,  tea,  toast,  ham,  and  eggs.  'How 
they  come  and  go  I  Every  pleasure  is  transitory.'  When  he  can 
eat  no  more,  he  rises  to  lofty  contemplations  on  the  ])rocess  of 
digestion: 

'"1  do  not  know  how  it  may  be  with  others,  but  it  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to 
know,  wiicn  rc/alin!:  on  my  humble  fare,  that  I  am  putting  in  motion  the  most  beautiful 
machinery  with  which  we  have  any  acquaintance.    I  really  feel  at  such  times  as  if  I  was 


DICKENS.  445 

doing  a  public  service.  When  I  have  wound  mynelf  up,  if  I  may  employ  such  a  term." 
said  Mr.  Pecksniff  with  exquisite  tenderness,  "and  know  tliat  1  am  going,  I  feel  that  in 
the  lesson  afforded  by  the  works  within  nie,  1  am  a  Benefactor  to  my  Kind ! "  ' 

Jonas  Chuzzlewit  has  had  from  liis  cradle  the  precept  and  ex- 
ample which  engender  cunning,  treachery,  and  avarice.  As  we 
sow,  we  reap.  'Is  that  my  father  a-snoring,  Pecksniff?  Tread 
upon  his  foot,  will  you  be  so  good?  The  foot  next  you's  the 
gouty  one.'  He  has  been  born  and  bred  to  the  vices  which 
make  him  odious,  and  which  recoil  upon  his  sire's  unhonored  age: 

'The  very  first  word  he  learnt  to  spell  was  "gain,"  and  the  second  (when  he  got  into 
two  syllables*,  "money."  But  for  two  results,  which  were  not  clearly  foreseen  perhaps 
by  his  watdiful  parent  in  the  beginning,  his  training  may  be  said  to  have  been  unexcep- 
tionable. One  of  these  (laws  was,  that  having  been  long  taught  by  his  father  to  overreach 
everybody,  he  had  imperceptibly  acquired  a  love  of  overreactiing  that  venerable  monitor 
himself.  The  other,  that  from  his  early  habits  of  considering  everything  as  a  question 
of  property,  he  had  gradually  come  to  look,  with  impatience,  on  liis  parent  as  a  certain 
amount  of  personal  estate,  which  had  no  right  whatever  to  be  going  at  large,  but  ought 
to  be  secured  in  that  particular  description  of  iron  safe  which  is  commonly  called  a  coffin, 
and  banked  in  the  grave." 

He  treacherously  murders  iiis  enemy,  and  the  recollection  is  like 
a  nightmare.  He  becomes  in  a  manner  his  own  ghost  and  phan- 
tom. He  has  a  horror  of  his  dwelling,  approaches  it  stealthih^, 
using  every  by-way  near  his  course,  gliding  swiftly  through  this 
one,  and  stopping  to  survey  the  next;  steals  on  tiptoe  to  the 
door  of  his  chamber,  turns  the  key  with  trembling  hand,  beset 
by  a  monstrous  fear  lest  the  murdered  man  be  there  before  him  ! 
At  last  he  enters,  removes  his  disguise,  ties  it  in  a  bundle  ready 
to  be  sunk  in  tlie  river,  then  buries  himself  in  the  bed: 

'The  niging  thirst,  the  fire  that  burnt  within  him  as  he  lay  beneath  the  clothes,  the 
auLrniciiti'd  liorror  of  the  room,  when  they  shut  it  out  from  his  view;  the  agony  of  listen- 
in:.',  in  whiili  ho  paid  enforced  regard  to  every  sound,  and  thought  the  most  unlikely 
one  Ilic  ijrtliidr  to  that  knocking  which  should  bring  the  news:  the  starts  with  which 
lie  left  Ills  coucli,  and  looking  in  tlie  glass  imairined  tliat  his  deed  was  broadly  written 
in  his  face,  and  lying  down  and  burying  himself  once  more  beneath  the  blankets,  heard 
liis  own  heart  lieatiiig  .Murder,  Murder.  Murder!' 

It  is  iKJt  contrition  or  remorse  that  moves  him,  but  alanu.  One 
dreatl  t[uestion  is  forever  present — When  will  tliev  lind  the  body 
in  tlie  shadowy  wood?  — 

'lie  tried  —  ho  had  never  left  otT  tryini:  —  not  to  forget  it  was  there,  for  that  was 
inipossililo,  but  to  foru'et  to  weary  hinisflf  by  (Irawini;  vivid  pictures  of  it  in  bis  fancy: 
by  Lr')iiiL'  softly  al)oiit  it  and  about  it  anioni,'  llio  leaves,  appniacliiiiir  it  ueariT  and  nearer 
thronirh  a  i-'a|i  in  tlic  Ijoiil'Iis,  and  startlinL'  Ilie  very  tlics  tliat  were  Iliickly  siiriiikled  all 
over  it,  like  hoaj)-  of  dried  currant-.  His  mind  was  fixed  and  fastened  on  the  discovery, 
for  intelliL'tnco  of  wliicli  lie  listened  intently  to  every  cry  and  r-liout:  listened  when  any 
one  came  in,  or  went  out;  watched  from  the  window  the  peo|ile  who  [lassod  iij)  and 
down  tile  street:  and  mistrusted  his  own  look-  and  words.     .Vnd  the  more  his  thoughts 


446  DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

were  set  upon  the  discovery,  the  stronger  was  the  fascination  which  attracted  them  to 
the  thing  itt^elf :  lying  alone  in  the  wood.  He  was  forever  showing  and  presenting  it,  as 
it  were,  to  every  creature  whom  he  saw.  "Look  here!  Do  you  know  of  this?  Is  it 
f ou  nd  ?    Do  you  s  u  spec  t  //if  .^  " " 

In  Doinbey  and  Son,  as  in  his  other  novels,  the  characters  are 
more  than  the  story.  Mr.  Dombe}',  a  I^ondon  merchant,  is  an 
English  picture  of  the  aristocratic  spirit.  For  twenty  years  he 
has  been  the  sole  representative  of  an  ancient  firm,  to  perpetuate 
the  name  of  which  is  the  one  idea  of  his  life: 

'  The  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son  to  trade  in,  and  the  sun  and  moon  were 
made  to  give  them  light.  Rivers  and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their  ships;  rainbows 
gave  them  promise  of  fair  weather:  winds  blew  for  or  against  their  enterprises;  stars 
and  planets  circled  in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  inviolate  a  system  of  which  they  were  the 
centre.' 

He  has  never  been  known  to  use  a  term  of  endearment  but  once 
—  at  the  birth  of  the  infant  Paul,  when  exultation  betrayed  him 
into  'Mrs.  Dombey,  my  —  my  dear.'  Hides  he  has  dealt  ni 
largely,  but  hearts  he  has  left  as  fancy-ware  to  boarding-schools 
and  books.  He  would  reason:  'That  a  matrimonial  alliance  with 
himself  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  gratifying  and  honor- 
able to  any  woman  of  common  sense.'  His  little  Florence's 
conception  of  a  father  is  embodied  in  a  blue  coat  and  a  stiff 
white  cravat,  with  a  pair  of  creaking  boots  and  a  loud  ticking 
watch.  When  it  is  hinted  that  the  mother,  Avhose  happiness  is 
in  the  past,  a  broken  spirit  bound  to  a  meek  endurance  of  the 
present,  may  not  survive,  he  is  neither  shocked  nor  startled, 
though  he  certainly  has  a  sense  within  him  'that  if  his  wife 
should  sicken  and  decay,  he  would  be  very  sorry,  and  that  he 
would  find  something  gone  from  among  his  plate  and  furniture, 
and  other  household  possessions,  which  was  well  worth  the 
having,  and  could  not  be  lost  without  sincere  regret.'  His 
second  wife  is  a  proud  and  defiant  beauty,  linked  to  liim,  but 
arrayed  with  her  whole  soul  against  him.  He  asserts  his  great- 
ness, and  she  regards  him  with  ineffable  disdain.  He  is  arrogant, 
and  she  repays  him  in  kind.  He  detennin(>s  to  bind  lier  to  his 
magnificent  will,  and  she  is  only  urged  on  to  hate  him.  She 
fiecs  on  the  amiiversary  of  her  marriage,  neglect  and  desolation 
drive  away  his  daughter.  Platen  up  by  a  sense  of  dishonor,  by 
tile  haunting  demon  of  public  ridicule,  he  hides  the  world  within 
liiin  from  the  world  without,  hauglity  as  ever,  impenetrable 
though   altered.     By  a   fatal    infatuation,  he   launches   out   into 


DICKENS.  447 

rash,  venturesome  schemes  of  business,  and  is  bankrupted, — 
fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more: 

'For  the  night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow's  8un;  for  the  stain  of  his 
domestic  shame  there  was  no  puriflcatiou :  nothing,  thank  Heaven,  could  bring  his  dead 
child  back  to  life.  But  that  which  he  might  have  made  so  different  in  all  the  Past  — 
whicli  might  have  made  the  Past  itself  so  different,  though  this  he  hardly  thought  of 
now  —  that  which  was  his  own  work,  that  which  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into  a 
blessing,  and  had  set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form  into  a  curse:  that  was  the 
sharp  grief  of  his  soul." 

Thought  goads  him  to  the  verge  of  suicide.  On  the  moment, 
Florence  arrives,  entreats  him,  redeems  him:  'O  my  God,  forgive 
me,  for  I  need  it  very  much  I '  The  storm  that  passes  on  forever, 
leaves  a  clear  evening  in  its  track. 

'  Like  many  fond  parents,'  says  Dickens,  '  I  have  in  my  heart 
of  hearts  a  favorite  child;  and  his  name  is  David  Copperf.eld.^ 
This  is  a  masterpiece,  marked  throughout  by  a  free  and  cheery 
style,  much  autobiography  in  di.sguise,  a  prodigal  wealth  of 
detail,  an  unusual  variety  of  incident,  a  profusion  of  distinct 
people:  the  country  undertaker,  who  dares  not  even  inquire  after 
friends  that  are  ill,  for  fear  of  misconstruction;  the  brutal  school- 
master, who  is  ultimately  converted  into  the  tender  magistrate; 
a  carrier,  all  of  whose  vicissitudes  are  condensed  into  three  words, 
'Barkis  is  willin";  a  mountebank  who  abandons  his  daughter, 
his  only  joy,  lest  he  may  bring  her  into  disrepute;  old  Pc^ggotty, 
who  walks,  stick  in  hand,  over  France,  Gertiiaiiy,  and  Italy,  to 
find  and  reclaim  his  lost  niece;  Micawber,  who  sells  his  bedstead 
to  entertain  a  friend,  dulling  the  edge  of  poverty  by  rhetorical 
exul>crance;  Mell,  the  musician,  who  Ijlows  on  his  flute  'until  1 
almost  thought  he  would  gradualh*  blow  his  whole  being  into 
the  large  hole  at  the  toj),  and  oozf  away  at  tiie  keys';  Ro.sa 
Dartle,  a  monstrous  imagination;  Agnes,  ])atient,  sensible,  self- 
sacrificing,  an  angel-wife;  Dora,  ever  a  little  girl,  a  ])retty,  pout- 
ing, chirping,  loving  child-wife;  above  ail,  the  hero  David,  born 
into  the  world  a  ])ostluunou.s  wail",  wlio.se  wann  nest  of  love  is 
clianged  1)V  a  second  marriage  into  a  scene  of  liai'd  dependence 
and  servile  treatment,  l)ut  whose  griefs,  privations,  and  other 
varieties  of  experience  during  the  growth  of  emotions  and  fai'ul- 
ties  into  manhood,  discipline  his  ideal  and  real  ]>arts  for  a  suc- 
cessful cultivation  of  letters,  ^\'e  caiuiot  refrain  from  quoting 
here  an  illustration  of  Dickcms'  artistic  faculty.  It  is  David's 
recollection  from  the  blank  of  infaiu-v: 


448  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

'On  tlu-  ground-floor  ij-  Peggotty's  kitchen,  opening  into  a  back-yard;  with  a  pigeon- 
houise  on  a  iM)le,  in  the  centre, -without  any  pigeons  in  it:  a  great  dog-kennel  in  a  corner, 
without  any  dog:  and  a  quantity  of  fowls  that  look  terribly  tall  to  me,  walking  about, 
in  a  menacing  and  ferociour^  manner.  There  is  one  cock  who  gets  upon  a  j)ost  to  crow, 
and  seems  to  take  particular  notice  of  me  as  I  look  at  him  through  the  kitchen  window, 
who  makes  me  shiver,  he  is  so  fierce.  Of  the  geese  outside  the  side  gate  who  come 
waddling  after  me  with  their  long  necks  stretched  out  when  I  go  that  way,  I  dream  at 
night:  as  a  man  environed  by  wild  beasts  might  dream  of  lions. 

Here  is  a  long  passage  —  what  an  enormous  perspective  I  make  of  it!  —  leading  from 
Peggotty's  kitchen  to  the  front-door.  A  dark  store-room  opens  out  of  it,  and  that  is  a 
place  to  be  run  past  at  night:  for  I  don't  know  what  may  be  among  those  tubs  and  jars 
and  old  tea-chests,  when  there  is  nobody  in  tliere,  with  a  dimly-burning  light,  letting  a 
mouldy  air  come  out  at  the  door,  in  which  there  is  the  smell  of  soap,  i)ickles,  pepper, 
candks,  and  coffee,  all  at  one  whiff.  Then  there  are  the  two  parlors;  the  parlor  in  which 
we  sit  of  an  evening,  my  mother  and  I  and  Peggotty — for  Peggotty  is  quite  our  com- 
panion, when  her  work  is  done  and  we  are  alone  —  and  the  best  i)arlor  where  we  sit  on  a 
Sunday:  grandly,  but  not  so  comfortably.  There  is  something  of  a  doleful  air  about 
that  room  to  me,  for  Peggotty  has  told  me  —  I  don't  know  when,  but  apparently  ages  ago 
—  about  my  fathers  funeral,  and  the  company  having  their  black  cloaks  put  on.  On 
Sunday  night  my  mother  reads  to  Peggotty  and  me  in  there,  how  Lazarus  was  raised  ui> 
from  the  dead.  And  I  am  so  frightened  that  they  are  afterwards  obliged  to  take  me  out 
of  bed,  and  show  me  the  quiet  churchyard  out  of  the  bedroom  window,  with  the  dead 
all  lying  in  their  graves  at  rest,  below  the  solemn  moon." 

The  following  is  a  noble  piece  of  description: 

'The  tremendous  sea  itself,  when  I  could  find  sufficient  pause  to  look  at  it,  in  the 
agitation  of  the  blinding  wind,  the  flying  stones  and  sand,  and  the  awful  noise,  con- 
founded me.  As  the  liigh  watery  walls  came  rolling  in,  and,  at  their  highest,  tumbled 
into  surf,  they  looked  as  if  the  least  would  engulf  the  town.  As  the  receding  wave 
swept  back  with  a  hoarse  roar,  it  seemed  to  scooj)  out  deep  caves  in  the  beach  as  if  its 
purpose  were  to  underniine  the  earth.  When  some  white-headed  billows  thundered  on, 
and  dasheil  themselves  to  ])ieccs  before  they  reached  the  land,  every  fragment  of  the 
late  whole  sicnud  i)ossessed  by  the  full  might  of  its  wrath,  rushing  to  be  gathered  to 
tlie  compositiiiii  of  another  monster.  I'ndulating  hills  were  changed  to  valleys,  undu- 
lating valleys  (with  a  solitary  storm-bird  sometimes  skimming  through  them)  were  lifted 
up  t<j  hills:  masses  of  water  shivered  and  shook  the  beach  with  a  booming  sound;  every 
shape  lumultuously  rolled  on,  as  soon  as  made,  to  change  its  sha|)e  and  i)laee,  and  beat 
another  shape  and  phue  away:  the  ideal  shore  on  the  horizon,  witli  its  towers  and  build- 
ings, rosf  and  fell:  llie  cloud-  flew  fast  and  thick:  I  ^eenieii  to  see  a  rending  and 
upheaving  of  all  nature." 

ILird  Tunis  is  the  combat  of  the  oppressor  and  the  plea  for 
the  oppressed.  Mr.  Gradi>"rind,  a  splendid  specimen  of  his  class, 
represents  the  positive  mercantile  spirit,  which  niils  at  enthusi- 
asm and  comj)assi()n,  would  extinguish  all  that  is  warming,  and 
woidd  educate  children  as  they  raise  hogs,  by  placing  them  in 
fa\oral)le  circumstances  to  fatten: 

'  '■  Now.  what  I  want  i<.  Facts.  Tcacti  the-c  l)f)ys  and  girls  nothing  but  Facts.  Facts 
alum-  ari'  \v:iiitcil  in  lifr.  I'lant  notliinL'  else,  iind  root  out  everything  else.  You  can 
(inly  fiirin  liir  minds  of  reasoning  animals  m])iiii  I-";ir(s:  iu)thing  elsf  will  ever  bo  of  any 
scr\  i<-c  t(i  thcMi.   .   .   .   stick  to  Fact-,  sir  I  "■ 

'Ihc  -I  iiir  w:i-  a  jjlaiM,  bare,  monotonous  \anlt  of  a  school-room,  and  the  spfakers 
square  forilniL'cr  emphasized  his  (il)scrvations  by  underscoring  every  sentence  with  a 
line  on  tlie  schoolmasters  sleeve.     The  emphasis  was  helped  by  the  speaker's  square 


DICKENS.  449 

wall  of  a  forehead,  which  had  his  eyebrows  for  its  base,  while  his  eye«  found  conimodi- 
OII8  cellerage  in  two  darli  caves,  overshadowed  by  the  wall.  The  emphasis  was  helped 
by  the  speaker's  mouth,  which  was  wide,  thin,  and  hard  set.  The  emphasis  was  helped 
by  the  spealier's  voice,  which  was  inflexible,  dry,  and  dictatorial.  The  empha.sis  was 
helped  by  the  si)eaker"s  hair,  which  bristled  on  the  skirts  of  his  bald  head,  a  plantation 
of  firs  to  keep  the  wind  from  its  shining  surface,  all  covered  with  knobs,  like  the  crust 
of  a  i)luni  pie,  as  if  the  head  had  scarcely  warehouse-room  for  the  hard  facts  stored 
inside.  The  speaker's  obstinate  carriage,  square  coat,  iquare  legs,  square  shoulders, — 
nay,  his  very  neckcloth,  trained  to  take  him  by  the  throat  with  an  unaccommodatiog 
grasp,  like  a  stubborn  fact,  as  it  was  —  all  helped  the  emphasis. 

"  In  this  life,  we  want  nothing  but  Facts,  sir;  nothing  but  Facts!  " 
The  speaker,  and  the  schoolmaster,  and  the  third  grown  person  present,  all  backed 
a  little,  ami  swept  with  their  eyes  the  inclined  plane  of  little  vessels  then  and  there 
arranged  in  order,  ready  to  have  imperial  gallons  of  facts  poured  into  them  until  they 
were  full  to  the  brim.' 

Take  a  view  of  human  miseries  in  the  great  manufacturing  towns. 
Stephen,  an  honest  factory-hand,  has  refused,  conscientiously,  to 
join  a  combination  of  operatives.  They  renounce  him,  and  he  is 
commanded  into  the  presence  of  his  master  to  tell  what  he  knows. 
But  he  will  be  faithful  to  the  last,  even  to  those  who  have  repu- 
diated him,  and  only  states,  in  a  general  way,  their  grievance: 

'"Sir.  1  never  were  good  at  showin  o't,  though  I  ha  had'n  my  share  in  feelin  o't. 
'Deed  we  are  in  a  muddle,  sir.  Look  round  town  — so  rich  as  'tis  —  and  see  the  numbers 
o'  i)eople  as  has  i)een  broughten  into  beiu  heer,  fur  to  weave,  an  to  card,  an  to  piece  out 
a  livin,  aw  the  same  one  way,  somehows,  twi.xt  their  cradles  and  their  graves.  Look 
liow  we  iivf,  an  wheer  we  live,  an  in  what  numljers,  an  by  what  chances,  and  wi'  what 
sameness :  imd  look  how  the  mills  is  awlus  a  goin.  and  how  they  never  works  us  no  nigher 
to  ony  dis'ant  object  —  ceplin  awlus,  Death.  Look  how  you  considers  of  us,  an  writes  of 
us.  an  talks  of  ns.  and  goes  up  wi"  yor  deputations  to  Secretaries  o'  State  'bt)Ut  us,  and 
how  yo  are  awlus  rii:ht,  and  how  we  are  awlus  wrong,  and  never  ha<rn  no  reason  in  us  sin 
ever  we  were  born.  Look  how  this  ha  groweu  an  growen,  sir.  bigger  an  bigirer,  broader 
an  l)roader,  lianler  an  harder,  fro  year  to  year,  fro  generation  unto  generation.  Who  can 
look  on't,  .-ir.  and  fairly  tell  a  man  'tis  not  a  muddle?"  " 

He  is  misunderstood,  calumniated,  accused  of  theft,  and.  on  his 
way  to  answer  tiie  summons,  falls  into  a  pit,  from  which,  after 
lingering  si.\  days  at  the  bottom,  he  isjat  last  rescued,  maimed, 
and  dying: 

•.\  IdW  murmur  of  ])ity  went  round  the  Ilirong.  and  the  women  \vei)t  aloud,  as  this 
fnriii.  .iliiio^t  wiihiiMt  furui.  wa-;  inovcil  very  slowly  from  its  iron  deliverance,  and  laid 
upon  thf  liici  (if  straw.  .\I  lirsl,  none  but  the  surircon  went  elosf  to  it.  He  did  what  he 
(■(luM  in  its  ailjusiiiuMit  or,  the  couch,  but  the  best  that  hr  could  do  was  to  cover  it. 
That  _'ciitly  (iouf.  he  called  to  him  Hachel  and  Sissy.  .\iid  at  tlial  time  tlie  i>aic.  worn, 
|Kiti(iit  face  was  sien  lookini;  up  at  the  sky.  with  the  broken  riglil  hand  lyini:  l)arf  on 
111.'  oul-idr  of  the  covering  garments,  as  if  waiting  to  he  taken  by  another  hand.' 

iiac'lifl,  liis  only  friend,  is  tliert';   and  she   l)onds  over  him   until 
her  t'vcs  are  between   him  and  the  skv,  for  lie  cannot  so  murli  as 
turn   tlii-m  to  look  at  her.      lie  takes  her  hand,  and   faintly,  with- 
out anirer,  mcrt-ly  as  sj)eaking  the  truth,  says: 
29 


450         DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

' "  I  ha'  fell  into  th'  pit,  my  dear,  as  have  cost  wi'in  the  knowledge  o'  old  fok  now 
livin,  hundreds  and  hundreds  o'.men"s  lives  —  fathers,  sons,  brothers,  dear  to  thousands 
an  thousands,  an  keepin  'em  fro'  want  and  hunger.  I  ha"  fell  into  a  pit  that  ha"  been 
wi'  th'  Fire-damp  crueller  than  battle.  I  ha'  read  on"t  in  the  public  i)etition,  as  onny 
one  may  read,  fro"  the  men  that  works  in  pits,  in  which  they  ha"  pray"n  an  pray"n  the 
law-maker:5  for  Christ"s  sake  not  to  let  their  work  be  murder  to  "em,  but  to  spare  'em 
for  th"  wives  and  chihlron  that  they  loves  as  well  as  gentlefok  love  theirs.  When  it 
were  in  work,  it  killed  vvi'out  need;  when  "tis  let  alone,  it  kills  wi"ont  need."' 

His  accuser,  the  Hard  Fact  man  is  there;  but  Stephen,  in  "whose 
bosom  is  no  bitterness,  merely  asks  him  to  '  clear  me  an  mak'  my 
name  good  "svi'  aw  men.'  His  eyes  are  fixed  upon  a  star  which 
he  has  seen  from  his  bed  of  stones,  shining  serenely  and  tenderly, 
soothing  the  anguish  of  body  and  mind: 

'"It  ha"  shined  upon  me,'"  he  said  reverently,  "in  my  pain  and  trouble  down  below. 
It  ha"  shined  into  my  mind.  I  ha"  look"n  at"t  an  thowt  o'  thee,  Rachael,  till  the  muddle 
in  my  mind  have  cleared  awa,  above  a  bit,  I  hope.  If  soom  ha"  been  wantin  in  unner- 
stan'in  me  better,  I,  too,  ha"  been  wantin  in  unnerstan"in  tliem  better.  ...  In  my  pain 
an  trouble,  lookin  up  yonder,— wi'  it  shinin  on  me  —  I  ha"  seen  more  clear,  and  ha'  made 
it  my  dyin  prayer  that  aw  th"  world  may  on"y  coom  toogethcr  more,  an  get  a  better 
unner^tan"in  o"  one  another,  than  when  I  were  in"t  my  own  we:ik  seln.  .  .  .  Often  as  I 
coom  to  myseln,  and  found  it  shinin  on  me  down  there  in  my  trouble,  I  thowt  it  were  the 
star  as  guided  to  our  Saviour"s  home.    I  awniust  think  it  be  the  very  star  I "" 

They  lifted  him  up,  and  he  was  overjoyed  to  find  that  they  were  about  to  take  him 
in  the  direction  whither  the  star  seemed  to  him  to  lead. 

"Kachael,  beloved  lass!  Don't  let  go  my  hand.  We  may  walk  toogether  t'night, 
my  dear  1 "" 

"I  will  hold  thy  hand  and  keep  beside  thee,  Stephen,  all  the  way." 

"  Bless  thee  I    Will  .-somebody  be  pleased  to  coover  my  face  I  " 

They  carried  him  very  gently  along  the  fields,  and  down  the  lanes,  and  over  the  vvMde 
landscai)e:  Kachael  always  holding  the  hand  in  hers.  Yery  few  whispers  broke  the 
mournful  silence.  It  was  soon  a  funeral  procession.  The  star  had  shown  him  where  to 
find  the  God  of  the  poor;  and  through  humility,  and  sorrow,  and  forgiveness,  he  had 
gone  to  his  Redeemer's  rest.' 

Style. —  On  the  whole,  spontaneous,  easy,  free,  idiomatic; 
now  .simple  and  vivid,  ])artaking  the  genial  flow  of  .s])irits,  the 
full,  abundant  tide  of  life,  which  runs  throughout  the  man;  now 
impassif)no<l  and  potent,  s})ringing  from  a  lucid  and  energetic 
iiiiagiiiatioii  in  which  object.s  are  made  visible  and  indelible  ; 
sometimes  careless  and  languid,  or  level  and  redundant,  where 
his  feelings  are  not  moved,  l)ut  always  rising  to  great  j)urity 
and  ])ower  before  the  concentrating  force  of  passion. 

Method. —  In  iiis  walks,  in  his  recreations,  in  his  labor,  he 
Avas  governed  l)y  rules,  from  which  he  seldom  departed.  His 
hours  for  writing  were  regular,  commencing  about  ten  and 
eiuliiig  about  two.  At  his  compositions,  which  are  so  easily 
rea<l,  lie  lal)ored  prodigiously,  in  conception  and  execution.  Not 
a  Avearisome,  but   a   hapj)y   process  —  tlie  enjoyment   of  his  own 


DICKENS.  451 

fancies,  nursed  to  their  utmost  growth.  His  precision  and  accu- 
racy, the  elaborate  notes,  coninients,  and  plans,  which  form  the 
basis  of  his  works,  refute  the  idle  notion  that  men  of  genius 
dash  off  their  efforts  without  forethought  or  preparation.  It 
was  one  of  his  theories,  that  a  main  difference  in  men  is  in  their 
])ower  of  attention. 

Rank. — He  is  to  be  classed  among  the  very  first  of  the  noble 
company  to  which  he  belongs.  He  does  not  probe  so  profoundly 
as  Fielding,  and  —  less  a  spectator  of  his  personages  —  delineates 
with  less  exquisite  art ;  but  is  superior  to  him  in  pathos  and 
humanity,  in  sweetness  and  purity  of  feeling.  Others  have  had 
greater  power  of  generalization,  few  have  had  equal  comprehen- 
siveness of  sympathy.  Everything  he  touches,  speaks;  stones, 
flowers,  clouds,  seem  happy  or  sad.  The  instinctive  perception 
of  individual  character  is  his  unique  faculty.  In  evolving  beau- 
tiful and  heroic  qualities  from  humble  souls,  he  is  excelled  only 
liy  Wordsworth.  His  forte  is  not  to  enter  into  and  represent 
the  liiglier  ])hases  of  existence,  to  form  lofty  or  universal  types, 
but  to  give  cheerful,  clear,  and  graphic  pictures  of  persons  and 
tilings  as  he  sees  them,  especially  among  the  vulgar  and  poor. 
If,  having  viewed  them  realistically,  he  somewhat  exaggerates 
tlieir  natural  features,  so  much  the  more  striking  and  impressive 
do  the  realities  l)ecome  to  the  majority  of  readers  who  j'awn 
niucli.  AN'ere  his  books  destroyed,  a  score  of  figures  w-ould 
remain,  our  indestructible  acquaintances.  No  writer  has  carried 
sucli  an  amount  of  observation,  fun,  antl  humor  into  the  lowest 
sctMics;  none  has  so  largely  increased  for  the  language  its  stores 
of  harmless  jilcasure. 

lie  is  more  luxuriant,  jierhaps  more  versatile,  than  Thackeray, 
l)ut  less  compact  and  jienetrating;  of  wider  range  as  an  artist, 
and  more  ideal,  but  less  reflective,  careful,  and  sure;  more  kindly, 
genial,  and  sentimental,  less  tart,  pungent,  and  satirical.  IJoth 
]>aiiit  the  manners  of  a  day  and  a  class,  the  one  doing  for  middle 
and  lower  what  the  other  does  for  upjier  London;  the  one  having 
his  iiiiiul  more  occujiied  with  conditions,  the  other  with  foibles; 
till-  one  more  bent  on  defending  tli(>  weak,  tlu^  other  on  censur- 
ing man;  yet  both  ministering  to  the  same  cause,  either  by  con- 
trast completing  ihe  other. 


452  DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Character. — Not  eminently  profound,  nor  eminently  erudite, 
far  less  indebted  to  books  than  to  a  diligent  scrutiny  of  actual 
life.  Perhaps  his  master  faculty  was  an  ardent  and  tenacious 
imagination,  which  immersed  him  in  an  idea,  animated  the  vulgar 
and  ridiculous,  beset  him  with  visions,  displayed  an  object  under 
a  hundred  forms.     Hence  his  minute  description,  as  here: 

'It  was  pmall  tyranny  for  a  ret^pectable  wind  to  go  wreaking  its  vengeance  on  such 
poor  creatures  as  the  fallen  leaves;  but  this  wind  liappening  to  come  up  with  a  great 
heap  of  them  just  after  venting  its  humor  on  the  insnlled  Dragon,  did  so  disperse  and 
scatter  them  that  they  fled  away,  pell-mell,  some  here,  some  there,  rolling  over  each 
other,  whirling  round  and  round  upon  their  thin  edges,  taking  frantic  flights  into  the  air, 
and  playing  all  manner  of  extraordinary  gambols  in  the  extremity  of  their  distress.  Nor 
was  this  enough  for  its  malicious  fury :  for,  not  content  with  driving  them  abroad,  it 
charged  small  parties  of  them  and  hunted  them  into  the  wheelwright's  saw-pit,  and 
below  the  planks  and  timbers  in  the  yard,  and,  scattering  the  sawdust  in  the  air,  it  looked 
for  them  underneath,  and  when  it  did  meet  with  any,  whew  I  how  it  drove  them  on  and 
followed  at  their  heels  I 

The  scared  leaves  only  flew  the  faster  for  all  this,  and  a  giddy  chase  it  was:  for  they 
got  into  unfrequented  places,  where  there  was  no  outlet,  and  where  their  pursuer  kept 
them  eddying  round  and  round  at  his  pleasure ;  and  they  crept  under  the  eaves  of  houses, 
and  clung  tightly  to  the  sides  of  hay-ricks,  like  bats;  and  tore  in  at  open  chamber  win- 
dows, and  cowered  close  to  hedges ;  and,  in  short,  went  anywhere  for  safety.' 

Hence,  too,  his  dramatic  gift  of  identifying  himself  with  his 
creations.  In  them  he  could  forget  himself,  enter  into  all  their 
peculiarities,  make  their  joys  and  sorrows  his  own.     He  says: 

'It  would  concern  the  reader  little,  perhaps,  to  know  how  sorrowfully  the  pen  is  laid 
down  at  the  close  of  a  two-years'  imaginative  task;  or  how  an  Author  feels  as  if  he  were 
dismissing  some  ])ortion  of  himself  into  the  shadowy  world,  when  a  crowd  of  the 
creatures  of  his  brain  are  going  from  him  forever.  Yet,  I  liad  notliing  else  to  tell; 
unless,  indeed,  I  were  to  confess  (which  might  be  of  less  moment  still)  that  no  one  can 
ever  believe  this  narrative,  in  the  reading,  more  than  I  believed  it  in  the  writing." 

His  comic  power  is  pervading.  His  tragic  power  appears  in  his 
skilful  depiction  of  the  soul  stained  witli  crime,  in  his  delineation 
of  remorse,  avarice,  fear,  hatred,  revenge. 

His  almost  feminine  sensibility  had,  in  the  main,  a  twofold 
i.ssue  —  humor  and  jiathos.  His  instinct  was  always  for  the  pure 
and  beautiful  —  unsullied  simplicity  and  moral  beauty.  Witness 
the  character  of  little  Nell,  framed  from  the  finest  and  fairest 
elements  of  human  nature.  The  picturesque  in  tlie  lower  or 
middle  ranks  won  liis  eye,  the  suffering  there  won  liis  heart,  and 
he  drew  the  good,  rather  than  the  bad,  because  he  delighted  to 
find  diiinionds  in  the  hidden  and  far-away.  'T  have  yet  to  learn,' 
he  savs,  'that  a  lesson  of  the  purest  good  mav  not  be  drawn  from 
tlie  vilest  evil."     The  good  Samaritan  was  native  to  him. 

In  his  ]jresence  was  perpetual  sunshine.      To  company  he  v;as 


DICKENS.  453 

only  the  pleasantest  of  companions,  never  bookish,  but  unaffected 
and  natural.  His  talk  was  simple  and  direct.  Boyishness,  so 
often  remarked  in  men  of  genius,  was  exuberant  in  him;  ever 
ready  for  leap-frog,  or  other  frolic,  upon  the  lawn. 

He  estimated  men  and  women  so  thoroughly  by  moral  and 
intellectual  worth,  that  he  was  equally  at  home  with  all  kinds  of 
society,  the  highest  and  the  lowliest.  As. a  metaphysician,  he 
would  have  been  of  the  intuitional  school.  'All  kind  things,'  he 
wrote  to  his  children,  'must  be  done  on  their  own  account,  and 
for  their  own  sake,  and  without  the  loast  reference  to  any  grati- 
tude.'' He  was,  though  not  a  saint,  benevolently  and  essentially 
Christian.  'Do  you  ever  pray?'  asked  a  dying  lady.  'Every 
morning  and  evening,'  was  the  answer.  In  the  year  of  his  death, 
he  wrote  a  reader  of  Edicin  iJrood : 

'I  have  always  s'trivcn  in  my  writings  to  express  veneration  for  the  life  and  lessons 
of  our  Saviour :  because  I  feel  it;  and  because  I  re-wrote  that  history  for  my  children  — 
every  one  of  whom  knew  it,  from  having  it  repeated  to  them,  long  before  they  could 
read,  and  almost  as  soon  as  they  could  speak.  But  I  have  never  made  proclamation  of 
this  from  the  house-tops.' 

Doubtless  there  were  grave  defects.  How  many  of  them  are 
iiu])lied  in  the  infatuation  which  led  to  separation  from  an 
amiable  wife  and  the  mother  of  ten  children,  we  do  not  under- 
take to  say.     This  is  his  complaint: 

•Poor  Catherine  and  I  arc  not  made  for  each  other,  and  theie  is  no  help  for  it.  It  is 
not  only  that  she  makes  me  uneasy  an<l  unhappy,  but  that  I  niake  her  so  too  —  and  much 
more  so.  She  is  exactly  what  you  know,  in  the  way  of  beimr  amiable  and  complying; 
but  we  arc  stranircly  ill-asMirted  for  the  bond  there  is  between  us.  ...  I  am  often  cut 
t(i  tlic  Ic-art  by  tbinking  what  a  pity  it  is.  for  her  own  sake,  that  I  ever  fell  in  her  way: 
and  if  1  wcr<-  sick  or  disable<l  fi>-morrow,  1  know  how  sorry  she  would  be,  and  how  deeply 
grieved  myself,  to  tliink  how  we  had  lost  each  other.  But  exactly  the  same  ine<)mi>ati- 
bility  would  arise  the  moment  I  was  well  again;  and  nothing  on  earth  could  make  her 
understand  me,  or  suit  ns  to  each  other." 

And  tills  his  confession: 

'  I  claiiii  no  immunity  from  blame.  There  is  plenty  of  fault  on  mv  side,  I  dare  say, 
in  the  w;iy  of  :i  thousand  uncertainties,  cai)riees,  and  ditlieultics  of  disposition:  but 
only  one  ihini.'  will  alter  all  that,  and  that  is  the  end  which  alter-  every  tiling." 

.Mticii  is  to  l)e  forgiven  to  such  ns  have  done  iiiuch  tor  their  kiuil; 
but  how  iiuich  higher  and  iiol)lcr  were  his  ]ilac<\  had  he  been  true 
and  stfoiig  straight  through,  living  the  fail"  and  sweet  idt-ais 
which  he  conceived. 

Influence. — He  wrote  for  the  niidtitude,  pleased  them,  and 
sccureil  a  jxipidaritv  s(ddoin  permitted  to  man.     Who  else  of  the 


454  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

great  has  been  in  his  own  day  the  inmate  of  so  many  homes? 
The  greatest,  indeed,  have  written  for  the  few,  and  their  merits 
have  not  been  appreciated  until  after-ages;  yet,  however  far  the 
world  may  progress,  it  can  never  outgrow  the  best  of  Dickens. 
His  characters  are  a  part  of  literature,  and  his  works  will  furnish 
to  all  future  times  an  important  commentary  on  the  nineteenth 
century;  while  in  mirth-moving  jest,  in  his  words  of  good  cheer, 
in  the  benevolence,  the  charity,  the  holy  lessons,  which  he  incul- 
cates, he  will  be  an  ever-welling  spring,  from  which  the  genera- 
tions will  drink.  Thirty  years  ago,  Daniel  Webster  said  that 
Dickens  had  done  more  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  the  English 
poor  than  all  the  statesmen  Great  Britain  had  sent  into  Parlia- 
ment. It  is  impossible  to  calculate  the  harm  he  might  have  done; 
but  his  weight  is  always  thrown  into  the  scale  of  goodness.  It 
was  his  mission  to  make  people  happy,  and  he  did  what  he  could 
'to  lighten,'  as  he  says,  'the  lot  of  those  rejected  ones  whom  the 
world  has  too  lono:  foro-otten  and  too  often  misused,'  He  has 
also  made  them  better;  for  this  is  the  substance  of  his  novels  — 
their  sentiment  and  their  exhortation:  ^JBe  good,  and  love,'  there 
is  genuine  joy  only  in  the  emotions  of  the  heart;  sensibility  is 
the  whole  man.  Leave  science  to  the  wise,  jiride  to  the  nobles, 
luxury  to  the  rich;  have  compassion  on  humble  wretchedness; 
tJie  smdih'st  and  most  desphed  being  may  in  ImnseJf  be  vmrth  as 
much  as  t/iousa))ds  of  the  pov'erfal  and  the  proud.  Take  care 
not  to  bruise  the  delicate  souls  which  flourish  in  all  conditions, 
under  all  costumes,  in  all  ages.  Believe  that  liumanity,  pity, 
forgiveness,  are  tlie finest  tilings  in  man;  believe  that  intimacy, 
e,i'pa)ision,  tenderness,  tears,  are  the  finest  things  in  the  tcorld. 
To  live  is  nothing;  to  be  ]>owerful,  h^arnod,  illustrious,  is  little; 
to  be  useful  is  not  cncnigh.  He  alone  has  lived  and  is  a  man  who 
has  wept  at  the  rt'uiembrance  of  a  benefit,  given  or  received.' ' 

"Taiue. 


THE    SAGE   OF   CHELSEA.  455 


CARLYLE. 

No  literary  man  in  the  nineteenth  century  ii-  lilvely  to  stand  out  more  distinct,  both 
for  flaws  and  genius",  to  the  centuries  which  will  follow.— i?.  //.  Hutton. 

Biography. — Bom  in  Dumfriesshire  in  ITllo;  his  father  first 
a  stone-mason,  then  a  farmer,  a  'pithy  bitter-speaking  body';  his 
mother  a  careful  and  industrious  woman,  a  great  reader,  deeply 
religious,  sweet-tempered;  the  one  teaching  by  his  battle  remi- 
niscences, the  other  by  her  reverent  look  and  habitude;  sent  to 
the  parish  school  while  yet  little  more  than  an  infant,  and  de- 
clared fit  for  the  learned  professions;  transferred  to  an  academy 
at  eight,  where  in  three  months  he  was  able  to  translate  Virgil 
and  Horace  with  an  ease  that  astonished  his  tutor;  entered  the 
University  of  P^dinburgh  at  fourteen,  where  he  learned  to  'read 
fluently  in  almost  all  cultivated  languages,  on  almost  all  subjects 
and  sciences,'  while  from  the  chaos  of  the  library  he  also  'suc- 
ceeded in  fishing  up  more  books,  perhaps,  than  had  been  known 
to  the  very  keepers  thereof;  was  designed  by  his  parents  for 
the  Church,  and  studied  Divinity,  suffering  unspeakable  agonies 
of  doubt,  added  to  wiiicli  were  'earthly  distresses  —  want  of 
practical  guidance,  want  of  sympathy,  want  of  money,  want  of 
hope'';  concluded  at  last  that  his  vocation  did  not  lie  in  the 
direction  of  the  puli)it: 

'  Tlio  voice  canu'  to  me,  saying,  "Ari^e  and  settle  the  problem  of  thy  life."  I  had 
hofii  (li'^tined  by  n)y  father  and  my  father's  minister  to  be  myself  a  minister.  But  now 
tliat  I  liad  iraini'd  man's  estate,  I  was  not  sure  that  I  believed  the  doctrines  of  my  father's 
kirk:  and  it  «as  needful  I  should  now  settle  it  .\nd  so  I  entered  into  my  chamber  and 
cldscd  the  door,  and  around  me  there  came  a  Iroopini;  llinuii;  of  phantasms  dire  from 
tlir  aliy~Mial  depths  of  nethermost  perdition.  Uoulit.  Fear,  I'nbelief,  Mockery,  and  Scorn 
were  tliere;  and  I  arose  and  wrestled  with  them  in  travail  and  ajzoiiy  of  spirit.' 

A  new  plan  of  life  had  to  l)e  formed,  and  he  turned  to  the  scho- 
lastic profession,  but  abandoned  it  shortly,  to  devote  liinisclf  to 
literature.  In  lsi'^0  lie  married  an  attractive  and  amiable  lady 
of  vigorous  intellect  and  varied  culture,  to  whom,  when  his  course 
shdiilil  he  nearly  run,  he  was  to  ascril)e  all  of  worth  he  had  ever 
acliievril.  Her  dowry,  though  not  large,  deliverecl  him  from 
coiiipulsorv  drudgery;  and  they  made  their  home  in  solitu<le, 
aiiioiii>'  the  granite  hills,  where  he  could  dream  and  meditate. 
In  a  letter  addresseil  to  (ioetlie.  he  says: 

'  In  this  wilderness  of  hcatli  and  nnk.  our  e-tate  stand>  forth  a  green  oasis,  a  trad 


456         DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

of  ploughed,  partly  enclosed  and  planted,  ground,  where  corn  ripens  and  trees  afford 
a  shade,  although  surrounded  \)y  sea-mews  and  rough-woollcd  sheep.  Here,  with  no 
small  effort,  have  we  built  and  furnished  a  neat,  substantial  dwelling;  here,  in  the 
absence  of  a  professional  or  other  office,  we  live  to  cultivate  literature  according  to  our 
strength,  and  in  our  own  peculiar  way.  We  wish  a  joyful  growth  to  the  roses  and  flowers 
of  our  garden :  we  hope  for  health  and  peaceful  thoughts  to  further  our  aims.  The  roses, 
indeed,  are  still  in  i)art  to  be  planted,  but  they  blossom  already  in  anticipation.  Two 
ponies  which  carry  us  everywhere,  and  the  mountain  air,  are  the  best  medicines  for 
weak  nerves.  This  daily  exercise,  to  which  I  am  much  devoted,  is  my  only  recreation; 
for  this  nook  of  ours  is  the  loneliest  in  Britain,  .si.x  miles  removed  from  any  one  likely 
to  visit  me.  Here  Rousseau  would  have  been  as  happy  as  on  his  island  of  St.  Pierre. 
...  I  came  hither  solely  with  the  design  to  simplify  my  way  of  life,  and  to  secure  the 
independence  through  which  1  could  be  enabled  to  remain  true  to  myself.  This  bit  of 
earth  is  our  own:  here  we  can  live,  write,  and  think  as  best  pleases  ourselves.' 

The  mountain  fastness,  with  its  stern  yet  tender  beauties,  was 
congenial  to  the  recluse;  and  here,  from  time  to  time,  he  was 
visited  by  friends  and  strangers  desirous  of  seeing  the  new 
genius  who  had  so  profoundly  touched  their  spirits.  To  have 
the  best  libraries  within  easy  reach,  he  moved  to  a  suburb  of 
London,  1834,  where  till  the  day  of  his  death  he  continued  to 
reside,  thence  known  to  the  English-speaking  world  as  'the  sage 
of  Chelsea.'  He  died  from  a  general  failure  of  vital  power, 
February  5,  1881,  regretted  and  mourned  by  an  entire  nation. 

Writings. —  Open  at  random  any  of  Carlyle's  works,  and 
you  shall  perceive  yourself  at  once  in  the  presence  of  a  new  and 
extraordinary  species  of  mind.  His  earliest — Sartor  liesartus  — 
begins  in  the  maimer  of  an  innovator  or  anomaly: 

'Considering  our  present  advanced  state  of  culture,  and  how  the  Torch  of  Science 
has  now  been  brandished  and  borne  about,  with  more  or  less  effect,  for  Ave  thousand 
years  and  upwards;  how,  in  these  times  esi)ecially,  not  only  the  Torch  still  l)urns,  and 
perhiii)s  more  tiercely  than  ever,  but  innumerable  Kusli-liglits  and  Sulphur-matches, 
kindled  thereat,  arc  also  glancing  in  every  direction,  so  Ihat  not  the  .smallest  cranny  or 
doghole  in  Nature  or  Art  can  remain  unilluniinated.^it  might  strike  the  reflective  mind 
with  some  surprise  that  hitlierto  little  or  nothing  of  a  fundamental  character,  whether 
in  the  way  of  Philosophy  or  History,  has  been  written  on  the  subject  of  Clothes.' 

AVe  soon  discover  that  this  unique  book,  which  professes  to  be  a 
review  of  a  German  treatise  on  dress,  is  a  veiled  metaphysics, 
according  to  which  all  things  vi.sible,  especially  we  ourselves,  are 
a  vesture  of  sensuous  appearance: 

'For  Matter,  were  it  never  so  despicable,  is  Siiirit,  the  manifestation  of  Spirit:  were 
it  nivcr  so  bonouralile  can  it  hv  more?  The  thing  Visible,  nay  the  thing  Imagined,  the 
thing  in  any  way  conceived  as  ^'i>il)le,  what  is  it  but  a  Garment,  a  Clothing  of  the  higher 
celesti;d  Invisible,  uniiuagiiKible,  formless,  dark  with  excess  of  bright?' 

Man  is  a  .symbol,  capaljle  of  two  interpretations: 

•To  the  eye  of  vulgar  Logic,  what  is  man?  An  omnivorous  Biped  that  wears 
Breeches.     To  the  eye  of  Pure  Reason,  what  is  he?     A  soul,  a  Spirit,  and  divine  Appari- 


CARLYLE.  457 

tion.  Round  his  mysterious  Me,  there  lies,  under  all  those  wool-ragu,  a  Garment  of 
Flesh  (or  of  Senses),  contestnred  in  the  Loom  of  Heaven  ;  whereby  he  is  revealed  to  his 
like,  ;uul  dwells  with  them  in  Union  and  Division;  and  sees  and  fashions  for  himself  a 
Universe,  with  azure  Starry  Spaces,  and  long  Thousands  of  Years.  Deep-hidden  is  he 
under  that  stranjze  Garment,  amid  Sounds  and  Colours  and  Forms,  as  it  were,  swtitbed 
in  and  inextricably  overshrouded:  yet  it  is  sky  woven,  and  worthy  of  a  God.' 

Every  object  has  a  double  significance: 

'The  Universe  is  but  one  vast  Symbol  of  God;  nay,  if  thou  wilt  have  it,  what  is  man 
himself  but  a  Symbol  of  God:  is  not  all  that  he  does  symbolical;  a  revelation  to  Sense 
of  the  mystic  God-given  Force  that  is  in  him.  .  .  .  Not  a  Ilut  he  builds  but  is  the  visible 
eiiihodinient  of  a  thought;  but  bears  visible  record  of  invisible  things;  but  is,  in  the 
transcendental  sense,  symbolical  as  well  as  real." 

Abysmal  Space  and  Time  are  but  forms  of  thought,  world- 
enveloping  illusions: 

'These,  as  spun  and  woven  for  us  from  before  Birth  itself,  to  clothe  our  celestial 
Me  for  dwelling  here,  and  yet  to  blind  it, —  lie  all-embracing,  as  the  universal  canvas, 
or  warp  and  woof,  whereby  all  minor  illusions,  in  this  Phantasm  Existence,  weave  and 
paint  themselves.  In  vain,  while  here  on  earth,  shall  you  endeavor  to  strip  them  off; 
you  can,  at  best,  but  rend  them  asunder  for  momenta  and  look  through." 

The  great  weaver  of  these  vain  raiments  which  conceal  or  ob- 
struct the  spiritual  nature,  is  custom: 

'  Philosophy  complains  that  Custom  has  hoodwinked  us,  from  the  first;  that  we  do 
everything  by  Custom,  even  Believe  by  it;  that  our  very  Axioms,  let  us  boast  of  Free- 
thinking  as  we  may,  are  oftcnest  simply  such  Beliefs  as  we  have  never  heard  questioned. 
Nay,  what  is  Philcisi)|)hy  throughout  but  a  continual  battle  against  Custom;  an  ever- 
renewed  effort  to  transcend  the  sphere  of  blind  Custom,  and  so  become  Transcendental? ' 

Of  all  the  garnitures  of  human  existence,  the  most  important  i.s 
religion  ;  but  pierce  tlirough  the  garment  to  the  iinier,  moral 
sense  of  it,  and  you  will  see,  in  any  age,  the  need  of  reformation: 

'  111  our  era  of  the  World,  those  same  Church-Clothes  have  gone  sormwfuUy  out  at 
«'lli()w>:  iKiy.  f.ir  worse,  many  of  them  have  become  mere  hollow  Shapes,  or  Masks, 
uiiiltT  wliicli  MO  living  Figure  or  Spirit  any  longer  dwells;  but  only  spiders  and  unclean 
htctlis,  ill  horrid  aciiiniiilation,  drive  their  trade;  and  the  Mask  still  glares  on  you  with 
its  gUiss  I  VIS,  111  Lrli:istly  affectation  of  Life, —  somi;  generation  and  half  after  Heligion 
has  (luitc  wiilulrawii  from  It,  and  in  unnoticed  nooks  is  weaving  for  herself  new  Vestures, 
wlurewith  to  reappear,  and  bless  us." 

lUit  far  down  in  the  centre,  under  every  apparition,  is  the  fair 
ami   iniU^structible  reality,  whereof  nature  is  the  changing  and 

living  rolie: 

'Oil.  cduld  1  .  .  .  transport  thee  direct  from  the  Beginnings  to  the  Endings,  how 
Wire  Iliy  rycsiirlil  unsealed,  and  thy  heart  set  llaming  in  the  Light-sea  i)f  celestial 
wonder!  'I'lun  rawest  thou  that  this  fair  Universe,  were  it  in  thr  meane<t  jirovince 
tlicreiif,  is  in  very  <liiii  the  star-domed  City  nf  God;  that  through  every  star,  through 
I'viry  f,'ras^-l>!;i(li',  ami  most  tliroiigli  every  Living  Soul,  the  glory  of  a  present  (Jod  still 
biaiiis.  Kilt  Nature,  which  is  the  Time-vesture  of  (Jod,  and  revoals  llim  to  the  wise, 
hides  llim  from  the  foolish." 

Ritis,    ceremonies,    liturgies,    creeds.    Pagan    and    Christian,    are 


458  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

embodiments  of  the  same  essential  Idea  —  births  of  the  troubled 
heart  before  the  iaugust  and  infinite  Mystery: 

'Knovves<t  thou  that  ''Worsfiip  of  Sorrotv?'^  The  Temple  thereof,  founded  some 
eighteen  centuries  ago,  now  lie;:  in  ruins,  overgrown  with  jungle,  the  habitation  of  doleful 
creatures :  nevertheless,  venture  forward ;  in  a  low  crypt,  arched  out  of  falling  fragments, 
thou  findest  the  Altar  there,  and  its  sacred  Lamp  perennially  burning.' 

Inspiration  is  unceasing,  prophets  there  are  in  our  own  day,  and 
without  some  inspired  Orpheus  was  no  city  built  nor  work  done 
that  man  glories  in: 

'Our  highest  Orpheus  walked  in  Judea,  eighteen  hundred  years  ago;  his  sphere- 
melody,  flowing  in  wild  native  tones,  took  captive  the  ravished  souls  of  men;  and,  being 
of  a  truth  sphere-melody,  still  flows  and  sounds,  though  now  with  thousandfold  Accom- 
paniments, and  rich  symphonies,  through  all  our  hearts,  and  modulates,  and  divinely 
leads  them.' 

Our  lives  are  portions  of  this  Divine  Essence,  and  we  have  our 
root  in  eternity: 

'And  seest  thou  therein  any  glimpse  of  Immortality  ?  —  0  Heaven !  is  the  white  Tomb 
of  our  Loved  One,  who  died  from  our  arms,  and  had  to  be  left  behind  us  there,  which 
rises  in  the  disUince,  like  a  pale,  mournfully  receding  Milestone,  tQ  tell  how  many  toil- 
some uncheered  miles  we  have  journeyed  on  alone,— but  a  pale  spectral  Illusion!  .  .  . 
Know  of  a  truth  that  only  the  Time-shadows  have  perished,  or  are  perishable;  that  the 
real  Being  of  whatever  was,  and  whatever  is,  and  whatever  will  be,  is  even  now  and 
forever.' 

We  have  called  this  book  a  metaphysics,  a  psychology:  it  is 
also  an  autobiography,  'written  in  star  fire  and  immortal  tears'; 
a  picture  of  the  soul  bravely  battling  with  haggard  Doubt  and 
Fear  in  a  Pilgrim's  Progress  to  the  Celestial  City  of  light  and 
truth.  Quitting  the  faith  of  his  fathers,  he  wanders  wearisomely 
through  the  death-shadows,  looking  '  vaguely  all  around  into  a 
dim  copper  firmament,  pregnant  with  earthquake  and  tornado,' 
shouting  question  after  question  '  into  the  Sibyl-cave  of  Destiny,' 
and  receiving  no  answer  but  an  echo: 

'  It  is  all  a  f(rim  Desert,  this  once  fair  world  of  his :  wherein  is  heard  only  the  howl- 
ing of  wild  beasts,  or  the  shrieks  of  despairing,  hate-filled  men;  and  no  Pillar  of  Cloud 
by  (lay,  and  no  Pillar  of  Fire  by  night,  any  longer  guides  the  Pilgrim.  To  such  length 
has  the  spirit  of  inquiry  tarried  him." 

This  is  the  gulf  of  'the  everlasting  ^Yb.'  What  next?  The 
sum-total  of  the  worst  is  death.  Tlierefore  defy  Destiny,  and  in 
your  defiance  you  shall  have  at  lea.st  a  fixed  point  of  revolution  — 
'the  centre  of  Indifference': 

'Tluuisands  of  human  generations,  all  as  noisy  as  our  own,  have  been  swallowed  up 
of  Time,  and  there  remains  no  wreck  of  them  any  more;  and  Arcturus,  and  Orion  and 
Sirins  and  the  Pleiades  are  still  shining  in  their  courses,  clear  and  young,  as  when  the 
Shepherd  first  noted  them  as  in  the  plain  of  Shinar.    Pshaw!  what  is  this  paltry  little 


CAKI-YLK.  469 

Doji-cjij;<'  of  .III  Earth:  what  art  thou  that  xiticst  wliiniiiK  thireJ  Thou  art  otill  Nothing, 
Nobody:  true:  but  who  then  is  Soincthin;;,  Sonicbody*  For  theo  the  Family  of  Man 
h;iK  no  use;  it  rcjoctn  thee:  thou  art  wholly  as  a  dinscvered  limb:  ^o  be  it,  perhaj)?-  it  is 
better  hO  I " 

IJeyoiid  'the  eiK-liaiited  forests,  demon-peopled,  doloful  of  sight 
and  of  sound,'  are  the  sunlit  slopes  of  the  Mountain  whose 
summit  is  in  Heaven.  Here  the  way-weary  may  find  rest  sweeter 
than  dayspring  to  the  shipwrecked: 

'Like  the  iiiothcr'c  voice  to  her  little  child  that  jitrays  bewildered,  weeping,  in 
unknown  tumults,  .  .  came  that  Evangel.  The  Universe  is  not  dead  and  demoniacal,  » 
cliarnel-hou^e  with  spectres:  but  Godlike,  and  my  Father's; 

Witli  other  eyes,  too,  could  I  now  look  upon  my  fellow-man;  witli  an  infinite  Love, 
an  inflniti-  Pity.  .  .  .  Truly,  the  din  of  many-voiced  Life,  which  in  this  solitude,  with  the 
mind"s  or^iin,  1  could  hear,  wa.-s  no  longer  a  maddening  discord,  but  a  melting  one:  like 
inarticulate  cries,  and  sobbings  of  a  dumb  creature,  which  in  the  ear  of  Heaven  are 
prayers.  .  .  .  Man,  with  his  so  mad  Wants  and  so  mean  Endeavourp,  had  become  the 
dearer  to  me;  and  even  for  bis  sufferings  and  his  sins,  I  now  first  named  him  brother." 

Temj^tations  in  the  Wilderness!  Have  we  not  all  to  be  tried 
with  such':'      is  not  our  life  a  warfare V      And  to  what  end? — 

'  Man's  rnhap|)iness,  as  I  construe,  conies  of  his  CJreiitness;  it  is  because  there  is  au 
Intinite  in  iiim,  which  with  all  his  cunning  he  cannot  quite  bury  under  the  Finite.  .  .  . 
There  is  in  man  a  Higher  than  Love  of  Happiness:  he  can  do  without  Happiness,  and 
instead  tliereof  lind  Blessedness;  Was  it  not  to  preach  forth  this  same  Higher  that  sages 
and  martyrs,  ilie  Poet  and  the  Priest,  in  all  time.s,  have  si)oken  and  suffered;  bearing 
testimony,  through  life  and  through  death,  of  the  Godlike  that  is  in  Man,  and  how  in 
the  (iodlike  only  has  he  Strength  and  Freedom.  .  .  .  On  the  roaring  billows  of  Time, 
lliou  art  not  eiigulphed,  liut  borne  aloft  into  the  azure  of  Eternity.  Love  not  Pleasure; 
love  (Jod.' 

This  is  "lie  cverlastiiio^  J''«,'  wherein  all  contradiction  is  solved, 

and  - — 

•The  mail  |)rimeval  Discord  is  hushed:  the  nidely-junibled  conllicting  elements  bind 
tluiiiselM  -  into  separate  firmaments:  deep  silent  rock-foundatiiins  are  liuilt  beneath; 
;iiid  llu  ^kyl•y\:ullt  with  its  everlasting  Luminaries  above:  instead  of  a  dark  wasteful 
Cliaos,  we  have  a  blooming,  fertile.  Heaven-encompassed  World.' 

Tliroiioh  all  this  ^loom,  vision,  and  ecstasy  there  runs  the  scn- 
liiiM'iit  (if  (Jcrmaii  Idealism, —  that  e.vistence  is  divine  and  myste- 
rious: that  hcvond  tin-  reach  of  c.xiicricMice  is  a  spiritual  force, 
manifested  throuirh  fim<'  and  space,  the  principle  and  substance 
of  <()iicretes,  the  source  of  tliiiiiTS,  the  oiilv  reality,  the  ^rand 
I  iifatli<)iiial)le.  It  animates  voii,  it  subsists  in  me;  it  ninves  in 
the  niillions,  but,  atiove  all,  in  th(>  yreat  mountain-peaks  of  the 
historic  hiiidscape  — in  a  Mahomet,  a  Dante,  a  Shakesjican-.  a 
l.utlief,  a  ('mmwell,  a  Napoleon.  Such  is  the  fuiuhimental  con- 
ception of  III  rot. ^  (iiul  JIi  roAVorshlp,  a  course  of  six  lectures 
undeislood  to  have  been  delixcred.  wit jiout  pii-vious  composition. 


4t30  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  llEPBESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

to  the  'distinguished  and  accomplished,  the  beautiful  and  the 
wise,'  of  London.  The  great  man  is  a  natural  luminary  of 
Heaven: 

'Ever,  to  the  true  instincts  of  men,  there  is  something  godlike  in  him.  Whether  they 
shall  take  him  to  be  a  god,  to  be  a  prophet,  or  what  they  shall  take  him  to  be?  that  ia 
ever  a  grand  question ;  by  their  way  of  answering  that,  we  sliall  see,  as  through  a  little 
window,  into  the  very  heart  of  these  men's  spiritual  condition.  For  at  bottom  the  Great 
Man,  as  he  comes  from  the  hand  of  Nature,  is  ever  the  same  kind  of  thing:  Odin,  Luther, 
.lohnsoii.  Burns;  I  hope  to  make  it  appear  that  these  are  all  originally  of  one  stuff;  that 
only  by  the  world's  reception  of  them,  and  the  shapes  they  assume,  are  they  so  immeas- 
urably diverse.' 

Genius  is  of  the  skies,  with  its  voice  from  the  unknown  Deep, 
In  it  we  may  see  ourselves  in  higher  forms.  The  greatest  is  the 
nameless  One  —  the  ultimate  perfection  or  fountain  of  the  Me. 
Hence  the  uses  of  great  men  and  of  hero-worship.  We  increase 
our  stature  by  doing  reverence  to  what  is  really  above  us: 

'  No  nobler  feeling  than  this  of  admiration  for  one  higher  than  himself  dwells  in  the 
breast  of  man.  Jt  is  to  this  hour,  and  at  all  hours,  the  vivifying  inlluence  in  man's  life. 
Religions  I  find  stand  upon  it;  not  Paganism  only,  but  far  higher  and  truer  religions, — 
all  religion  hitherto  known.' 

Say  not  that  the  hero  is  a  mere  creature  of  the  times,  which  are 

only  as  dead  fuel  waiting  for  the  heroic  lightning,  direct  of  God, 

that  shall  kindle  it: 

'The  Time  call  forth?  Alas,  we  have  known  Times  call  loudly  enough  for  their 
great  man;  but  not  find  him  when  they  called!  He  was  not  there,  Providence  bad  not 
.■»ent  him;  the  Time,  calling  its  loudest,  had  to  go  down  to  confusion  and  wreck  because 
be  would  not  come  wh<;n  called.  For  if  we  will  think  of  it,  no  Time  need  have  gone  to 
rum,  could  it  hn\c  fo>iiid  n  man  great  enough:  wisdom  to  disc(;rn  truly  what  the  Time 
wanted,  valour  to  lead  it  on  the  right  road  thither;  these  are  the  salvation  of  any  Time.'' 

Thus  the  history  of  what  man  has  accomplished,  is  at  bottom  the 
history  of  the  Anv  great  men  who  have  wrought: 

'They  were  the  leaders  of  men,  these  great  ones;  the  modellers,  patterns,  and  in  a 
wide  sense  creators,  of  whatsoever  th(^  general  mass  of  men  contrived  to  do  or  to  attain  ; 
all  tilings  that  we  see  standing  accomiilislied  in  the  world  are  (jroperly  the  outer  material 
result,  the  practical  realisation  and  embodiment,  of  Thoughts  that  dwelt  in  the  (ireat 
Mi'ii  sent  into  the  world:  the  soul  r)f  the  whole  world's  history,  it  may  justly  be  consid- 
ered, were  the  history  of  thesi .' 

IIciico  the  history  of  Puritanism,  the  sj)iritual  and  political 
conflict  of  the  .s<>ventcenth  century,  may  be  comprised  in  (Jrom- 
irrlP.H  I^cJfcrs  (IihI  Sjx'ef/ics.  The;  greatest  of  the  Puritans  is  the 
ab-stract  of  all  the  rest  —  1  heir  original  characteristics  and  noblest 
features- — their  terrible  (;nergy  and  iiaming  conscience.  Here 
he  is,  face  to  fac«': 

'Does  th(^  reader  see  him?  A  rather  likely  ligur.t,  1  think.  Stands  some  five  feet 
ten  or  iiKjn;:  a  man  of  strong,  ^^olid  stature,  and  dignilled,  now  partly  military  (carriage: 


CAKLYLE.  461 

the  fixprpssion  of  him  valour  and  devout  intelligence  — energy  and  delicacy  on  a  basis  of 
simplicity.  Fifty-four  years  old,  gone  April  last;  brown  hair  and  moustache  arc  getting 
gray.  A  figure  of  suflicienl  iniprcssivene.ss  — not  lovely  to  the  nianmillincT  species,  not 
pretending  to  b<>  so.  Massive  stature;  big,  massive  head,  of  somewhat  leonine  aspect; 
wart  above  the  right  eyebrow:  nose  of  considerable  blunt-aquiline  proix)rtions;  strict 
yet  co])i<)us  lips,  full  of  all  tremulous  sensibilities  and  also,  if  need  wore,  of  all  fierce- 
ness and  rigours;  deep,  loving  eyes  —  call  them  grave,  call  them  stern  — looking  from 
under  iliose  eraggy  brows  as  if  in  lifelong  sorrow,  and  yet  not  thinking  it  sorn)w,  thinking 
it  o7ily  labour  and  endeavour:  on  the  whole,  a  right  noble  lion-face  and  hero-face;  and 
to  n)e  royal  enough." 

With  like  devotion  to  tlie  epic  sentiment,  in  the  same  luminous 
style,  with  all  the  force  of  his  heart  and  sympatliy,  he  writes  the 
Frencli  Recolution,  a  most  original  book,  fresh  from  the  soul, 
original  in  its  complete  sincerity,  in  its  disregard  of  convention- 
alism. In  fact,  a  new  fashion.  Men  and  events  ])ass  before  us, 
not  as  shadows  and  abstractions,  but  as  beings  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Never  w;is  the  general  s])irit  of  an  age  expressed  with  such  inten- 
sity and  sj)londor.  Was  ever  the  state  of  an  agitated  nation 
made  thus  present  and  palpable"? — 

'  How  the  whole  peojile  shakes  itself  as  if  it  had  one  life;  and,  in  thousand-voiced 
rumor,  announces  tliat  it  i-<  awake,  suddenly  out  of  long  death-sleep,  and  will  thence- 
forth sleep  no  more  !  The  Ion,;:  lookcd-for  has  come  at  last;  wondrous  news,  of  victory, 
deliverance,  enfranchisement,  sounds  magical  through  every  heart.  To  the  proud  strong 
man  it  has  come:  wlio.-o  strong  hands  shall  no  more  be  gyved;  to  whom  boundless  uncon- 
(piered  continents  lie  disclosed.  The  weary  day-drudge  has  heard  of  it ;  the  beggar  with 
his  cru^t  moisteni'd  in  tears.  What!  To  us  also  has  hope  reached;  down  even  tons? 
Hunger  and  hardship  are  not  to  be  tternal?  The  bread  we  extorted  from  the  rugged 
glebe,  and,  with  the  toil  of  our  sinews,  reaped  and  ground,  and  kneaded  into  loaves,  was 
not  wholly  for  aiiollier.  then  :  but  we  also  shall  eat  of  it,  and  be  tilled  ?  Glorious  news 
(answer  the  iirudcnt  elders),  but  all  too  unlikely! — Thus,  at  any  rate,  may  the  lower 
pcojile.  who  iiay  no  n\oiiey  t:i.\es  and  have  no  right  to  vote,  assiduou>ly  erowil  round 
those  tl;at  do;  and  must  halls  of  assembly,  within  doors  and  without,  seem  animated 
enouL-'h." 

Alino.'^t  niivwliere  you  will  fun]  examples  of  this  unique  power  — 
this  mode  of  conijirehending  life,  and  this  gift  of  resuscitating 
the  ])ast.  Take  his  dcsciiption  of  Marie  Antoinette  from  the 
'Diamond  Xeckhn'c'  i^{  his  J/i.fct  //'//ue.'^ : 

'Oil.  is  thi're  .■!  nuin's  heart  that  tliinks,  witliout  i>ity,  of  tlio-:(>  loni:  months  and.  years 
of  ^Iiiw  wa-tinir  iiMioniiny  :  —  nf  lliy  Ilirlh,  s(>ft-era<!li'd  in  Imperial  Sehi)nl)runu,  the  winds 
of  Ih  aicn  not  to  vi-it  Itiy  face  toi>  ronL'lily,  tliy  font  to  lii:hl  on  softne-s,  thy  eye  on 
spliiiili-'ir  :  and  then  of  thy  Death,  or  liiindrcd  Dc.alli-.,  to  whicli  the  (iuillotine  and 
FouijuiiT  Tinvillc's  jiidL'incnl-har  was  hut  the  merciful  end?  Look  thfrf^O  man  lM>rn 
of  woman  !  Tlie  liloom  of  lliat  fair  f.'U  e  is  wasted,  the  hair  is  gray  \\  i!li  care:  the  bright- 
ni'--  of  lli(>--c  eyes  i>^  i]iieiiclii'il,  their  lids  hani:  drooping,  Die  face  i"  stony  pale,  as  of  one 
living:  in  <lcatli.  Mean  weeds  (which  her  own  hand  ha<  mended!  atlin>  the  t^ueen  of 
the  Wnrld.  The  death-htirdle,  where  thon  sittest,  l)ale  motioiilcs-;,  which  only  curses 
en\  iron,  has  to  sli>|i:  a  i)coide,  drunk  with  vi'iiireance,  will  drink  it  ;ig;iin  in  full  draught 
|(>. d^iiiLT  at  thee  there  :  far  .'i-i  the  evi-  rea<-he-.  a  multiludinons  sea  of  n\aniae  lu'ads;  the  air 
deaf  with  their  iriumpliyell  !     The  Living-dead  mu«t  shudder  with  yet  one  other  pang; 


462  DIFFUSIVE    PEKIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

her  startled  blood  yet  again  suffuses  with  the  hue  of  agony  that  pale  face,  which  she  hides 
with  her  hands  There  is,  then;  no  heart  to  say,  God  pity  thee?  O  think  not  of  these; 
think  of  Him  whom  thou  worshippest,  the  Crucified. —  who,  also,  treading  the  wine-press 
alone,  fronted  sorrow  still  deeper;  and  triumphed  over  it,  and  made  it  Holy ;  and  built  of 
it  a  "Sanctuary  of  Sorrow,"  for  thee  and  all  the  wretched!  Thy  path  of  thorns  is  nigh 
ended  One  long  last  look  at  the  Tuileries,  where  thy  step  was  once  so  light,— where 
Uiy  children  shall  not  dwell.  The  head  is  on  the  block;  the  axe  rushes—  Dumb  lies  the 
World;  that  wild-yelling  World,  and  all  its  madness,  is  behind  thee.' 

Style. — New  and  strange,  but  like  the  man  hini.self, —  rugged, 
forceful,  disjointed,  gnarled,  lurid,  Titanic,  marvellously  vivid. 
Glib  words,  smooth  periods,  simple  expression,  do  not  suffice  for 
the  sparkling  or  gloomy  images  that  besiege  and  haunt  his 
brain.  Fancy  the  chapters  of  a  historical  work  with  such  cap- 
tions as  'Realized  ideals,'  'Petition  in  Hieroglyph.s,'  'Windbags.' 
German  speculations  are  'transcendental  moonshine.'  The  ana- 
lytic thinkers  of  the  eighteenth  century  are  'logic-choppers.' 
Servile  imitators  are  'apes  of  tlie  Dead  Sea.'  The  cocks  and  hens 
in  his  neighbor's  yard  are  'demon  fowls.'  The  mess  served  up  bv 
an  objectionable  cook  can  only  be  dcscril)cd  as  'Stvgian,'  with 
'Tartarean'  for  a  vai-iant.  Democracy  is  'the  gradual  uprise 
and  rule  of  all  things  of  roaring,  million-headed,  uin-eflecting, 
darkly-suffering,  darkly-sinning  Demos.' 

Between  his  early  revi(Mvs  in  the  KdlnharijJi.  and  his  later  ])ro- 
ductions  there  is  an  obvious  difference,  whicli  some  critics  have 
attempted  to  explain  by  the  corrections  of  JcfTrey.  Says  Charles 
Sumner:  'I  observed  to  Lord  Jeffrey  that  I  thought  Carlyle  had 
changed  his  style  very  much  since  he  wrote  the  article  on  15urns. 
"Not  at  all."  said  he;  "  I  will  tell  you  why  that  is  different  from 
the  other  articles  —  £  all  i  red  if .'''''  The  alterations,  however,  coidd 
scarcely  have  been  so  radical  and  constant.  F.et  us  rather  sup- 
pose that,  if  he  then  used  English  more  nearly  as  others,  it  was 
his  natural  voice.  The  like  simplicity  is  apparent  in  his  remarks 
on  the  deatii  of  (ioetlie: 

'So,  then,  our  gnatost  li.is  dci)arted.  That  melody  of  life,  with  its  ciiniiiiiir  tones, 
which  took  captive  ear  and  heart,  has  gone  silent ;  the  heavcMily  force  that  dwelt  here 
victorious  over  so  nuich  is  here  no  longer;  thus  far,  not  farther,  by  speech  and  by  act, 
shall  the  wise  man  utter  himself  forth.  The  end  I  What  solemn  meaning  lies  in  that 
soimd,  as  it  peals  mournfully  through  the  soul,  when  a  living  friend  has  passerl  away  I 
All  now  is  closed,  irrevocable:  the  cliangeful  llfi'-picture,  growing  daily  into  new  cohe- 
rence, under  new  touches  and  hues,  has  suddenly  become  comi)leted  and  unchangeable; 
there,  as  it  lay,  it  is  dipped,  from  this  moment,  in  the  a>ther  of  the  Heavens,  and  shines 
transfigured,  to  endure  even  so — forever  Time  and  Tinu''s  iMnpire:  stern,  wide  devouring, 
yet  not  without  their  grandeur  I  The  week-day  man,  \'  ho  was  one  of  us,  lias  put  on  the 
garment  of  Eternity,  and  become  radiant  and  triuuii>haTit  i  the  i)resent  is  all  at  once  the 


CAULYLB.  468 

past ;  IIi)|H:  is  ^tiddc-nly  cut  away,  and  only  the  backward  vititas  of  Memory  remain,  Hlione 
on  by  a  light  that  proceeds  not  from  this  earthly  sun." 

Gradually,  as  convictiotis  deepen,  and  doubts  imiltiply,  and 
shadows  thicken,  and  the  ferment  increases,  the  style  becomes 
more  crowded,  contrasted,  contorted,  phosphorescent.  Form  is 
little,  the  basis  alone  is  im])ortant.  The  essential  thing  is  to 
g^rasp  the  central  truth,  to  strike  at  the  inmost,  to  exhibit  strongly 
a  few  focal  ])oints  of  light  which  may  be  clearly  discerned  against 
the  illimitable  darkness.  When  thought  is  a  tempest,  when  the 
intellect  foams  and  gasps,  simplicity  must  go  to  the  wall.  The 
coMvcntional  costume  of  ordinary  mortals  was  not  made  for  this 
man,  altogether  too  limpid  and  feeble  for  'the  great  fiery  heart  of 
him.'  Doubtless  there  may  be  something  of  preconceived  inten- 
tion, but  the  affectation,  if  any  such,  is  thrice  redeemed  by  rare 
advantages  — wonderful  suggestiveness  and  photographic  power. 

Rank. — One  after  another,  critics  have  repeated  that  Car- 
lyle's  manner  is  atnx'ious,  that  he  is  not  great  as  a  thinker,  but 
only  as  a  word-painter,  that  he  is  merely  destructive,  with  no 
definite  ))lan  of  rectificatioti  or  improvement.  Strange  and  anom- 
alous as  his  style  may  appear,  it  is,  as  we  have  said,  indul)itably 
natural,  and  in<'()mparal)ly  vigorous,  having  the  inspiration  of  the 
Sybil  and  the  strength  of  the  oak.  If  he  is  not  an  analyst,  like 
Spencer  or  Mill,  he  is  something  higher, —  a  seer,  a  revealer,  like 
Bacon  or  Shakes])eare:  intuitive  rather  than  scientific,  not  <lecom- 
posing  notions  iiilcj  regular  series,  and  verifying  the  steps,  but 
pcrcciviMg  them  in  tiieir  entirety  and  reprcjilucing  them  bv  divina- 
tion. If  he  is  (  lilieal  and  negative,  consider  that  the  ideal  com- 
pels it,  that  the  tallest-minded  must  be  so  in  ])roj)ortion  to  their 
Liift  of  insight.  Consider  of  how  great  service  this  function  has 
been  to  nuuikind.  C-onsider,  moreover,  that  the  otlire  of  diffusing 
through  the  soc-ial  atmosj)liere  great  generaliti<'s  of  truth  and 
justice  is  in  itself  a  loftier  one  than  that  of  initiating  specific 
social  remedies. 

The  most  rccogni/ed  and  the  most  original  of  the  interpicters 
wlio  have  inti'oduced  (Jei-nian  ideas  into  England.  Doubtless 
rn)ni  teiiipeiament,  he  views  life  and  the  worhl  through  an  im|)er- 
fecl  and  distorting  medium,  and  is  not  equally  at  home  in  all 
directions;  but  he  lias  seen,  with  unexampli'd  intensity,  the  cen- 
tral   spots   in   the   surrounding   gloom,   and    has   made   others   see 


464  DIFFUSIVE    PEKIOD — REPRESENTATIVF    AUTHORS. 

them  with  unexampled,  vividness.  No  one  has  spoken  deeper 
words  about  iiuiuan  life,  or  seen  more  penetratingly  into  the 
mysterious  grandeur  of  'the  mighty  All,'  into  the  divine  idea 
which  underlies  the  phenomenal.  He  is  beyond  all  rivalry,  since 
Shakespeare,  in  minute  characterization.  What  distinguishes  the 
one  as  a  dramatist,  distinguishes  the  other  as  a  historian,  —  that 
the  'forms  of  things  unknown,'  or  known  by  their  names  only, 
are  bodied  forth,  not  as  algebraical  symbols  which  present  no 
image  to  the  fancy,  but  as  realities  of  soul-inviting  warmth  and 
completeness.  , 

Prophecy  fails.  C'arlyle  does  not  sustain  himself.  He  is  less 
readable  in  wholes  than  in  parts.  Plenitude  and  depth  of  insight, 
fervor  and  exaltation  of  feeling,  make  his  least  successful  volumes 
teem  with  passages  noteworthy,  beautiful,  and  wise.  Hen-  are 
some  diamonds  in  the  rough: 

'Gfnbis  ifi  an  immoiisu  capacity  for  takiiit;  trouble. " 

'The  fearful  unbelief  is  unbelief  in  yourself."  ' 

'Always  there  Is  a  black  spot  in  our  sunshine;  it  is  the  shadow  of  ourselvep." 

'Pin  thy  faith  to  no  man's  sleeve:  hast  thou  not  two  eyes  of  Iliy  own?" 

'  Do  the  duty  which  liet-t  nearest  Iliee!  Thy  second  duty  will  already  have  become 
clearer.' 

'One  Life:  a  little  jrem  of  Time  between  two  Eternities:  no  second  ('hance  to  u.* 
foreverniore  I " 

'V.  e  uill  not  estimate  the  Sun  by  the  quantity  of  ^'as-llcht  it  saves  us;  Dante  shall 
he  invaluable,  or  id'  no  value." 

'  Wouldst  tlion  plant  for  Eternity,  then  jilant  info  the  deep  inlinite  faculties  of  man, 
his  F'antasy  and  Heart." 

'History  is  a  uiiirlity  drama,  enaetecl  Mjiou  tlie  tlu'aire  of  lime,  with  suns  for  lamps, 
and  elcrnity  for  a  back'-'fouud.' 

'  Xo  nniL'ic  Ildnr  i>  ^-iranu'i-r  tiian  a  I5ook.  ,\11  tlnit  mankind  has  done.  tlioiiLdn. 
^'ained.  or  bc-cn.      it  i<  lyiuL'  in  ma^'ic  pre<c-rvatiou  in  the  pai_'es  ol'  IJooks." 

'All  true  work  i--  sacred:  in  all  tru<>  work,  were  it  but  true  hand-lal)or,  tie  re  is 
srimethiiiL,'  of  di\iie  iic^~.     Labor,  wiile  as  the  eartii,  lias  jts  sununit  in  lieaven." 

'To  sit  as  a  pas--i\c  liuckcl,  and  lie  pumped  ii;to,  can,  in  tlie  lon'4  run,  be  exhil- 
aralim:  to  no  cn-aturi'.  how  i-lo(|Ueiit  snevir  tlie  Hood  of  utterance  tlnit  is  desccudiu'_'.' 

'In  liooks  lies  l!ie  .Soul  ,,|-  i;,,.  whole  past  time:  the  audible  \oii-eof  the  Past,  whin 
lie-  body  and  material  -uli.-lancc  of  il  has  altoL'itti"r  vanished  like  a  dream." 

'(ttio-t~:  There  are  iiiL'li  a  tleiii~and  million  walkinu'  the  earth  openly  at  noon-tid(>: 
snine  lialfdiiiiidred  liave  vani-lied  from  it,  some  ti.alf  liundred  tiaxc  arisen  in  il,  ere  thy 
wall  h  ti(  k-  i.iiee." 

\\  itli  all  his  limittit ions,  alter  all  dcchictiotis,  Carlvle  rciiiains 
one  'it'   tin-  lew  most   i)n)fouii<i.  most  dfaniatie,  most    imaginative, 


CARLYLE.  465 

most  orir^inal  writers  of  modern  times, —  one  of  the  fixed  stare 
whose  glory  is  not  dimmed  by  the  greatness  of  the  rest. 

Character. — '  I  have  never  met  with  a  question  yet,'  says 
Ruskiri,  'which  did  not  need,  for  the  right  solution  of  it,  at  least 
one  positive  and  one  negative  answer,  like  an  equation  of  the 
second  degree.  Mostly,  matters  of  any  consequence  are  three- 
sided,  or  four-sided,  or  polygonal;  and  the  trotting  round  a 
polygon  is  severe  work  for  people  any  way  stiff  in  their  opinions. 
For  m3-self  I  am  never  satisfied  that  I  have  handled  a  subject 
properly  till  1  have  contradicted  myself  at  least  three  times.' 
Carlylc,  who  has  the  simplicity  and  complexity  of  nature,  may 
appear  to  be  full  of  contradictions,  but  these  we  believe  to  be 
mainly  of  the  superficial  sort;  and  it  shall  be  our  endeavor,  with- 
out pursuing  all  his  apparent  aberrations  and  intersections,  to 
indicate  the  secret  of  his  unity,  the  fundamental  and  prevailing 
truth  of  him,  and  the  man  in  his  prime  rather  than  in  his  decay. 

From  the  first  he  hat!  the  stamp  of  sadness  on  his  countenance. 
Little  is  known  of  him  as  a  student.  By  the  scant  testimony  of 
his  few  })er.sonal  ac(|uaintances.  he.  was  lonely  and  contemplative 
in  his  habits.  While  a  child,  he  was  thoughtful  and  studious, 
preferring  the  society  of  his  grandfatlier  to  that  of  the  village 
children.  lie  was  '  noted  as  a  still  infant  that  kept  his  mind 
much  to  liiinsclf;  al)ove  all,  that  seldom  or  never  cried."  On  the 
orchard  wall,  at  eve,  he  loved  to  take  his  porringer  of  bread  and 
milk.  'There  many  a  sunset  have  I,  looking  at  the  distant 
wesitciti  luouiitaiiis,  consuiiied,  uai  without  relish,  my  evening 
meal.  Those  iiues  of  gold  and  azure  that  hush  the  world's 
expectation  as  dav  dies,  were  still  a  Hebrew  sjieeeh  for  me; 
nevertheless,  I  \v;ts  looking  at  tlu^  fair  illuminated  letter.s.  and 
had  an  ey<'  ior  their  gilding.'  lie  tells  us  that  he  could  not 
rcMiieiiiber  ever  to  hav(?  learned  to  read — *  so  perhaps  had  it  by 
nature.'  His  nieinurv  was  extraordinary.  At  the  age  of  liv(\  it 
is  said,  he  could  give  an  outline  of  any  sermon  he  heard.  W  liile 
yet  a  l)ov,  he  astonished  the  audience,  including  his  father,  bv  u 
burst  of  oratorv  on  the  occasion  of  soiuc;  local  discussion. 

A  profound  sense  of  the  Internal  lirooded  ceas(>lessl\' over  him. 

His  eves  were   lived    lial)it  ually  on    the  vague   sli(U'«'less   I'niverse, 

the    gloofuv   abvss    which    c-joses    upon    troubled    atul    shuddering 

moiialitv.       'IJeineiuber    now    and    alwavs    tliat     lite    is    no    idle 

■A(> 


466  DIFFUSIVE    PKRIOI)  —  KEPRESENTATIVK    AUTHOKS. 

dream  but  a  solemn  reality,  based  upon  Eternity  and  encom- 
passed by  Eternity.'  A  little  while  ago  you  were  not;  a  little 
while  you  are  not,  sunk  beyond  plummet's  sounding  into  the 
Bottomless.  The  ages  waited  for  your  birth,  the  ages  wait  to 
se(!  what  you  will  do  when  born. 

Spirit  is  the  substance,  all  else  is  dust  and  shadow.  The  earth 
is  but  a  film;  the  warrior  and  his  war-horse  are  a  vision,  nothing 
more  —  a  symbol  of  the  Everlasting,  whose  highest  revelation  is 
keen  insight,  exclusive  devotion  to  some  worthy  end,  indomit- 
able will,  valor  in  defiance  of  the  darkness,  as  in  the  struggling, 
sombre,  sorrow-stricken  Johnson,  the  rugged,  silent,  inarticulate 
Cromwell.  If  you  will  but  consider  this,  and  the  inadequacy  of 
human  struggle  against  the  world-embracing  element  of  mourn- 
ful black,  you  may  understand  how  it  was  natural  to  this  grim 
Norseman  to  venerate  the  intelligence  that  could  see  into  the 
heart  of  things,  and  the  energy  that  could  get  the  mastery  over 
things.  Not  mere  force  of  martyrdom,  but  marrowy  vigor  of 
soul,  moral  and  intellectual  inclusive.  'Without  hands  a  man 
might  have  feet  and  still  walk;  but,  consider  it,  without  morality 
intellect  were  impossible  for  him,  he  could  not  know  anything 
at  all.'  Impatience  with  indecision  in  the  midst  of  chaos,  enthu- 
siasm over  stoical  endurance  or  heroic  success,  despondency  under 
nianifold  d()ul)ts,  the  much  that  was  iio]:)ed,  the  little  ])erformed, 
may  seem  at  times  to  make  him  a  mere  power-worshipper;  but 
we  are  bound  to  read  all  in  the  light  of  his  calmer  utterances, 
and  essential  nature.  'That  Goethe  was  a  great  teaclier  of  men 
means  already  that  he  was  a  good  man.'  Again:  'Voltaire  was 
not  the  wisest  of  men,  because  he  was  not  the  best.  Because 
the  thinking  and  the  moral  nature  are  but  (lifferent  phases  of 
the  same  imlissolublc!  unity  —  a  living  mind.'  There  could  be 
no  falser  pro])ositi()n,  he  would  say,  than  that  might  is  right. 
'Had  is  by  its  nature  negative,  and  can  do  notliin<j;  whatsoever 
enables  us  to  <l<>  anything  is  by  its  very  nature  (jooiL''  The  only 
miglit  is  moral.  An  Austei'lit/.  is  not  Heaven's  stamj)  of  approval. 
'It'  the  thing  is  unjust,  thou  hast  not  succeeded.'  Below  all 
resemblances  or  single*  ])hrases  arc  the  guiding  convictions  of 
( 'iirlyle's  tliouglit: 

'In  thi^  (Joil's- world,  w  itli  its  wihl-wtiirling  ctldii's  and  mad  foain-ocoiins  where  men 
unil  iiatiDiis  iicrit^li  as  if  witlioiit  law,  and  jiidymcnt  for  an  unjust  is  sternly  delayed,  dost 
thou  think  that  thi-rr  is  thcnforc  tio  justice?     It  is  what  the  fool  liath  said  in  his  heart. 


CARLYLK.  46< 

It  in  wti.it  tl)i»  wise,  in  all  tunes,  were  wise  bccaui<e  they  denied,  and  knew  forever  not 
to  be.' 

Ill  one  of  his  cynical  or  despairing'  moods,  li<'  niav  ho  driven 
into  the  jireaching  of  Fate,  but  do  not  imagine  that  he  is  only 
a  fatalist: 

'  I  would  wish  all  men  to  know  and  lay  to  heart,  that  he  who  discerns  nothing  but 
mechanism  in  the  universt'  has  in  the  fatalest  way  missed  the  secret  of  the  universe 
altogether.  That  all  Godhood  should  vanish  out  of  man's  conception  of  the  universe 
seems  to  me  i)recisely  the  most  brutal  error, —  I  will  not  disparage  heathenism  by  calling 
it  a  heathen  error. —  that  men  could  fall  into.  It  is  not  true;  it  is  false  at  the  very  heart 
of  it.  A  man  who  ll>iiiks  so  will  think  urong  about  all  things  in  the  world;  this  original 
sin  will  vitiate  all  other  conclusions  he  can  form.' 

Necessity  and  free-will  are  in  a  sense  reconcilable  and  true.  It 
is  the  immediate  consciousness  of  freedom  that  saves  Carlyle 
from  a  pessimistic  philosophy: 

'  Kvil,  what  we  call  evil,  must  ever  exist  while  man  exists:  evil,  in  the  widest  sense 
We  can  give  it,  is  precisely  the  dark  disordered  material  out  of  whicli  man's  farewell  has 
to  create  an  edifice  of  order  and  good.  Ever  must  puin  urge  tis  to  labor;  and  only  in  free 
effort  can  any  blessedness  be  imagined  for  us.' 

Ronoiuu'c  ])loasure,  adore  pain,  comprehend  holiness,  exalt 
virtue,  whicli  is  the  divine  part.  A  ])rofound  sentiment  is  a 
finer  thini>'  than  a  beautiful  form.  A  serious  soul,  wholly  intent 
upon  its  u'oal,  yet  feelin<>'  the  Cimmerian  night  of  our  present 
being,  i.s  the  one  attractive  object.  Have  little  regard,  he  would 
siiy,  for  th<^  artists, —  scidptors,  painters,  poets,  novelists.  To  a 
writer  of  Scotch  stories,  who  called  uj)oii  him,  he  said,  'When 
are  von  going  to  begin  .some  honest,  genuine  work?'  and  to  a 
}M)piil.'ir  wit,  '  WluMi,  sir,  do  you  bring  out  the  Comic  liible?' 
Of  verse,  lie  was  intolerant.  When  Mrs.  Hrowning  sent  him  one 
of  her  earliest  Ijooks,  he  advised  her  'to  say  rather  than  to  sing.' 
()n  lieitig  ask(Ml  by  a  lady  if  he  had  reail  her  poems,  he  repliecl, 
'  Nae,  I've  not,  ami  I  dare  say  they're  sad  trash.  If  you  have 
anvthiiig  (o  say  to  the  world,  put  it  down  in  prose,  and  tlie  less 
of  it  the  better.' 

\N'lien  t(i  this  hauiitiiig  sense  of  the  inliiiities  we  add  the 
galling  biifdtii  of  ill-h(>alth,  'the  ctirsed  hag  of  dyspepsia,'  his 
iiilioritance  of  an  austere  creed,  his  untoward  ciii-umstaiices,  and 
the  earlv  neglect  of  him,  and  the  attentions  aftcfsvards  lavislieij 
upon  him,  we  itiay  understand  and  pardon  his  violence,  his 
iilulatiy  of    the    past,   hi.i    depreciation    of   the    present,    his   ot)jec- 


468  DIFFUSIVE    PKHIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

tionable  mannors,'  his  superior  air,"  his  treatment  of  contem- 
poraries/—  scorn  of  some,  condescension  to  others,  meagre  praise 
of  the  best.  The  same  considerations  account  for  sulky  or  sour 
ebullitions  like  these:  'In  fifty  years,  I  should  guess,  it  will  be 
a  credit  to  declare,  "1  never  tried  literature.'"  'There  are 
south  of  the  'I'weed  some  thirty  millions  of  Englishmen,  chiefly 
fools';  and,  'our  American  cousins  have  begotten,  with  a  rapidity 
beyond  example,  eighteen  millions  of  the  greatest  bores  ever  seen 
in  the  world  before.'  To  one  who  had  made  a  ship  and  named 
it  after  him  in  lionor  of  the  good  he  had  done  in  the  world: 
'I  don't  believe  it,  nuiun!  I  never  did  any  gude  in  the  warld!' 
It  is  when  he  enters  politics  that  he  is  most  irritating.  There, 
like  Swift,  he  takes  a  fierce  delight  in  laceration.  Here  is  a 
picture  of  the  modern  age, —  plunged  in  materialism,  lie  con- 
ceives; Pigdom,  he  calls  it: 

'1.  The  I'liivorsc,  rfo  far  as  sane  conjecture  can  go,  is  an  immeasurable  Swine's- 
trongh,  consisting  of  solid  and  liquid,  and  of  otlier  contrasts  and  kinds;— especially 
consisting  of  attainable  and  unattainable,  the  latter  in  immensely  greater  quantities  for 
most  pigs. 

2.  Moral  evil  is  unattainabilily  of  Pig's-wash;  moral  good,  attainability  of  ditto. 

3.  "What  is  Paradise,  or  tlie  state  of  InnocenceV"  Paradise,  called  also  State  of 
Innocence,  Age  of  Ciold,  and  otlier  names,  was  (according  to  Pigs  of  weak  judgment) 
unlimited  attainal)ility  of  Pig's-wash;  perfect  fulfilment  of  one's  wishes,  so  that  the  Pig's 
imagination  could  not  outrun  reality;  a  fable  and  an  impossibility,  as  Pigs  of  sense 
now  see. 

■1.  "Dellne  the  Whole  Duty  of  Pigs."  It  is  the  mission  of  universal  Pighood,  and 
the  duty  of  all  Pigs,  at  all  times,  to  diminish  tlie  quantity  of  unattainable  and  increase 
that  of  attainable.  .Ml  knowledge  and  device  and  effort  ought  to  be  directed  thither 
and  thither  only  :  Pig  science.  Pig  enthusiasm  and  Devotion  haw  this  one  aim.  It  is  the 
Whole  Duty  of  Pigs. 

5.  Pig  poetry  ought  to  consist  of  universal  recognition  of  the  excellence  of  Pig's- 
wash  and  ground  barley,  and  the  felicity  of  Pigs  whose  trough  is  in  order,  and  who  have 
had  enough:  Ilrumiih ! 

0.   The  Pig  knows  thr  weatlier;  he  ought  to  look  out  what  kind  of  weather  it  will  be. 

T.    "WhoiiKide  tlie  Pig'/''     I'nknown  ;— perhaps  the  Pork-butcher. 

S.  "Have  you  Law  and  Justice  in  Pigdom?  "  Pigs  of  observation  have  discerned 
that  there  is,  or  was  once  sujiposed  lo  be,  a  thing  called  justice.  Undeniably  at  least 
there  is  a  senliiurut  in  PiLT-natiire  called  indiirnatiou,  revi'nge,  etc.,  which,  if  one  Pig 
provoke  another,  coiiirs  out  in  a  niore  or  less  destructive  manner:  hence  laws  an;  neces- 
s:iry,  aiiia/.ini;  ijuantitio  of  laws,  ['"or  qnarridliiig  is  attended  with  loss  of  blood,  of  life, 
at  any  rate  witli  fri'-'hirul  clTusion  of  the  general  slock  of  Ilog's-wash,  ami  rtiiu  (lemjio- 
niry  riiiii)  to  lari:e  sections  of  the  iiiiivi'rsal  Su  iiie's-trough  :  wherefore  let  Justice  be 
ol)~er\eil,  tliat  so  quarrelliuL'  be  avoided. 

;».  "What  is  ju^tice'r"  Your  own  share  ot  the  general  Swine's- trough,  not  any 
portion  of  rny  sli.,re. 

1  To  a  l.idv  whose'  poenis  he  declined  to  ri-ail:  '  I  can't  read  your  poems,  but  you've  a 
lie;iutitiil  MO-.-.      I  like  |i)  look  at   yoiiriio-e.' 

-  To  ,1  -elf -eoiiiidiiit  eilitor  wlio  li;id  jiisl  (ieliven  (1  an  opinion  at  a  dinner-party:  '  Eh, 
but   ytiure  a  )'iiir  ei-.itur,   a   pair  wratched  meeseral)le  cratur!'     Then  with  a  sigh,  he 

rel:lp-eil    into  ~ilenee 

■'  See    /,'<  /n'')i,nf>/ir(S. 


CARLYLE.  469 

10.  "But  what  is  'my'  share?"  Ah!  there,  in  fact,  lies  the  grand  difficulty;  iijjon 
which  Pig  science,  meditaiing  this  loii<^  while,  can  settle  abraliitely  nothing.  My  nbare 
—  hrumphl  my  share  is,  on  the  whole,  whatever  I  can  contrive  to  get  without  being 
hanged  or  sent  to  the  hulks.' ' 

Primarily,  tliis  is  only  excess  of  indignation  at  the  hollow,  the 
insipid,  the  corrupt,  the  carnal,  the  love  of  comfort,  and  the  lust 
of  ojiin.  It  is  the  furious  tension  of  the  moral  Scandinavian,  the 
lava  di.scharged  by  the  Vesuvian  fire  within. 

Ho  .satirized  Coleridge  for  his  endless  harangues,  yet  was  him- 
self an  orator  in  conversation.  '  You  are  a  perfect  prisoner,' 
wrote  Margaret  Fuller,  'when  he  has  once  got  hold  of  you.' 
F*ersonally,  one  of  the  kindest  of  men,  helpful  and  tender.  His 
friendships,  his  domestic  affections,  the  passionate  attachment  to 
his  wife,  tlie  loving  reverence  of  her  memory,  impart  the  chief 
interest  to  the  Jie/ni/tisecnfes.  He  might  turn  against  an  opinion, 
but  not  against  a  friend.  He  was  at  home  with  the  humblest, 
in  whom  he  saw  courage,  sincerity,  or  resolute  faith.  No  man 
has  given  more  explicit  rcctognition  to  the  infinitude  of  each 
wavfaring   soul: 

'Of  tli<»c  niiiltitudes  there  is  no  one  but  ha«  an  immortal  soiil  within  him,  a  rede.x 
.'111(1  li\  in;;  inia;.'c  of  (iod's  whole  universe;  strangely,  from  its  dim  environment,  the  light 
(if  the  lli'4lic.-t  looks  through  liim  ;  for  which  rea.son,  indeed,  it  is  that  we  claim  a  brother- 
hood with  him,  and  so  love  to  know  his  history,  and  come  into  clt^arcr  and  clearer  union 
with  all  that  lie  fi.eN,  and  says,  and  does."^ 

Altogether,  a  colos.sal  spirit,  fearless,  pure,  and  true;  proud,  sen- 
sitive, and  suffering;  manfully  earnest,  concentrated,  and  devout; 
iiiidiscipliiied,  uiie(juaK  jiaradoxical;  persistent  with  'desperate 
hope,'  ])re(lest iiied  to  sadness,  full  of  radiant  sublimities. 

Influence.  —  Never  has  an  Englishman  swept  through  the 
soiiis  of  a  g<'ii(ial  ion  with  sucii  power,  though,  like  everv  one 
eiiHiiently  original  and  agu'ressive,  he  has  fought  iiard  to  obtain 
paidoii  for  his  originality.  He  has  stamped  himself  upon  liis- 
forical  method,  upon  wavs  of  thought,  and  modes  of  expression. 
Ill  thousands  of  books  his  expression  is  tnieeable,  into  thousands 
of  lives  his  life  has  peiK'l  rated,  and  thus  does  he  pass  out  into 
the  wide  s[)here  of  coiistJint  and  inealeu!al>le  forces..  If  he  has 
pro(lu<'e(l  no  tangible  fruits,  like  those  of  the  scieiititic  discoverer, 
he  has  given  a  mighty  impulse  to  the  intelleeimil  and  moral 
aetivitv  which  undeilies  all  practii  al  results.      To  his  glory  will  it 

>  J^i/l(r/>(i>j  ritiii/ihUty.  ^Mifcilld/titf:  Johngon. 


470  DIFFUSIVE    Pt:KIOI) — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

ever  be,  that  in  opposition  to  the  tendencies  of  materialism,  he 
maintained  the  spiritual  dignity  of  man.  What  there  is  of  one- 
sided or  exaggerated,  of  false  or  of  evil,  will  fail;  but  the  best  of 
him  will  be  a  perpetual  anthem  to  kindle  a  noble  discontent.  In 
every  age  hearts  will  be  touched,  and  intellects  will  be  exalted  bv 
his  oracular  words:  ''liemember  now  and  always  that  life  is  no 
idle  dream,  but  a  solemn  reality  based  iipon  Eternity,  and 
encompassed  by  Eternity.  Find  out  yonr  task:  stand  to  it:  the 
night  Cometh  lohen  no  man  can  work.^ 


GEORGE    ELIOT. 

Duty  divine  and  Tliouglit  witli  eyes  of  flro, 

Still  following  Kighteousnc8:<  with  deep  desire. 

Shone  sole  and  stern  before  lier  and  above, 

Sure  stars  and  sole  to  steer  by:   but  more  sweet 

Shone  lower  the  loveliest  lamj)  for  earthly  feet, 

The  light  of  little  children,  and  their  love. — Swinburne. 

Biography. — Born  in  a  ])rosaic  country  district  of  Warwick- 
shire, in  Ibll),  the  youngest  of  three  children  by  a  second  mar- 
riage. Her  father,  Robert  Evans,  was  first  a  carpenter,  then  a 
land  surveyor  and  steward  of  estates.  Her  Christian  name  was 
.Mary  Ann,  which  in  conversation  and  correspondence  with  her 
intimate  friends  was  changed  to  Mari.in.  When  she  was  about 
fifteen  years  of  age,  her  loving  mother  died.  When  the  elder 
children  married,  she  })r('sided  over  her  father's  household,  accom- 
jianied  him  in  his  drives  during  the  day,  and  entertained  him 
during  the  evening  by  reading  aloud  the  novels  of  J^cott.  Her 
education,  long  pursued  with  unwearied  industry,  was  exception- 
ally good,  including  Greek,  Latin,  French,  German,  Italian, 
Hebrew,  and  tinisic.  After  her  father's  death  in  184!),  she  went 
abroad  Avith  .some  literary  friends,  tarried  at  Geneva  to  j)erfect 
herself  in  foreign  tongues,  on  lu>r  return  visited  London,  nu^t 
the  editor  of  the  Wrsf/ziiz/sfrr  li(  >'ii  ic,  and  there,  as  his  assistant, 
Ijcgan  her  memoraljle  career  ;is  a  writer.  Meanwhile  she  had 
becoine  a  dissenter,  even  a  rr("(>-thiid<(^r,  had  translated  Strauss' 
Lij'e  of  'f>>ius,  had  read  liberalist  l)ooks,  had  been  introduced  to 


OEOKGE    ELIOT.  471 

men  of  note  and  expansive  tliouglit, —  transcendentalists  like 
Froude  and  Emerson;  positivists  like  Spencer,  who  found  lu-r 
'already  disting-iiislied  by  that  breadth  of  culture  and  univer- 
sality of  power  which  have  since  made  her  known  to  all  the 
world';  versatile  speculators  like  Lewes,  to  whom,  in  1853,  with- 
out the  social  sanction,  she  became  a  devoted  helpmate.' 

In  the  years  during  which  she  was  enriching  English  litera- 
ture with  her  incomparable  fictions,  her  life,  on  the  whole,  was 
i|uiet  and  uneventful.  Her  brilliant  and  accomplished  consort 
died  in  18T8,  and  in  1880  she  marric^l  a  former  acquaintance,  a 
-Mr.  Cross.  After  a  few  months  of  companionship,  mostly  spent 
in  continental  travel,  she  sank  rapidly  from  the  effects  of  a  cold, 
and  on  the  "^^d  of  December  passed  calmly  and  painlessly  away. 

"Writings. — Every  conscience,  as  well  as  ever}-  imagination, 
will  be  clariiieil  and  invigorated  by  tlu*  pernsal  of  .l(/(Hn  Jiede, 
the  first  work  of  the  author  that  attracted  wide  public  attention. 
A  novel  of  the  real  school,  humble  in  its  characters,  faithful  in 
its  jxntraiture,  and  l)eyond  praise  in  its  moral  spirit.  The  epoch 
is  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  opening  sentences,  descrip- 
tive of  a  village  worksho])  scene,  constitute  a  fine  piece  of  Eng- 
lish painting: 

'The  altcniDoii  suii  was  wnriii  on  the  livo  workmen  iIutc,  busy  upon  <io<)r>  iind 
window-franio  miuI  wainscotiii','.  A  xiiil  <if  [liiu'  wood  from  a  tfnt-like  pile  of  plllnk^' 
oul-idi'  ihr  oiii-n  door  niinirled  it-ilf  «itli  tlu'  sicnt  of  the  cldcr-lnishcs  whicli  were 
spreading  iluir  ~iiiiimir  snow  close  to  the  open  window  opposite :  the  slimtin;;  snnbeunis 
slione  Itirou'.'li  I  111-  iraii>parent  sliavin;,'s  that  llew  before  tile  steady  plane,  and  lit  np  tile 
liiK-  L-'raln  of  the  oak  panelliie,'  which  stood  i)ropped  aL'ainst  the  wall.  On  a  heap  of  tlio^e 
-oft  sh.iv  iiiL's  a  roiiirli  irray  shepherd  do;,'  had  made  hini.-elf  a  |)lea-^ant  bed,  and  was  lyin^' 
Willi  his  nose  lictweeii  Ills  fore  paws,  occasionally  winking'  his  brows  to  cast  a  j^lance  at 
the  talle-t  of  the  live  workmen,  who  was  carNim;  a  shiehl  in  the  centre  of  a  wooden 
niMiitclpifi  e.  It  was  to  this  workman  that  the  strong;  l)arytone  l)elon;jced  which  was 
Inavd  iiliovc  ilu-  -oiiiid  of  plane  and  hammer,  sinj^in;.', 

"Awake,  my  -onl,  and  with   the  sun 
Thy  daily  stau'e  of  duly  run: 
Shake  olT  dull  sloth  .  .  ." 
Here  -nine  uua-ui (  lueMt  wa-  to  lie  taken  which  roqnireil  more  concentrated  attention, 
ami  till    -.mdriiii- \  nice  subsided  into  a  lo«  whistle:  but  it  pri'senlly  broke  out  afrain 
with  nnewed  \  i'_'or 

"  l.et   all  thy  convi-rse  be  .-iiicere. 
Thy  iiiii-eieiice  a^   the   noonday  cle.ir.  ' 
>>n(  h  a   \oice  (ould  only  lome  from  a  broad  chest,  and  the  broad  che-t  beloii;;ed   lo  a 
l.irL'i-  bonid.  iiin-cular  inMU,  nearly  -i\   fi'et   hi:.'b,  with  a  back  so  (lat  and  a  head  so  well 

•  Tlie  .ariier  maniid  life  i.f  l.cvw  -  had  teriiiiiiated  -uildenl\  and  irri'Versibly.  \ 
i|i\nrce  nipiireil  an  .\<l  of  Parliament,  the  ditliclilty  of  obtaining'  which  was  in  most 
I  a<i~  in-uperablc. 


472  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

poised  that  when  ho  drew  himself  up  to  talic  a  more  distant  survey  of  his  work  he  had 
tlie  air  of  a  soldier  standing  at  case.  The  sleeves  rolled  up  above  the  elbows  showed  an 
arm  that  was  likely  to  win  the  prize  for  feats  of  strength;  yet  the  long,  supple  hand, 
with  its  broad  finger-tips,  looked  ready  for  works  of  skill.  In  his  tall  stalwartness  Adam 
Bedc  was  a  Saxon,  and  justified  his  name;  but  the  jet-black  hair,  made  tlie  more  notice- 
able by  its  contrast  with  the  light  paper  cap,  and  the  keen  glance  of  the  dark  eyes  that 
shone  from  under  strongly-marked,  prominent,  and  mobile  eyebrows,  indicated  a  mixture 
of  Celtic  blood.' 

As  the  story  begins,  so  it  culminates  to  a  natural  end,  like  the 
actual  tragedies  of  life,  without  evil  omens  or  extraneous  ma- 
chinery, keeping  close  to  the  broad  stream  of  human  interests. 
We  feel  it  to  be  not  a  romance,  but  a  history,  in  which  the  per- 
sonages are  more  than  the  action.  Perhaps  a  more  typical 
English  group  has  never  been  delineated  than  is  formed  by  the 
practical,  secular,  energetic,  manly  Adam;  the  visionary,  brood- 
ing, absent-minded  Seth;  the  pretty,  vain,  pleasure-loving,  light- 
headed dairymaid  Hetty;  the  sweet,  unselfish,  saintly  Methodist 
Dinah;  tlio  good-natured,  weak,  self-deceiving  Arthur;  the 
tricky,  smooth-tongued,  well-chiselled  squire;  the  noble,  easy- 
minded,  tolerant  rector;  tlie  keen,  fond,  fretful  Lisbeth;  the 
plain,  quick-witted,  audacious  Mrs.  Poyser;  tlie  grizzled,  cheery, 
helpful  bachelor  schoolmaster,  Bartle  Massey.  All  these  are 
perfectly  handled  —  none  better  than  the  last.  What  a  unique 
picture  is  that  of  tlie  night-school, —  the  bare  rafters,  the  white- 
washed walls,  the  eight  or  nine  heads  bending  over  the  desks 
liglited  with  thin  dips,  the  class  of  three  laboring  painfully 
through  the  reading  lesson,  the  spectacled  teacher,  with  his  gray, 
inch-long,  bristly  hair,  saying  mildly:  'Nay,  Bill,  nay,  begin  that 
again,  and  tlien  perhaps  it'll  come  to  you  what  d-r-y  spells.  It's 
tlie  same  lesson  you  read  last  week,  y^^i  know.'  Bill,  remember, 
is  a  sturdy  fellow,  aged  four-and-twenty : 

'An  cxccnciit  stone-sawyer,  who  could  get  as  good  wages  as  any  man  in  the  trade  of 
his  years;  Imt  lie  found  a  reading  lesson  in  wor<ls  of  one  syllahle  a  harder  matter  to  deal 
with  tlian  the  hardest  stone  he  had  ever  had  to  saw.  'i"he  letters  he  comidained  were 
so  "uncommon  alil-;e,  ther<!  was  no  tellen'  'em  one  from  another,"'  the  sawyer's  business 
not  being  concerned  witli  minute  dilTerences  such  as  exist  Ix'lweeii  a  letter  witli  its  tail 
turned  up  and  a  litter  with  it-*  tail  turned  down.  Hut  15111  had  a  firm  d(>terniination  that 
be  would  learn  to  re  id,  founded  chiefly  on  two  reasons:  first,  that  Tom  Ilazelow,  his 
cousin,  could  read  aii.\  tliiiiir  "right  olT,"  whellier  it  was  print  or  writinir,  and  Tom  had 
sent  him  a  letter  from  twcniy  miles  ofl,  sayinir  how  he  was  pros|)ering  in  the  world,  and 
had  got  an  ovt^rlooker's  jilaee;  seeonilly,  that  Sam  I'hillips,  w  lio  sawed  with  him,  had 
learniil  to  read  wlicn  he  wa^  turueil  twenty;  and  what  could  lie  done  by  a  litlle  fellow 
liki'  Sam  Phillip-,  Hill  considired,  could  be  done  by  liimself,  seeing  that  he  could  pound 
Sam  into  wet  clay  if  eiri-umstanecs  requirisl  it.  So  here  he  was,  (jointing  his  big  finger 
toward  thri-c  wor(l>  at  once,  and  turning  his  head  o!i  one  side  tliat  he  might  keep  better 
hold  with  Ids  eyes  of  the  one  word  which  wa-;  to  be  discriminated  out  of  the  group.     The 


GEORGE    ELIOT.  473 

amount  of  knowledge  Bartle  Masaey  must  possess  was  something  so  dim  and  vast  that 
Bill'y  iina^inutiun  recoiled  before  it;  he  would  hardly  have  ventured  to  deny  that  tho 
sclioolniastor  might  have  somctliing  to  do  in  bringing  atK>ut  the  regular  return  of  day- 
light and  the  changes  in  the  weather.' 

This  amiable  cynic  and  the  fanners  voluble  wife,  who  'keeps 
at  the  top  o'  the  talk  like  a  fife,'  are  fellow-inmiortals.  The  fol- 
lowiii*^  dialogue  is  full  of  the  humorous  revelation,  the  ideal 
comedy,  which  is  a  jieculiarity  of  George  Eliot's  prose  dramas: 

"'Wlmt'""  said  Bartle,  with  an  air  of  disgust.  "Was  there  a  woman  concerned  V 
Then  I  give  you  up,  Adam."  "But  it's  a  woniau  you've  sjwke  well  on,  Bartle,"  said  Mr. 
Poyser.  "Come,  now,  you  canna  dn.'.v  back;  you  said  once  as  women  wouldna  ha'  been 
a  bad  invention  if  they'd  all  been  like  Dinah"  "I  meant  her  voice,  man, —  I  meant  her 
voici',  that  was  all,''  said  Bartle.  "I  can  bear  to  hear  her  speak  without  wanting  to  put 
wool  in  my  ears.  As  for  other  things,  I  dare  say  she's  like  the  rest  o'  women, —  think.s 
two  and  two  'II  come  to  make  five,  if  she  cries  and  bothers  enough  about  it.'' 

"Ay,  ay!"  said  Mrs.  Poyser:  "'one  'ud  think,  an'  hear  some  folks  talk,  as  the  men 
war  'cute  enough  to  count  the  corns  in  the  bag  o"  wheat  wi' only  smelling  at  it.  They 
can  see  through  a  barn  door,  they  can.  I'erhai>s  that's  the  reason  they  can  see  so  little 
o'  this  side  on't." 

Martin  Poyser  shof)k  with  delighted  laughter,  and  winked  at  Adam,  as  much  a.'?  to  say 
the  schoolmaster  was  in  for  it  now. 

".Vhl"  said  Bartle,  sneeringly,  "the  women  are  quick  enough, —  they're  quick 
enough;  they  know  the  rights  of  a  story  before  they  liear  it,  and  can  tell  a  man  what  his 
thoughts  are  before  he  knows  'em  himself." 

"  Liki!  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser;  "for  tlie  men  are  mostly  so  slow,  their  Ihoughts 
overrun  'em,  and  they  can  only  catch  "em  by  the  tail.  I  can  count  a  stocking  I  ■>  while 
a  man's  geltiug's  tongue  ready;  an'  when  he  outs  wi'  his  speech  at  last,  there's  little 
brotli  to  bo  made  on't.  It's  your  dead  chicks  takes  the  longest  hatchiu'.  Ilowiver,  I'm 
not  deiiyin'  the  women  arc  foolish:  (Jod  .Muiighty  made  'em  to  match  the  men." 

"Maiclil"'  said  Bartle;  "ay,  as  vinegar  matches  on's  teeth.  If  a  man  says  a  word, 
his  wife  '11  match  it  witli  a  coiitrailiction:  if  he's  a  mind  for  hot  meat,  his  wife  '11  match 
it  with  cold  bacon;  if  lie  laughs,  she  "11  match  it  with  a  whimpering.  She's  sucli  a  match 
as  the  horsc-lly  is  to  the  liorse;  she's  got  llie  riglil  venom  to  sting  him  with, —  the  right 
venom  to  sting  liiia  uitli." 

"Ves,"  said  Mrs.  i'oyser,  "I  know  what  the  men  like,— a  poor  soft,  as  'ud  sim|)er  at 
'em  like  tlie  picture  o'  tlie  sun,  wlietlicr  lliey  did  right  or  wrong,  an"  say  tliank  you  for  a 
kick,  an'  prelend  slie  didna  know  wliicli  en.l  shi'  stoo<l  uppermost,  till  her  husl)and  told 
her.  T. Kit's  wlial  a  man  wants  in  a  wife,  mostly;  lie  wants  lo  make  sure  o' one  fool 
as  '11  tell  liliii  he's  wise.  But  Iliere's  some  men  can  do  wi'out  that,— they  think  so  much 
o'  Ihernselvcs  a'ready;  tliat's  how  it  is  tlien^'s  old  bachilors." 

•■('omc,  Cr.ug,  "  sail!  .Mr.  Poyser,  jocosely,  "you  must  get  mariied  i)retty  quick,  else 
you'll  l)c  set  down  foi-  an  old  bachelor;  and  you  si'c  what  tlie  women  '11  think  on  you." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Craig,  willing  lo  conciliate  Mrs.  Poyser,  ;ind  setting  a  hiirh  value  on 
his  own  eompliiiunts,  "Mike  a  eleveiish  woman, —  a  woman  o'  siiirit, —  a  nianaLring 
woman." 

"You're  out  there,  ( 'raig,"  said  Bartle,  dryly  :  "you're  out  then'.  You  judge  of  your 
gardeii-slMff  on  a  better  plan  than  that;  you  pick  the  thiiegs  for  what  they  can  excel  in,— 
for  what  Ihey  can  excel  in.  You  don't  \  alue  your  peas  for  tlieir  roots,  (.r  your  carrots  for 
tlieir  llow  cr^.  Now  lliat's  the  way  you  sliould  clioosi'  women  :  their  clevcrTie-is  will  never 
conic  to  mncii, —  never  come  to  mucli;  but  they  make  excellent  sjmi)leti)ns,  ripe  and 
stroni:- flavored. " 

"What  dost  say  to  that  '!"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  throwing  himself  back  and  looking  nier 
rily  at  his  wife. 

"  Say  I  "  ansu  ered  Mrs.  Poyser,  witli  dangerous  lire  kindling  in  her  evi^s,  "  "  liy,  1  s.iy 


474  DIFFUSIVK    PERIOD — IIKI'RKSENTATIVK    AL'THOHS. 

Hfi  some  folks"  tonsfticn  arc  liki'  the  clocks  as  run  on  strikin',  not,  to  t<'ll  you  llii-  time  o' 
iluy,  hilt  because  there's  snmniat  wrong  i"  their  own  inside."  " 

The  <;reatest  artistic  success  of  the  book  is  the  sustained  and 
powerful,  yet  unobtrusive,  contrast  between  Dinah,  the  real  hero- 
ine of  the  tale,  and  Hetty,  the  rustic  coquette;  the  one  tender, 
o-enerous,  earnest, —  wholesomely,  not  morbidly,  spiritual  ;  the 
other  confidin<^,  bewitching-,  yet  sterile,  frivolous,  and  earthly: 

'It  is  of  little  use  to  tell  you  thiit  Hetty's  cheek  was  like  a  rose- petal,  that  (linijjles 
played  about  her  pouting  lips,  that  her  large,  dark  eyes  had  a  roguishuess  uiidt'r  their 
long  lashes,  and  that  her  curly  hair,  though  all  pushed  back  under  her  round  cap  while 
she  was  at  work,  stole  back  in  dark,  delicate  rings  on  her  forehead,  and  about  her  white, 
shell-like  ears;  it  is  of  little  use  for  nie  to  say  how  lovely  was  the  contour  of  her  pink 
and  wliile  neckerchief,  tucked  into  her  low,  plum-colored  stuff  bodice,  or  how  the  linen 
butter-making  apron,  with  its  bib,  seemed  a  thing  to  be  imitated  in  silk  by  duchesses, 
since  it  fell  in  such  charming  lines,  or  how  her  brown  stockings  and  thick-soled,  buckled 
shoes  lost  all  that  clumsiness  which  they  must  certainly  have  hatl  when  eiiii)ty  of  her 
foot  and  ankle  —  of  little  use,  unless  you  have  seen  a  woman  who  affected  you  as  Hetty 
affected  her  beholders,  for  otherwise,  though  you  might  conjure  up  the  image  of  a  lovely 
woman,  she  would  not  in  the  least  resemble  that  distracting,  kitten-like  maiden.  1  might 
mention  all  the  divine  charms  of  a  bright  spring  day,  but  if  you  had  never  in  your  life 
utterly  forgotten  yourself  in  straining  your  eyes  after  the  mounting  lark,  or  in  wandering 
through  the  still  lanes  when  the  fresh  opened  blossoms  fill  tliem  with  a  sacred,  sil<>nt 
beauty  like  that  of  fretted  aisles,  where  would  l)e  the  use  of  my  descriptive  catalogiiey 
I  could  never  make  you  know  what  I  meant  by  a  bright  spring  day.  Hetty's  was  a 
spriiig-iide  beauly :  it  was  th<i  beauty  of  younir.  fri>kiiig  thini;s,  round-limbed,  gamboling, 
circumventing  you  by  a  false  air  of  iiinocenc( — Ili(>  innocence  of  a  young  star-browed 
calf,  for  example,  that,  beiut;  inclined  for  a  promenade  out  of  bounds,  leads  you  a  severe 
steeple-chase  o\  er  hi'dge  and  ditch,  and  only  comes  to  a  stand  in  the  middle  of  a  bog.' 

The  harvest  is  the  fiuit  of  the  seed  sown.  With  no  apparent 
leanino-  towards  the  depraved  and  vicious,  she  is  intent  only  on 
present  enjuvinent;  and,  jireoccupiiMl  with  self,  she  ilutters  to  her 
ruin  like  a  moth  into  the  candle,  unrrstraincd  in  danj^'er  as  in 
deli<>'ht,  sorry  for  lH>rself,  not  i(>])eiitant  of  her  sin,  meditating 
suicide,  yet  shriiikinu'  violent  Iv  ffoiii  the  (hirk  u'ulf: 

'The  liorro'-  of  ihi-  lold.  ami  darknes-.  and  soliiiide — out  of  all  human  reach  — 
became  '^reati  r  cveiv  lontr  miiiiile:  il  was  a>  if  -lie  were  (l<'ad  already,  and  knew  that 
she  was  <lead,  aiil  longeil  lo  get  back  to  life  airain.  lint  no:  she  was  alive  still:  she  had 
not  taken  tile  deadly  leap.  She  felt  a  stranire  contradictory  wretchedness  and  exultation  : 
wretclu'dness,  that  she  did  not  dare  to  face  death:  exultation,  that  she  was  still  in  life — 
that  she  mi'jrlit  yet  know  li^dit  and  warnlth  aarain.  She  walked  baekw.ird  and  forward  to 
warm  lier~elf.  be_'imiii]i,'  to  discern  souietliing  of  the  nlijeets  around  her,  as  her  eye-^ 
liecauK'  aecii-loiued  lo  llie  ini;lil :  the  darker  line  of  tlie  lied^'e,  the  rapiil  motion  of  >oiiie 
li%  iiii,'  erealurt —  jierliaps  a  lield-iiioii>-e  —  rush i ml'  aerosi  the  i(rass. 

Slic  no  loML'er  felt  a>  if  the  darkiie-s  liedu'ed  lier  in:  she  tliou'_diI  sln'  could  walk 
back  airos<  the  field,  and  irct  o\cr  the  -lili-:  and  llien,  in  the  ver>  next  Ihdd,  she  thought 
-he  reinei!ibere(l  lliere  was  a  hovel  of  furx.e  in'ar  a  shee|)f(d(l.  If  she  could  get  into  thai 
hovel,  -he  would  be  warmer;  >he  could  pass  the  niirht  there,  for  that  was  what  Alick  did 
at  llayslope  in  lambingtime.  The  thought  of  this  hovel  brought  the  energy  of  a  new 
hope:  slie  Took  up  her  bask(d  and  walked  across  tli;  Held,  but  it  was  some  time  before 
she  got  in  the  right  direction  for  the  slili\     The  exercis<',  and  tlie  occnpntioii  of  tliiding 


GEORGE   BLIOT.  475 

the  stile,  wore  a  stimulus  to  her,  however,  and  lightened  the  horror  of  the  darkness  and 
solitude.  There  were  siheep  in  the  next  field,  and  she  started  a  group  as  she  set  down 
her  basket  and  got  over  the  stile;  and  the  sound  of  their  movement  comforted  her,  for 
it  assured  her  that  her  impression  was  right;  this  was  the  field  where  she  had  seen  the 
hovel,  for  it  was  the  field  where  the  sheep  were.  Right  on  along  the  path,  and  she  would 
get  to  it.  She  reached  the  opposite  gate,  and  felt  her  way  along  its  rails,  and  the  rails  of 
the  sheepfold,  till  her  hands  encountered  the  pricking  of  the  gorsy  wall.  Delicious 
sensation  !  She  had  found  the  shelter;  she  groped  her  way,  touching  the  prickly  gorse^ 
to  the  door,  and  pushed  it  open. 

It  was  an  ill-smelling,  close  place,  but  warm,  and  there  was  straw  on  the  ground. 
Hetty  sank  down  on  the  straw  with  a  sense  of  escape.  Tears  came — she  had  never  shed 
tears  before  since  she  left  Windsor — tears  and  sobs  of  hysterical  joy  that  she  had  still 
hold  of  life,  that  she  was  still  on  the  familiar  earth,  with  tlie  sheep  near  her.  She  turned 
up  her  sleeves,  and  kissed  her  arms  with  the  passionate  love  of  life.' 

Slowly,  by  the  dull  pressure  of  mingled  shame  and  hardship, 
a  feelinjr  of  remorse  and  a  sense  of  the  divine  are  wrung:  from 
the  wrecked  and  wasted  soul,  till,  under  the  influence  of  the 
seraphic  Dinah,  the  inarticulate  stirring  becomes  a  confession 
of  guilt  and  a  cry  for  mercy. 

Inferior  in  concentration,  unity,  and  depth,  though  displaying 
other  powers  almost  equally  great,  is  the  3Iill  on  the  Floss,  ^ 
love-tragedy  pure  and  simple.  Tom  and  Maggie,  brother  and 
sister,  the  central  figures  in  the  novel,  are  complementary  oppo- 
sitcs;  the  one  utilitarian,  narrow,  and  prejudiced,  while  rigidly 
upright,  subordinating  every  consideration  to  that  of  personal 
honor  and  family  pride,  postponing  every  interest  to  the  one 
sovereign  aim  of  winning  or  retaining  a  good  name,  implacable 
when  su{)posing  himself  to  be  in  the  line  of  duty,  distinguished 
in  boyhood  by  'the  justice  that  desires  to  hurt  culprits  as  much 
as  they  deserve  to  be  hurt,  and  is  troubled  with  no  doubts  con- 
cerning the  e.xact  amount  of  their  deserts';  the  other  bright, 
liiiiKlsonie,  inij)ulsive,  high-hearted,  nmsically  attuned  to  all  that 
is  beautiful  and  heroic,  craving  aiTection,  mingling  in  her  nature 
the  inexplicable  forces  which  make  existence  a  ])er}ietual  struggle 
and.  cxtciiially,  an  ultiiiuite  failure.  The  portrayal  of  their  child- 
hood is  iniuiitabhs  With  what  marvellous  force  and  fldelitv  are 
tiic  traits  and  incitlcMits  of  Maggie's  early  years  jiresented, —  her 
l)ittiT  griffs  over  wounded  love  or  sliglitt'(l  merit,  the  attic  in 
which  slie  frets  out  her  ill-humors,  the  doll  wiiieli  she  punishes 
fur  her  misfortunes,  her  visits  to  the  mill,  her  .sorrow  over  her 
hi'oii'ii  complexion,  her  liiglit  to  the  (ivpsies,  to  beconx^  their 
(jueeii,  and  to  forget  her  troubles  in  the  nolih'  labor  of  regen- 
erating   that    race   of   wanderers,   then   tiie   nij)id   evanescence   of 


476  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

her  romance,  and  the  dread  of  giving  offence  by  the  betrayal  of 
her  unfavorable  opinion: 

'Maggie  Tiilliver,  von  perceive,  was>  by  no  means  that  well-trained,  well-informed 
young  person  tliat  a  small  female  of  eight  or  nine  necesgarily  is  in  these  days:  she  had 
only  been  to  school  a  year  at  St.  Ogg's,  and  had  so  few  books  that  she  sometimes  read 
the  dictionary,  so  that  in  travelling  over  her  small  mind  you  would  have  found  the  most 
unexpected  ignorance  as  well  as  unexpected  knowledge.  She  could  have  informed  you 
tliat  there  was  such  a  word  as  "polygamy,"'  and  being  also  ac(iuainted  with  "polysyl- 
lable,"'  she  had  deduced  the  conclusioji  that  "poly"  meant  "many";  but  she  had  had 
no  idea  that  gypsies  were  not  well  supplied  with  groceries,  and  her  thoughts  generally 
were  the  oddest  mixture  of  clear-eyed  acumen  and  blind  dreams. 

Her  ideas  about  the  gypsies  had  undergone  a  rapid  modification  in  the  last  Ave 
minutes.  From  having  considered  them  very  respectful  companions,  amenable  to 
instruction,  she  had  begun  to  think  that  they  meant  perhaps  to  kill  her  as  soon  as  it 
was  dark,  and  cut  up  her  body  for  gradual  cooking:  the  suspicion  crossed  her  tliat  tlie 
fierce-eyed  old  man  was  in  fact  the  devil,  wlu)  might  drop  that  transparent  disguise 
at  any  moment,  and  turn  either  into  the  grinning  blacksmith  or  else  a  fiery-eyed  monster 
with  dragon's  wings.' 

She  visits  tlio  hoarding-school  to  see  Tom,  who  finds  no  diffi- 
cnlty  in  discerning  a  pointer  from  a  setter,  but  calls  Latin 
'beastly  stuff,'  and  wlu)  can  throw  a  stone  right  into  the  centre 
of  a  given  ripjjlo,  but  is  in  a  state  bordering  on  idiocy  when  he 
attempts  to  demonstrate  the  equality  of  two  given  triangles: 

'"Well,  my  lad,  .  .  .  you  look  rarely!    School  agrees  with  yon.'' 

Tom  wi-hed  he  had  looked  rather  ill. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  ^\\■\\.  fatlier,''  said  Tom:  "I  wish  you'd  ask  Mr.  Stelling  not  to 
let  me  do  Euclid;  it  brinu's  on  the  toothache,  I  think."  .  .  . 

"  Euclid,  my  l)oy,— wliy,  wliat's  that  '!"  said  ^Ir.  Tiilliver. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know:  it's  definitions,  and  axioms,  :uk1  triangles,  and  things.  It's  a 
l)()ok  I've  got  to  learn  in, —  tlicre's  no  sense  in  it." 

"<;o,  L'o!"  said  .Mr.  Tullivcr,  ri'iirovinuly,  "you  mustn't  say  so.  You  must  learn 
what  your  nui-ter  tills  you.     lie  knows  what  it's  right  for  you  to  learn.'" 

••/'!!  lirip  you  now,  Tom,"  s:ii(l  MaLririe,  witli  a  little  air  of  patronizing  consolation. 
"  I'm  come  to  stay  ever  so  Ioul'.  if  .Mrs.  Stelling  asks  nie.  I've  brought  my  box  and  my 
pinafores,— haven't  !    fatlnr'r" 

"  Von  help  III'-,  yon  silly  little  thin'.' 1  "  saidToiii,  in  such  high  siiiritsat  this  announee- 
menl  tliat  he  (jwite  enjoyed  the  idea  of  conroniidiiiir  Maggie  by  showing  her  a  [lage  of 
Km  lid.  ••!  ~lionli!  like  to  see  you  doin^'  one  of  wjy  lessons  I  Wliy,  I  learn  Latin  too! 
(tirU  iicMT  Irani  surli  tliiii::s.     They're  too  silly." 

"I  know  what  I..'itiii  is  very  well,"  >aid  Mai,'L'ie.  confidently.  "Latin's  a  language. 
'I'li'-re  are  Laiin  word-  in  iIp'  (li(tion;iry.     Thcrc^'s  bonus,  a  gift." 

••  Nou  you'n-  jii-!  wi-..n-  Ihcre,  Mi-s  Ma'.'gie!"  said  Tom,  secretly  astonished.  "Von 
think  yon're  v.ry  wi-e '  Hut  'bonus"  im  ans  't.'ood,'  as  it  happens,— bonus,  bona, 
bon.un."" 

••Wrll,  ihal-^  no  rc.'i-oii  why  it  >houliln"t  mean  'gift,"""  said  Maggie,  stoutly.  "It 
inav  iniaii  scvcriil  lliinL'-.— .'ilino-t  cN.ry  word  doe-.  'I'hcrf's  'lawn,"— it  means  the 
gr.i---plot,  a-  well  a-  tln'  -tulT  po(  kel  •  hanilkerehiefs  are  made  of.""" 

Ill  r  womanhood  is  sadih'iiiiiL!".  Si'lf-rfMiunciation  alone  redeems 
it  t'rnm  irrcvocalilc  lo.ss.  In  licr  niouifiits  of  strongest  tempta- 
tion, perple.Xfil   \>y  opjiosiug  ilt'sifcs,  she  does  not   forget  wliat  is 


GEOKGE   ELIOT,  477 

due  to  those  who  have  trusted  her.     Herein  lies  the  moral  of  the 
whole  matter: 

'If  life  did  not  make  duties  for  us  before  love  comes,  love  would  be  a  sign  that  two 
people 'ought  to  belong  to  each  other.' 

In  Middlemarch  the  peculiar  powers  of  the  author  are  exhib- 
ited in  the  highest  and  widest  play  of  their  development.  None 
of  her  books  is  so  deeply  thoughtful,  none  commands  so  broad  a 
view  of  the  human  horizon,  none  is  so  rich  in  personal  portrait- 
ure. What  a  rich  variety  of  moral  and  intellectual  life  is  pre- 
sented in  the  learned  and  sanctimonious  Casaubon,  who  always 
delivers  himself  with  as  careful  precision  as  if  he  were  a  diplo- 
matic envoy,  groping  in  hopeless,  helpless  confusion  in  the 
bewildering  fog  of  antiquity,  seeking  to  show  that  all  the  myth- 
ical systems  of  the  world  are  corruptions  of  a  tradition  originally 
revealed,  and  dying  while  only  his  notes,  still  accumulating,  make 
a  formidable  range  of  volumes;  the  good-natured  Garth,  with  his 
chivalrous  devotion  to  labor,  preferring  good  work  with  little  pay 
to  bad  work  with  more  money,  but  endangering  the  future  of  his 
children  in  order  to  oblige  the  self-indulgent,  extravagant  Fred; 
his  clever,  capable  wife,  who,  with  no  false  shame  of  poverty, 
continues  to  wash  the  dishes  while  the  vicar  makes  his  call;  their 
open  and  genial  daughter  Mary,  with  her  quaint,  sarcastic  impul- 
siveness; the  benevolent  Brooke,  of  miscellaneous  opinions  and 
uncertain  vote,  who  will  run  into  any  mould,  but  won't  keep 
shape;  the  elastic  Chettam,  the  blooming  Englishman  of  the  red- 
whiskered  type;  tlie  match-making  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  whose 
mind,  active  as  })hosphorus,  bites  into  the  form  that  suits  it 
everything  that  comes  near;  the  generous  Farebrother,  wisely- 
speaking,  l)ut  not  always  wiseK'-acting,  with  'as  little  of  the 
parson  about  him  as  will  serve  to  carrv  orders';  the  self-compla- 
cent Kosamond,  with  her  worldly  arts  and  aims,  her  exquisite 
manners,  her  talent  iox  precise  rendering  of  noble  music,  making 
herself  from  morning  till  night  her  own  standard  of  perfect  lady- 
hood,—  a  rare  compound  of  l)i'auty  and  amial)ilitv,  of  'correct 
.sentiments,  of  music,  dancing,  drawing,  elegant  note-writing, 
private  album  for  extracted  verse,  and  perfect  blonde  loveliness,' 
whose  ideal  includes  a  marriage  that  shall  raise  her  to  that  celes- 
tial condition  in  which  she  .shall  l)e  (|uite  ecjual  to  the  aristocrats 
of   the   countv  who   look   down   on   the  Midilleniarcliers;   the   sub- 


478  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

dued,  deferential  Bulstrode,  with  his  tragical  self-delusion,  cajol- 
ing' himself  into  the  belief  of  his  innocence,  while  the  secret  self 
declares  his  guilt;  the  ardent  Lydgate,  hopeful  of  achievement, 
a  professional  enthusiast,  who  dreams  of  liimself  as  a  discoverer 
in  anatomv  and  a  reformer  in  medicine,  a  little  too  self-confident, 
too  disdainful  of  others  and  their  influence,  protuberant  here  and 
there  with  native  prejudices,  liable  also  to  lapse  down  the  wrong 
channel, —  a  nobly  ambitious  soul,  foiled  by  its  own  mistakes, 
entangled  in  the  web  of  adverse  and  sordid  circumstances,  limited 
and  niaimcd  by  the  meanness  of  opportunity;  the  yearning  and 
theoretic  Dorothea,  longing  to  know  the  truths  of  life,  eager  to 
be  useful,  sure  that  she  would  have  accepted  Hooker  to  save  him 
from  that  wretched  mistake  in  matrimony,  or  Milton  when  his 
blindness  had  come  on;  enamored  of  intensity  and  greatness, 
rash  in  embracing  whatever  seems  to  have  those  aspects;  finding 
in  Mr.  Casaubon  one  who  could  think  with  her,  or,  rather,  whose 
thought  is  'a  whole  world,  of  which  my  thought  is  but  a  poor 
twopetmy  mirror,'  seeing  reflected  in  that  ungauged  reservoir 
every  quality  which  she  lierself  brought,  convinced  by  each  suc- 
ceeding visit  that  he  is  all  she  first  imagined  him  to  be,  treasuring 
his  remarks  like  specimens  from  a  niine,  or  inscriptions  on  the 
door  of  a  museum;  marrying  him  at  length,  sadly  to  discover 
that  her  aibniration  was  misplaced,  that  feeling  as  well  as  intel- 
lect is  essential  in  a  husband,  exemplifying  in  her  history  'the 
mixed  results  of  young  and  noble  impulse  struggling  amidst  the 
conditions  of  an  imperfect  social  state,  in  which  great  feelings 
will  oft<'M  take  tiie  aspect  of  error,  and  great  faith  the  aspect  of 
ilhisjoir;  reading,  for  th*;  inspiration  of  all  good  women,  a  help- 
ful lesson  ill  the  thought  that  'however  just  her  indignation 
miglit  be,  her  ideal  was  not  to  claim  justice,  but  to  give  tender- 
iK'Ss/      Here  is  the  keynote  to  the  entire  story: 

•W  111)  thiU  ciiTi-f  mncli  to  know  tin  liistorv  of  iiian,  and  how  that  inystcrious  niixtnro 
tichavcs  iiiiiliT  tlic  varvin:,'  cxptriincnts  of  tinio,  has  not  dwelt,  at  h-ast  briefly,  on  the 
life  of  Saint  'l"luTi'-a,  lias  not  smiled  with  some  <,'''iitli'ness  at  the  tliought  of  the  little 
:.'irl  w.ilkini:  forth  on"  iiiorniii;^'  haiid-inliand  with  her  still  smaller  brother,  to  go  and 
seek  martyrdoni  in  llie  roiiiitry  of  the  Moors/  Out  they  lod(ll(Ml  from  nidged  Avila 
will'-  .yi-d  ;inil  liil;)li--lookinLr  as  two  fawns,  hut  with  distinctly  human  hearts,  already 
lie  itiiiL.'  to  a  nation  il  idea,  until  cionie^tie  reality  met  lliem  in  the  shape  of  uncles,  and 
turiii-d  liiriii  li.ic  k  from  th<ir  L'rc.it  ri'>(jlve.  That  ihil<l-i)ili;rinia<rc  was  a  fit  beginning. 
Tlierisa-  |i.i--ioii.ili-.  idi  :il  n.itiire  demanded  an  epic  life:  what  were  many-volumcKl 
romance-^  of  rhi\alry  and  llie  mx  jal  coriijuests  of  a  l)rilliant  girl  to  her  V  Her  flame 
i|uii  kly  'lunied  up  Miat  li^'ht  fuel,  and.  fed  from  witliin,  so!ired  after  some  illiinitable 
sati-fac  tii.n.  -(.me  obiert  wliieh  would  ne\er  justify  weariness,  wliich  would  reconcile 


GEORGE   ELIOT.  479 

self-despair  with  the  rapturous  consciousness  of  life  beyond  self.  She  found  her  epos 
in  the  reform  of  a  religious  order.  That  Spanish  woman,  who  lived  three  hundred  years 
ago,  was  certainly  not  the  last  of  her  kind.  Many  Theresas  have  been  born  who  found 
for  themselves  no  epic  life  wherein  there  was  a  constant  unfolding  of  far-resonant  action; 
perhaps  only  a  life  of  mistakes,  the  offspring  of  a  certain  spiritual  grandeur  ill-matched 
with  the  meanness  of  opportunity;  perhaps  a  tragic  failure  which  found  no  sacred  poet 
and  sank  unwept  into  oblivion.  With  dim  lights  and  tangled  circumstances  they  tried 
to  shape  their  thoughts  and  deeds  to  noble  agreement;  but  after  all,  to  common  eyes 
their  struggle  seemed  mere  inconsistency  and  formlessness;  for  these  later-born  The- 
resas were  helped  by  no  coherent  social  faith  and  order  which  could  perform  the  func- 
tion of  knowledge  for  the  ardently  willing  soul.  Their  ardor  alternated  between  a  vague 
ideal  and  the  common  yearning  of  womanhood;  so  that  the  one  was  disapproved  as 
extravagance,  and  the  other  condemned  as  a  lapse.  .  .  .  Here  and  there  is  born  a  Saint 
Theresa,  foundress  of  nothing,  whose  loving  heart-beats  and  sobs  after  an  unattained 
goodness  tremble  off  and  are  dispersed  among  hindrances,  instead  of  centring  in  some 
long-recognizable  deed." 

Rornola  is  a  masterly  historical  novel,  a  classic  picture  of 
Florence  in  the  fifteenth  century,  an  age  in  which  faith  and  cul- 
ture contended  passionately  for  preeminence,  an  age  that  shared 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  incomparable  Lorenzo  and  the  ecstasies  of 
tlie  fiery  Savonarola.  What  a  vivid  glimpse  of  the  rapturous 
regard  for  the  New  Learning  is, given  in  the  blind  old  Bardo,  who 
all  his  days  'hung  over  the  books  and  lived  with  the  shadows,' 
and  tlie  vindictive  Baldassarre,  whose  paralyzed  memory  is  elec- 
trified by  a  thrill  of  revenge: 

'  He  leaned  to  take  up  the  fragments  of  the  dagger;  then  he  turned  towards  the  book 
which  lay  open  at  his  side.  It  was  a  fine  large  manuscript,  an  old  volume  of  Pausanias. 
...  In  old  days  he  had  known  Pausanias  familiarly;  yet  an  hour  or  two  ago  he  had  been 
Icokiiig  hopelessly  at  that  page,  and  it  had  suggested  no  more  meaning  to  him  than  if  the 
letters  had  been  black  weather-marks  on  a  wall;  but  at  this  moment  they  were  once 
more  ihe  magic  signs  that  conjure  up  a  world.  That  moonbeam  falling  on  the  letters 
iuul  raised  Messina  before  him,  and  its  struggle  against  Spartan  oppression.  He  snatched 
up  the  book,  but  the  ligh'  was  too  pale  for  him  to  read  further  by.  >'o  matter;  he  knew 
that  iliaptcr,  he  read  inwardly.  He  saw  the  stoning  of  the  traitor  Aristocrates  — stoned 
by  a  uliole  ])eople,  who  cast  him  otit  from  their  borders  to  lie  uuburied,  and  set  up  a 
pillar  with  verses  upon  it,  telling  how  time  had  brought  home  justice  to  the  unjust.  The 
woriN  arose  within  him,  and  stirred  innumerable  vibrations  of  memory.  He  forgot  that 
he  was  old:  he  could  almost  have  shouted.  The  light  was  come  again,  mother  of  knowl- 
edgv  anil  joy!  In  that  exultation  his  limbs  recovered  their  strength.  He  started  up  with 
ills  l)roken  dagger  and  book,  and  went  out  under  the  broad  moonlight.  It  was  a  nipping, 
fn)>ty  air,  l)ut  Baldassarre  could  feel  no  chill — he  only  felt  the  glow  of  conscious  power. 
He  walked  about  and  paused  on  all  the  open  spots  of  that  high  ground,  and  looked  down 
1)11  the  domed  and  towered  city,  sleeping  darkly  under  its  sleeping  guardians,  the  moun- 
tains; nil  the  pale  gleam  of  the  river;  on  the  valley  vanishing  towards  the  peaks  of  snow, 
and  felt  liiniself  master  of  them  all.  That  sense  of  mental  empire  which  belongs  to  us 
all  ill  iniiments  of  exceptional  clearness  was  intensitied  for  him  by  the  long  days  and 
niirhls  in  which  nuniory  had  been  little  more  than  the  consciousness  of  something  gone. 
Thai  city,  which  had  bt'cii  a  weary  labyrinth,  was  material  that  he  could  subdue  to  his 
l)iir|i<)>es  now.  His  mind  glanced  thri)iii;h  its  atTairs  with  tlasliiiiLT  conjecture:  he  was 
oiKf  more  a  man  who  knew  cities,  whose  sense  of  vision  wa>  instructed  with  large 
e.xpeiieiKc,  and  who  felt  the  keen  delight  of  holding  all  things  in  the  y;rasp  of  lanmiage. 
Xaiiie>!  linages!  His  mind  rushed  through  its  wealth  without  pausing,  like  one  who 
enters  on  a  great  inheritance." 


480  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Tito,  the  Greek,  is  a  fig^ure  to  live  in  the  imagination;  brilliant, 
insinuating,  worldly,  eahn  as  a  faithless  summer  sea,  not  origi- 
nally false,  but  bent  on  pleasure  and  power;  swerving  continually 
from  the  direct  path  in  his  cowardly  recoil  from  pain,  or  in  the 
consistent  desire  to  compass,  with  the  least  resistance,  the 
pleasant  end  which  suggests  itself;  sliding  easily  into  foulest 
treachery,  yet  spurred  at  last,  by  fear,  into  a  sort  of  desperate 
energy, —  a  being  that  at  once  fascinates  and  repels.  Judge 
him  by  the  first  impressions  of  the  Florentine  artist,  who  is  eager 
to  paint  his  face  for  that  of  tlie  traitor  Sinon,  and,  being  rebuked, 
offers  this  equivocal  explanation: 

'A  jKTfect  traitor  should  liave  a  face  which  vice  can  write  no  marks  on  —  lips  that 
will  lie  with  a  (linipU'd  smile  —  eyes  with  such  agate-like  brightness  and  depth  that  no 
infamy  can  dull  them  —  cheek  that  will  rise  from  a  murder  and  not  look  haggard.  I  say 
not  this  yonng  man  is  a  traitor:  I  mean,  he  has  a  face  that  would  make  him  the  more 
perfect  traitor  if  he  had  the  heart  of  one,  which  is  saying  neither  more  nor  less  than  that 
he  has  a  beautiful  face,  informed  with  rich  young  blood,  that  will  be  nourished  enough 
by  food,  and  keep  its  color  without  much  heli)  of  virtue,  lie  may  have  the  heart  of  a 
hero  along  with  it;  I  aver  nothing  to  the  contrary.' 

Romola  herself,  a  shade  more  modern,  is  the  incarnation  of 
nobleness;  stately  in  ])()dy;  stately  in  soul;  realizing,  with  the 
emphasis  of  hai>itual  action,  the  angelical  ideal  of  humanitv, 
which  holds  'that  lile  to  be  the  highest  which  is  a  conscious 
voluntary  .sacrifice.'  Finally,  nothing  could  be  more  impressive 
than  Savonarola's  exiiortation  to  licr  to  return  to  the  home  froni 
which  she  is  living: 

'Wliat:  the  earth  is  full  of  iuicniil  \  —  fi:ll  of  LTroans  — the  light  is  still  struggling 
with  a  miL'hty  darkni  ss,  and  you  say,  'I  cati  not  bear  my  bonds;  I  will  burst  them 
asunder:  1  will  1:0  where  no  man  (laiin-  nic'"  My  (lauj,'liler,  every  bond  of  your  life  is 
a  debt:  it  can  lie  nowhere  cisc.  In  \aiii  will  you  wander  over  the  earth;  you  will  be 
wandering'  forever  away  from  the  right.  .  .  .  Ynu  srck  to  lireak  your  ties  in  self-will  and 
anger,  not  because  the  hiu'hcr  life  call-  upon  xou  to  renounce  them.  The  higher  life 
begins  fdr  us.  my  dauirhti-r,  wlieu  wc  rciisiuncc  r.iu-  own  will  to  bow  before  a  divine  law. 
Th:it  seems  hard  to  you.  It  is  tlir  ])ortal  of  wi-doiii,  and  freedom,  and  blessedness. 
And  the  -^yiubol  (jf  it  liauirs  lirfore  you.     Tluit  w  ixloiu  is  the  reliidou  of  the  cross.  .  .  . 

You  would  leave  your  plaie  eiuiily,  when  it  ouu'tit  to  lie  tilled  with  your  i)ity  and 
your  l.ibor.  If  then'  is  wickidiie-s  jn  tlie  street>.  your  steps  should  shine  with  the  light 
of  purity:  if  there  is  a  cry  of  aiigni>li,  you  sliould  l)e  there  to  still  it.  My  beloved 
dauL'liti'r,  sorrow  has  come  Ir)  teach  you  a  iie«  wor^jiiji:  tlie  sii;]!  of  it  hangs  before  you. 
.  .  .  Make  your  uiarriaL-e  sorrows  an  otTerini:  too,  my  ilaimhti'r  —  an  otTeriiig  to  the  great 
Work  by  whicli  ^iii  and  scuTow  are  beinu'  ui:i<le  to  !■  a-e.  The  eiul  is  sure,  it  is  already 
lieL'iiiiiin'.'.  Here  in  I-'l(u-erice  il  i~  lieLrinuiu^'.  am!  iln-  eye-  of  faith  behold  it.  .Vnd  it 
may  lie  our  bli --edne--  to  die  for  it  :  to  die  daily  liy  the  crucill.xion  of  our  sellish  will  — 
to  die  at  l.i-t  b>  layiuL'  our  bodies  on  the  altar.  My  ilaUL'hter.  you  are  a  eldld  of  Florence 
—  for  your  own  iieopb^.  w  hoin  (Jod  i~  prepariuL.'  to  bles>  the  eaitli.  Bear  the  anguish  and 
t!ie  -mart.  'I'lie  iron  i-  -harp—  I  know.  I  know  —  it  rends  the  tender  flesh.  The  draught 
i-  liilteriies-  <in  th"  lips,  I!ut  there  i-  rapture  in  the  cup-  tliere  is  the  vision  which 
make-:  al!  lift  below  it  dros-  forever.     Come,  luy  daughter,  come  buck  to  yimr  ])lace  ! " 


GEORGE   ELIOT.  481 

The  spirit  of  the  age  has  found  no  fuller  and  broader  expres- 
sion than  in  Daniel  Deronda,  a  study  of  Jewish  life  in  its  best 
aspects;  analytical,  severe,  scientific;  fine,  strong,  brilliant.  The 
hero,  a  happy,  hopeful  boy,  is  suddenly  transformed  by  the 
brooding  suspicion  of  a  blot  upon  his  origin,  discovers  himself 
to  be  a  Jeic,  yet  a  Jew  rationalized  by  a  Christian  education, 
and  devotes  his  manhood  to  the  problem  of  restoring  his  people 
to  the  land  of  their  ancestors.  His  greatness  lies  in  his  per- 
sistent choice  of  the  highest  motive, —  in  steadfast  and  noble 
human  endeavor.  The  heroine  is  a  moral  paradox,  introduced 
to  us  as  a  '  Xereid  in  sea-green  robes  and  silver  ornaments,' 
«  singularly  fascinating  by  her  rare  beauty,  enigmatical  conduct, 
and  purgatorial  experience;  a  spoiled  child,  idolized  by  a  wid- 
owed mother,  served  like  a  'princess  in  exile'  by  her  younger 
sisters;  wedding  a  rich  suitor,  and  living  in  splendid  misery; 
compelled  to  an  outward  obedience,  j'et  stirred  with  bitter  hate 
and  suppressed  passion,  with  which  is  mingled  a  gnawing  remorse 
for  her  folly  in  marrying  a  man  siie  did  not  love;  turning  in  her 
agony  to  Deronda,  who  becomes  her  confidant,  her  instructor, 
her  ideal  of  rectitude,  declaring  the  curse  upon  her  to  be,  that 
'all  passion  is  spent  in  the  narrow  round  —  the  small  drama  of 
personal  desires  —  for  want  of  ideas  and  sympathies  to  make  a 
larger  home  for  it';  gradually  renewing  her  distressed  and  erratic 
sj)irit  witli  such  counsels  as  tliese: 

'  Lookiiii;  at  your  life  as  a  debt  may  seem  the  dreariest  view  of  tilings  at  a  distance; 
hut  it  laiiiiot  really  l)o  so.  What  makes  life  dreary  is  the  want  of  motive:  but  once 
Ijeirinniii;:  to  act  with  that  penitential,  lovin;;  purpose  you  have  in  your  mind,  there  will 
!)<■  unc.\i)ecte(l  satisfaction —  there  will  be  newly  opening  needs  — continually  coming  to 
carry  you  on  from  day  to  day.  You  will  find  your  life  growing  like  a  plant.  .  .  .  This 
t.orri)w.  whicli  has  cut  down  to  the  root,  has  come  to  you  while  you  are  so  young  — try  to 
tliink  of  it,  not  a<  a  spoiling  of  your  life,  but  as  a  preparation  for  it.  .  .  .  You  have  been 
saved  froiu  the  worst  evils  that  might  have  come  from  your  marriage,  which  you  feel 
was  wrong.  You  have  had  a  vision  of  injurious,  selfish  action  — a  vision  of  possible 
degradation;  tliink  that  a  severe  angel,  seeing  you  along  the  road  of  error,  trrasped  you 
l.y  tlie  wri^t,  and  showed  you  the  horror  of  the  life  you  must  avoid.  .\nd  it  lias  come  to 
ynu  in  your  -pring-lime.  Think  of  it  as  a  prei)aration.  You  can,  you  will,  be  among  the 
bc.-i  of  women,  >uch  as  make  others  glad  that  tliey  were  born." 

Monleciii  is  the  idoal  incarnate,  whose  exjx'ctant  and  heavenlv 
(h-eani  is  tlic  revived  unity  of  the  disp(>rsed  and  despi.sed  race, 
wIk.sc  liglit  in  the  gatliering  shadows  of  dissolntion  i.s  the  assur- 
ance   tliat    his    vision    and    jiassioii  —  his    immortal    (hiUK have 

entered  into  Deronchi: 

'  Death  is  coming  to  me  as  the  divine  kiss  which  is  lictli  parting  and  reunion  —  wliich 

31 


482  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

takes  me  from  your  bodily  cyo!»  and  gives  me  full  presence  in  your  soul.  Where  thou 
goest,  Daniel,  1  shall  go.  Is  it  not  begun?  Have  I  not  breathed  my  soul  into  you?  We 
shall  live  together.' 

No  laughing  humor  here,  and  gone  forever  the  lummous  wit 
which  we  heard  in  Adam  JJede,  which  lingered  still,  as  glimpses 
of  sunlight,  in  Middlemarch.  The  indescribable  glow  of  youth 
has  vanished  before  the  disenchantments  of  a  hard,  unyielding, 
compelling  universe.  Believe  that  character  is  a  process  under 
immutable  law.  You  are  surrounded  by  a  wall  of  external  con- 
dition ;  yet  oppose  to  the  shocks  of  fate  a  stoical  resolution. 
Man  lives  in  man.  Personal  continuance  there  is  none.  Believe 
that  human  life  is  a  sorrowful  riddle;  yet  believe,  with  Fichte, 
in  the  moral  order  of  the  world.  Above  all,  believe  in  human 
sympathy  in  the  iiour  of  overpowering  calamity. 

Style. — Pure  and  liomogeneous,  intense  and  life-like,  broad 
and  steady,  full  of  majesty  when  deepest,  unique  in  the  absolute 
fitness  of  the  phrase  to  the  thought.  A  living  organism,  whose 
every  particle  tingles  with  the  fine  vibration  of  heart  and  brain. 
George  Eliot  was  one  of  the  most  careful  among  authors.  Her 
manuscript  is  said  to  have  been  free  from  blur  or  erasure,  every 
letter  delicately  and  distinctly  drawn.  A  conspicuous  feature  of 
hor  excellent  literary  method  is  perfection  of  dialect.  Thus:  'It's 
your  inside  as  isn't  right  made  for  music;  it's  no  better  nor  a 
hollow  stock';  and,  'I  hate  the  sound  of  women's  voices;  they're 
always  either  a-huzz  or  a-squeak  —  always  either  a-buzz  or 
a-squeak.  Mrs.  Poyser  keeps  at  the  top  o'  the  talk  like  a  fife.' 
Soldom  cumbrous,  with  an  occasional  false  note  in  the  music  or 
venial  iiogloct  in  the  diction  and  arrangement,  notwithstanding 
the  usual  elaborate  finish  of  the  sentences.  Thus:  'Presently 
Baldassarre  fxf/i//)  to  move.  He  threw  away  the  broken  dagger, 
and  slowly  and  gradually,  still  trembling,  began  to  raise  himself 
from  the  ground.  Tito  ])ut  out  his  hand  to  help  him,  and  so 
strangely  c|uick  are  men's  souls  that  in  this  moment,  when  he 
1)1(1(111  to  think  his  atonenuMit  was  accepted,  he  had  a  darting 
tliouglit  of  tin'  irksome  cfTorts  it  eiitaih^d.' 

Hank. — She  l)clongs  ucitlicr  to  the  school  of  fiction  which  is 
a  ])artisan  of  passion,  nor  to  that  which  is  a  wor.shipper  of  con- 
ventionality ;  the  one  re])reseiiting  the  excess  of  feeling  and 
impulse  un(l<-r  the  attractive  title  of  Nature,  the  other  deifying 


GEORGE   ELIOT.  483 

custom  and  depicting  a  code  of  manners  woven  of  the  latest 
fashion.  Surpassing  the  truth  and  beauty  of  both,  she  deals 
with  the  permanent  heart  of  humanity,  and  represents,  beyond 
all  others,  the  moral  type  of  to-day,  which  brings  into  prominence 
character,  as  active  and  passive,  struggling  with  temptation,  and 
perfecting  itself  through  trivial  cares  and  besetting  trials. 

She  has  not  tlie  vigorous  movement,  the  serene  tone,  of  Scott; 
she  may  not  have  the  exquisite  finish  of  Miss  Austen,  nor  the 
concentrative  intensity  of  Miss  Bront6;  she  cannot  sketch  with 
the  rapidity  of  Fielding:  but  none  of  them  combines  in  equal 
splendor  the  power  of  painting  the  external,  and  the  insight  into 
the  life  of  the  soul.  Above  them  all  is  she  distinguished  by  the 
constant  reference  of  things  to  facts  and  laws  which  are  universal 
—  always  the  condition  of  highest  literature.  She  stands  at  the 
confluence  of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  looking  from  the  less  into 
the  larger,  with  finer  and  stronger  vision  than  Dickens  or  Thack- 
eray. With  Shakespeare,  she  has  the  gift  of  the  dramatist  — 
narrower  than  his  in  range,  but,  within  its  limits,  equal ;  with 
him,  she  has  the  gift  of  analysis  —  less  in  quantity,  superior  in 
quality.  Like  him,  she  enters  sympathetically  into  minds  and 
opinions  quite  opposite  to  her  own.  How  admirably  can  she 
draw  a  lively,  a  shallow,  or  a  flippant  personage, — herself  grave 
even  to  melancholy;  or  a  believing  and  devout  Christian, —  her- 
self a  naturalist,  an  eclectic  in  religion  !  The  figures  on  her 
canvas,  especially  tlie  earlier,  are  known  as  directly  and  intimately 
as  any  in  real  or  fictitious  history.  And  who  has  apjiroached  her 
in  the  ability  to  seize  the  essential  characteristics  and  exhibit  the 
real  charm  of  that  quiet  English  country  life  which  is  her  sphere? 

As  with  the  great  Elizabethan,  form  is  subordinate  to  content. 
Tlio  motive  is  supreme  over  all.  How  large  a  space  in  the  whole 
bulk  of  iier  volumes  does  she  usurp  for  her  own  interspersed  inter- 
pretation and  coiniiHMit  I  Tliis  may  seem  to  Taine  and  Matthew 
Arnold  very  inartistic;  but  we  arc  rather  glad  that,  not  content 
to  bo  a  mere  anatomist  or  spectator,  she  has  ventured  not  only  to 
e.rJnhit  liuiuan  nature  in  action,  but  to  explain  the  motives  of  the 
action,  and  to  speculate  lovingly  and  vividlv  on  human  life.  Possi- 
blv,  in  iu^r  later  works  she  may  sometimes  l)e  too  discursive.  Per- 
hajJS,  also,  her  finest  Tuonil  eflects  may  there  l)e  injured  bv  a  too 
fatalistic  eoni-ejition  of  things,  by  a  certain  vagueness  and  doubt. 


484  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

as  of  a  world  liopelcssly  and  irrecoverably  dark;  but  this  is  mo 
reproach  to  her  art,  except  so  far  as  it  may  be  partial.  Mistake, 
frustration,  doom,  dinuiess  of  perception  and  waste  of  force,  are 
indisputable  phases  of  mortality;  and  judgments  can  differ  only 
as  to  the  de^jree  in  which  the  destiny  of  mankind  shall  be  painted 
justly  in  hues  of  gloom. 

Noteworthy  as  a  poet,  she  will  be  remembered  as  a  novelist. 
It  is  in  the  latter  function  that  she  has  wrought  upon  the  taste 
and  conscience  of  her  age.  She  will  continue  to  be  read  in  the 
former  by  those  who  desire  to  know  the  fulness  of  her  genius. 

One  of  the  rare  human  souls  whom  we  account  our  loftiest  — 
one  wild  neitlier  carries  the  feminine  quality  to  its  height,  like 
Mrs.  Browning;  nor  transcends  the  limitations  of  her  sex,  like 
Madame  de  Stael.  Fixing  our  estimate  of  success  by  humor, 
])athos,  tliought,  portraiture,  and  mastery  of  language, —  what 
woman  lias  touched  so  high  a  point  in  literature?  Shakespeare 
enables  us  to  dispense  with  Jonson  and  Beaumont,  but  who  has 
rendered  George  Eliot  superfluous? 

Character. — Of  the  calm,  contemplative  order;  of  opulent 
imagination,  profound  humor,  delicate  selective  talent;  supreme 
f)Vi'r  all  English  novelists  in  i-icli  and  multifarious  culture;  uniting* 
to  a  trutlil'ul  realism  a  j)oetic  idealism,  and  to  the  largeness  of 
conception  that  views  the  simplest  and  homeliest  object  in  broad 
n-latioiiship,  a  psychological  insight  that  pttrsues  life  to  its  inmost 
solitude. 

Her  sympathy  witli  human  sulfering  and  human  limitation 
was  clcniental.  Sh"  was  lontl  of  children,  had  a  deep,  catholic 
love  f(ir  niaiikiiid,  aj)pr('ciat<d  all  varieties  of  character,  l)elieving 
that  in  tiic  huuiblcsi  an-  sul^lime  j)romptings.  Iler  nature  was 
thoroughly  fcuiiniuc  —  scusitivc,  deeply  and  nobly  aflectionate. 
If  shf  could  cxpouud  the  hioad  chiims  of  universal  l)rotherh(jod, 
and  CDniprcliciid  tlir  '  iiigli  ucccssilics  of  art,"  she  could  also  feel 
and  cxiufss  witli  sinipliiity  the  iutcnsitv  of  personal  devotion: 

"•"'■''   'vciiiiiL'-  (' ■  :niil  L'o.   l.,\.-.  Tin-  (l;ii-ics  will  he  Uierc,  love, 

'rii.y  i-,iiii.-  .■u;<l  u.-nl  ..f  ynn  :  The  star-  in  heaven  will  shine: 

Tlii-  e%(nii,_'  ,,f  ,,nr  life,  love,  I  ~liall  net  feel  thy  wjsli,  love, 
^-ti.-ill   -o  aii>l   eonie   no  more.  Nor  tlion   my  hand  in  thine. 

Wl,.  II  \M  h:i\e  |,;t"<Ml  away,  lo\e.  A  l„i;er  time  will  eonie,  love, 
All   ihiiii:-  will   keej,  tr.eir  nanje:  And  better  -oiil-  he  horn: 

P.iit  yet  no  lif.'  on  earth,  love,  I  would  not  he  Ilie  hest,  love, 
With  our-   will   iH    the   -aiiie.  -j-o  1,-ave  thee-  now  forlorn.' 


GEORGE   ELIOT.  485 

To  the  highest  gifts  she  united  the  noblest  purposes.  How- 
grateful  was  she  for  every  moulding  and  elevating  influence  ! 
and  she  yearned  to  be  helpful !     Her  glowing  prayer  was  to  — 

'  Be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony; 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love; 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty; 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused. 
And  in  diflEusion  ever  more  intense.' 

Profoundly  devout,  she  was  unable  to  accept  much  of  what 
is  usually  held  as  religious  belief.  Her  works,  eminently  among 
those  of  the  day,  embody  the  central  ethics  of  Christ,  yet  with- 
out any  intellectual  acceptance  of  Christianity  as  a  dogmatic 
scheme.  Her  religion  appears  to  have  been  in  general  harmony 
with  that  of  Auguste  Comte, —  the  religion  of  Humanity.  Her 
creed  is,  'Religion  is  kindness.'  'The  first  condition  of  human 
goodness  is  something  to  love;  the  second,  something  to  rever- 
ence.' The  soul  ascends  to  a  divine  life  by  self-surrender  to  its 
own  highest  intimations.  Man  lives  in  man  —  so  much,  at  least, 
is  certain.  An  assured  blessing  of  Death,  if  not  the  final  one, 
is,  that  it  destroys  the  selfish  egotisms  of  the  flesh,  and  leaves  us 
an  impersonal  immortality  in  human  gladness  for  gifts  bestowed. 
With  sad  incomj)leteness  she  says: 

'The  only  better  is  a  Past  that  lives 
On  through  an  added  Present,  strclching  still 
In  hope  unchecked  by  shaming  memories 
To  life's  last  memories/ 

If  not  an  optimist,  neither  is  she  a  pessimist.  If  she  neither 
aflirms  nor  denies,  she  hopes.  Of  the  sweet  Methodist  in  Adam 
Ii((h  :  '  \\'h('ii  she  came  to  tlie  question,  Will  God  take  care  of 
us  when  we  die':'  she  uttered  it  in  such  a  tone  of  plaintive  ajipeal 
that  tlie  tears  came  into  some  eyes.'  The  idea  of  Destiny,  which 
environs  us  like  a  dro})  of  dew  in  the  heart  of  a  rock,  seems  in 
her  latt<'r  years  (ilniost  to  master  her,  vet  does  she  continue  a 
writer  of  generous  aims,  who  would  Ciirve  out  larger  space  for 
every  soul  iniprisonecl  in  pettiness,  doul)t,  or  convention: 

'Nay,  iifvfr  faUir :  no  (jrtat  deeil  i-i  (hi/,i 
liij  J'dllert m  iiho  axk  fur  certainty. 
No  L'ood  is  (crtaiii;    l)iit   tlic  steadfa-^t  mind, 
Tlic  iiiidivi.lfd  will  to  MM'k  tlu'  -ood.— 
'Tis  that  ninii)els  thi-  clcinciits,  and  wring's 
A  liuniaii  lllll^i(•  from  tin-  iiulilTtrciit  air. 
The  grealc-I  u'ift  llu-  licm  leave-   \\\<  race 


486  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Is  to  have  been  a  hero.  Say  wo  fail  ? — 
We  feed  the  high  tradition  of  the  world. 
And  leave  our  spiritg  in  Zincalo  breasts.'' 

Influence. — A  moral  teacher  of  the  purest  and  noblest  tone, 
not  incidentally  or  artistically,  but  purposely  and  distinctly.  She 
has  afforded  the  deepest  speculation  to  the  few,  while  she  has 
impressed  upon  the  many  the  excellence  of  patient  work,  the 
beauty  of  self-sacrifice,  the  sovereignty  of  duty;  and  to  all  she 
has  broug-ht  exalting  inspiration. 

While  we  do  not  doubt  that  the  total  effect  is  beneficent,  we 
must  believe  that  the  nobleness  she  inculcates  is  hindered  by  her 
agnosticism.  The  utmost  manhood  and  womanhood  can  never  be 
developed  without  the  clear  appeal  to  eternity.  The  strongest 
will  feel  at  last  the  oppression  of  that  mournful  philosophy  whose 
lights  of  gayety  seem  but  foil  to  the  overhanging  gloom;  whose 
sweetest,  grandest  creatures  —  ill-matched  with  the  environment 
of  their  life  —  struggle  so  often  to  a  pitiable  or  sorrowful  end; 
and  which,  in  abortive  answer  to  human  entreaty,  peeps  over  the 
edges  of  our  planet,  to  discover  for  the  Gethsemane  of  life  only 
an  illimitable  void. 

Besides  the  choral  strain  of  moral  piety,  consider  the  wealth 
of  wit  and  wisdom  wliich  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  race  inherit 
forever.  Whore  can  be  found  in  works  of  the  same  kind  so  rare 
a  mine  of  thought  for  the  worsliipper  to  take  to  his  bosom,  for 
the  writer  to  enrich  his  discourse,  for  the  thinker  to  ponder,  for 
the  divine  to  quote, —  for  all  to  assimilate  and  to  use?  Here  are 
some  examples: 

'It  is  liard  to  Ix-  wise  on  an  empty  sfoniacli.' 

'It  is  nivcr  t(K)  hitc  to  l)c  what  you  iniglit  liavo  been.' 

'Sjieecli  is  t)ut  l)roken  liL'lit  upon  the  ileptlis  of  the  unsjioken.' 

'It's  easy  flndinu'  rea-ons  why  other  j)eople  should  be  patient." 

•(iiniiis.  at  first,  is  little  more  tliaii  a  f:reat  eaiJiicity  for  receivinj,' discipline." 

'When  (Jod  makes  Hi-  iirc-^mee  f.lt  tliroush  lis,  we  are  like  the  burning  bush." 

Tvf  never  any  i>ity  for  eoiieeited  jieople,  because  I  tliink  they  carry  their  comfort 
about  with  tliem." 

•The  i;ile  of  the  Divine  pity  was  never  yel  believed  from  lips  that  were  not  felt  to  be 
mov.il  hy  human  pit^.' 

•Wlieii  ])eat>i.  tlie  ;.'reat   reconciler,  has  rome,  it  is  never  our  tenderness  that  we 

rejieiif  of,  but  our  x  verity  ' 

•Kvery  man"-  wnrk.  i)iirsue,|  -teadily.  tends  to  become  an  end  in  itself,  and  so 
bridire-  over  tin-  loM-le—  ilia-m-  of  lii-  life." 


GEORGE   ELIOT.  487 

'There  is  no  sorrow  I  have  thought  more  about  than  to  love  what  is  great,  and  try  to 
reach  it  and  yet  to  fail.' 

'Th'  young  men  nooadeys,  th're  poor  squashy  things, —  the'  looke  weel  enoof,  but  the' 
woon't  wear,  the'  woon't  wear.' 

'So  our  lives  glide  on:  the  river  ends,  we  don't  know  where,  and  the  sea  begins,  and 
then  there  is  no  more  jumping  ashore.' 

'There's  no  pleasure  in  living  if  you're  to  be  corked  up  forever,  and  only  dribble 
your  mind  out  by  the  sly,  like  a  leaky  barrel.' 

'Our  deeds  are  like  children  born  to  ns;  they  live  and  act  apart  from  our  own  will. 
Children  may  be  strangled,  but  deeds  never.' 

'We  look  at  the  one  little  woman's  face  we  love  as  we  look  at  the  face  of  our  mother 
earth,  and  see  all  sorts  of  answers  to  our  own  yearnings.' 

'Our  guides,  we  pretend,  must  be  sinless;  as  if  those  were  not  often  the  best  teach- 
ers, who  only  yesterday  got  corrected  for  their  mistakes.' 

'Things  are  not  so  ill  with  you  and  me  as  they  might  have  been,  half  owing  to  the 
number  who  lived  faithfully  a  hidden  life,  and  rest  in  unvisited  tombs.' 

'It's  poor  work,  alius  settin'  the  dead  above  the  livin'.  It  'ud  be  better  if  folks  'ud 
make  much  on  us  beforehand  instid  o'  beginnin'  when  we're  gone.' 

'By  desiring  what  is  perfectly  good,  even  when  we  don't  quite  knovv  what  it  is,  and 
cannot  do  what  we  would,  we  are  part  of  the  divine  power  against  evil.' 

'  Tito  was  experiencing  that  inexorable  law  of  human  souls,  that  we  prepare 
ourselves  for  sudden  deeds  by  the  reiterated  choice  of  good  or  evil  that  gradually 
determines  character.' 

'Men  and  women  make  sad  mistakes  about  their  own  symptoms  —  taking  their 
vague,  uneasy  longings,  sometimes  for  genius,  sometimes  for  religion,  and  oftener  still 
for  a  mighty  love.' 

'A  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 

That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 

Brings  hope  with  it  and  forward-looking  thought.' 

'Our  caresses,  our  tender  words,  our  still  rapture  under  the  influence  of  autumn 
sunsets  or  calm  miijestic  statues,  or  Beethoven  symphonies,  all  bring  with  them  the 
consciousness  that  they  are  mere  waves  and  ripples  in  an  unfathomable  ocean  of  love 
and  beauty.  Our  emotion  in  its  keenest  moment  passes  from  expression  into  silence, 
our  love  at  its  highest  flood  rushes  beyond  its  object,  and  loses  itself  in  the  sense  of 
divine  mystery.' 

The  tciiiptatiou  to  quote  further  must  be  resisted.  The  prayer 
of  tliis  good  and  gifted  woman  is  answered.  Her  place  is  secure 
among  those  — 

'Immortal  dead  wlio  still  live  on 
In  minds  made  better  by  tlieir  presence;   live 
In  iiulscs  stirred  to  generosity: 
III  deeds  of  daring  rectitude;    in  scorn 
For  niiseral)le  aims  that  end  with  self: 
In  thouglits  sublime  that  pierce  tlic  niijlit  liki'  stars, 
And  witti  their  mild  persistence  urire  man"s  jicareh 
To  vaster  issues.' 


488         DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

TENNYSON. 

Xot  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 

Will)  craze  the  brain  with  their  delirious  dance, 
Art  thou,  O  sweet  historian  of  the  heart! 

Therefore  to  Ihee  the  laurel-leaves  belong, 
To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 
For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poefs  art.— Longfellow. 

Biography. — Born  at  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  in  1810;  on^ 
of  a  numerous  and  gifted  family  ;  the  youngest  in  a  poetical 
brotherhood  of  three  —  Frederick,  Charles,  and  Alfred  —  sons  of 
a  clergyman,  said  to  have  been  remarkable  for  strength,  stature, 
and  energy;  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  in  1829  he  gained 
the  Chancellor's  medal  for  a  prize  poem;  the  next  year,  while 
still  an  undergraduate,  published  his  first  volume,  under  the  title 
of  Poems  Chiejfy  Zit/rical,  hailed  by  the  Westininster  as  the 
promise  of  higher  things  than  recent  literature  had  seen,  and 
by  the  Slack icoocVs  as  dismal  drivel;  his  second  volume  in  1832, 
under  the  name  simply  of  Poems ,'  his  third,  partly  compiled 
from  the  debris  of  his  earlier  ones,  in  1842,  from  which  date  he 
entered  upon  the  enjoyment  of  a  growing  and  select  popularity; 
received  the  decoi-ation  of  D.C.L.  from  Oxford;  appointed  Lau- 
reate, upon  the  death  of  "Wordsworth  in  1850,  continuing  to 
exhibit  t)y  successive  works  the  progressive  widening  and  deep- 
ening of  his  mind.  lie  lives  in  the  country,  amid  books  and 
flowers,  mostly  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  free  from  the  burdens  and 
disturbances  of  society.  ^N'hen  1h^  dies,  we  shall  know  more  of 
him.  Meanwhile^  wo  console  ourselves  with  tlie  reflection  that 
his  intellectual  biography  is  more  important  than  the  rather 
uneventful  story  of  his  life. 

"Writings. — l-'rom  tlio  first,  Tennyson  has  shown  himself  to 
b<»  a  l)orn  artist,  a  inastt-r  of  charm,  a  lover  of  form  and  color,  a 
builder  of  inuiginnrv  eastles,  an  etln'oal  instructor.  The  Palace 
of  Art  is  an  allegory  of  a  soul  whose  ]>ur{>ose  is  to  enjoy  Beauty 
always  and  only  for  liersc-lf,  within  a  'lordly  pleasure-house,'  on 
a  huge  crag-foundation,  high  jibove  the  herds  of  human  swine, 
in  comniiwid  of  all  delights  save  spiritual,  and  exulting  in  her 
isolation: 

'I  take  i)o>-fs.-ioii  of  nian's  luiiid  and  deed, 
I  c.-in-  not   what  tln'  Mif-^  nuiy  brawl, 
I  -il   a»  (iod,  holdiiiir  im  fnnn  nf  creed, 
But  ti'iiijilating  all.' 


TENNYSON.  489 

After  a  time,  lest  she  should  perish  utterly,  Heaven  smites  her 
with  an  inward  sense  of  poverty  and  misery: 

'  Back  on  herself  her  perpent  pride  had  curled. 
"No  voice,"  she  shrieked  in  that  lone  hull, 
"No  voice  breaks  through  the  stillness  of  this  world: 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all!"  .  .  . 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally. 
And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair. 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity. 
No  comfort  anywhere.' 

Four  years  the  agony  endures,  then  she  quits  her  royal  solitude, 
with  its  haunting  horrors,  in  pursuit  of  a  higher  life: 

"•Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,''  she  cried, 
"Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray.'" 

The  imagery  and  rhythm  of  the  Lotos-Eaters  are  marvellously 
beautiful  and  expressive.  How  exquisitely  does  the  poem  repre- 
sent the  luxurious  sleepiness  said  to  be  produced  in  those  who 
feed  upon  the  lotus !  How  perfectly  are  the  deep  quietude,  the 
dreamy  haze,  the  lulling  spell,  of  the  enchanted  land,  reflected  in 
the  verse: — 

'.\  land  of  streams!    Some,  like  a  downward  smoke, 
Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go; 
And  some  through  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 
Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below.  .  .  . 
There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass. 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass; 
Music  that  gcntlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes: 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies. 
Here  arc  cool  niosst's  deej), 
And  through  the  moss  the  ivies  creep. 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep. 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep.  .  .  . 
Lo!   in  the  middle  of  the  wood. 
The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 
Sun-steep"d  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed;  and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo!   sweeten'd  with  tlie  summer  liglit, 
The  fuIl-juiccd  apple,  waxing  over-mellow. 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Kipens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil. 
Fast-rooted  in  tlie  fruitful  soil.' 


490  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Since  the  Fairy  Queen,  there  has  been  no  such  melodious  effem- 
inacy. And  how  felicitously  is  the  plaintive  or  languid  mood  of 
the  weary  or  enervated  soul  given  in  that  which  follows  !  — 

'Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  UH  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 
In  silence;   ripen,  fall,  and  cease: 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful  ease. 
How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half  dream  1  .  .  . 
To  hear  each  other's  whispered  .speech; 
Eating  the  lotns  day  by  day, 
To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach. 
And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy: 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass. 
Two  handf uls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass  ! ' 

Quite  naturally,  the  companions  of  Ulysses  forget  their  country, 
renounce  action,  and  nervelessly  resolve  to  'lie  reclined  on  the 
hills  like  gods.' 

Now  and  then  over  the  calm  and  correct  surface  pours  tlie 
liigh  tide  of  emotion,  with  a  billowy  splendor  and  a  glorious 
freedom,  as  in  tlicse  verses  of  Locksley  Hall: 

'And  I  said,  "My  cousin  Amy,  spciik,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me. 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  (jf  my  being  sets  to  thee."" 

f)n  her  i);illi(l  clicck  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light. 
As  I  liavc  seen  tlie  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turned  — her  Ixisoiu  sliakin  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 
.\11  till-  -spirit  deeply  dawniiit:  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying  ''I  have  liid  my  fcclinL's,  fcariiiLr  tliey  should  do  me  wrong"': 

Saying  "  Host  tlioii   love  nif,  cousin?"  weeping,  "1  liave  loved  thee  long."'  .  .  . 

Many  a  morniuL'  on  tiic  nioniiand  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 

.\i[d  h'T  wlii-iHT  tUronL'cd  my  pnl^s  with  tlie  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evcniiiL'  by  tlie  watcr>  did  we  watch  tlic  stately  ships. 
And  our  spirits  ni~lic(l  inirctlii'i-  at   tlie  tducliinir  of  our  lijis. 

(»  my  cousin   sliallow  licartcd  !      (I  my  Amy,   mine  im  more! 
(I  the  dreary,  dreary  mooiiaml  !      <)  tlie  liarrcii,  liarren  ■^hore  !  " 

In    the    P/'t/i'-r^s,   'reniiysoii   essayetl    a    master])iece.      A  mix- 


TENNYSON.  491 

ture  of  modern  ideas  and  manners  with  mediaeval  chivalry  and 

romance,  of  the  farcical  with  the  sentimental,  of  the  conventional 

with  the  real, —  it  is  styled  'a  medley.'     A  story  of  a  prince  and 

princess  affianced  in  childhood  by  their  parents.     The  lady,  when 

the  appointed  time  has  arrived,  repudiates  the  alliance;  but  after 

a  series  of   adventures  and   incidents  culminating  in  a  combat, 

she  relents,  pities,  then  loves.      The  wounded  prince,  received 

into  her  palace,  sees  the  fair  Ida  before  him  when  consciousness 

returns,  and  says,  painfully: 

' "  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some  sweet  dream, 
1  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself; 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing:   only  if  a  dream. 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect;  I  shall  die  to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die.''  .  .  . 

She  stooped;  and  out  of  languor  leapt  a  cry; 
Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of  death; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame;   and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe. 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  otlier,  when  she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with  love.' 

The  beautiful  entliusiast,  irritated  against  the  rule  of  men,  had 
resolved  upon  a  social  revolution;  and,  to  liberate  her  sex,  had 
founded  a  university  on  the  frontiers,  designed  to  be  the  colony 
of  future  equality.  The  failure  of  the  enterprise  suggests  the 
true  pliilosophy  of  the  'woman  question': 

' "  For  woman  is  not  undeveloped  man. 
But  diverse;    could  we  make  her  as  the  man. 
Sweet  Love  were  slain:    his  dearest  bond  is  this, 
Xot  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Vet  in  the  long  years  likcr  must  they  grow; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height. 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  tliews  that  tlirow  tlie  worlil.  .  .  . 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man. 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words: 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  tlic  skirt<  of  Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summed  in  all  their  powers. 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each,  and  reverencing  ciicli."  .  .  . 
"May  these  things  be  I  •"    Sighinsr  she  >poke,  "I  fear 
They  will  not.""     "Dear,  but  let   us  ty|ie  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  i)r(Mi(l  wiUclnvord  rc-t 
Of  i<iunl:   seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself;   aiul  in  true  marriage  lus 


4i)2  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Nor  equal,  nor  unequal;   each  fulfils 

Defect  in  each,  and  ahvay.-i  thought  in  thought, 

PiirpcMC  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal. 

The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one  full  stroke, 

Life."  ' 

/;*  Mernoriam  is  an  elegiac  of  sorrow-brooding  thought,  a 
series  of  meditations  circling  around  the  recollection  of  a  gifted 
friend  who  died  young,  a  cry  of  the  bereaved  soul  into  the  dark 
infinite  after  the  vanished  love.  The  gloom,  the  utter  stillness, 
the  apparent  nothingness,  of  Death,  raise,  before  the  mind  that 
looks  beyond  the  bourne,  questions  relating  to  the  being  of  God, 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the  nature  and  conditions  of  future 
<'xi.stence.  Thus  the  soliloquist  speaks  typically  in  behalf  of 
humanity,  and  teaches  deep  lessons  of  life  and  conscience.  Im- 
mortal Love  is  the  true  conception  of  the  adorable  Sovereign, 
yet  the  world  of  realities  does  not  seem  to  be  that  of  unmixed 
benevolence: 

'Are  God  and  Is'aturc  then  at  strife, 
Tliat  Nature  lends  snch  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  tyi)e  she  seems, 
So  careless  of  the  single  life.' 

Driven  by  an  awful  pain  of  need,  he  cuts  the  Gordian  knot,  and 
betakes  himself  reverently  to  faitli: 

'I  faller  where  I  firmly  trod. 
And  f.illing  with  my  weight  of  cares 
V\)ii\\  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 
That  r-lope  through  (hirkness  up  to  God, 

I  sIreUh  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope. 
And  gather  dust  aiK!  chatT,  and  call 
To  what  1  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 
And  faiiitl\   trust  tlie  lariTcr  hojje." 

Can  man  who  trusts,  who  l)attles  for  the  true,  be  only  the  product 
"f  material  forces,  '  })lown  about  the  desert  dust,  or  sealed  within 
th(i  iron  lulls'  ^ — 

'No  more'-     A   nion.-trr  then,   a  dream, 
A   di-riird.     DraL'iMi-  of  the   jirime, 
That   tare  eaeli  (itticr  in   their  sliiiu'. 
Were  nirllow  iiin>-ir  niatilird  with  him. 

O  lifi-  as  futile,   llien,  as  frail! 
O  for  tliy  voire  t,,  >ootlie  and  l.lessi 
Wliat    hope  of  aii-ucr,  or  redrr-s  ? 
Bcliiiiil   thr   vril,   l)|.liiii(l   the   veil.' 

The  hereafter  is  guaranteed  l)y  its  being  the  complement  of  the 
])re.seiit.      IJsteti  then  to  the  voice  of  the  s])irit,  inarticulate,  yet 


TENNYSON.  493 

intense,  and  the  haunting  problem  of  human  destiny  shall  become 
the  glad  promise  of  joy,  the  memory  of  the  dead  shall  be  changed 
to  a  sense  of  the  living: 

'What  art  thou,  then?  I  cannot  guess; 
But  though  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee,  some  diffusive  power, 
I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less. 

My  love  involves  the  love  before; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now; 

Though  mixed  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 

I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh; 
I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice; 
I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  though  I  die.' 

Therefore: 

X 

'Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky,  Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light:  The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night:  Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die.  But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new.  Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow:  The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go;  Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  tlie  true.  Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind  Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease: 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more;  Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor.  Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind.  Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause.  Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

.\.nd  ancient  forms  of  party  strife;  The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  hfe,  Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Witii  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws.  Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be.' 

In  the  long-  roll  of  Christian  heroes  there  is  not  a  truer  one 
tlian  that  of  Enoch,  Arden,  a  sweet  depicture  of  'hearts  centred 
in  tlie  sphere  of  common  duties.'  Two  children,  Enoch  and 
Philip,  love  their  playmate  Annie  Lee.  She  is  willing  to  be  '  a 
little  wife  to  both,'  though  secretly  she  loves  Enoch  the  better. 
At  twenty-one  he  marries  her,  and  they  are  prospered  until  he 
falls  from  a  mast  and  breaks  a  limb.  Then,  though  a  God- 
fearing man,  doubt  and  gloom  fall  upon  him: 

'He  seemed,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night. 
To  sec  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low,  miserable  lives  of  hand  to  mouth. 
And  tier  lie  loved,  a  beggar:   tlien  he  prayed, 
"Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to  me."" 

While  h(!  prays,  the  ship-muster  comes,  and  offers  to  take  him  as 
boatswain.      He   consents    joyfully,  and   bids   his   wife   farewell, 


494  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

who  entreats  him  not  to  go,  sure  that  evil  will  come  of  it.  He 
bids  her  cheer  up  and  be  comforted:  • 

'  "And  fear  no  more  for  me ;  or  if  yon  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God:  that  anchor  holds. 
.    Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  mornin;^?    If  I  flee  to  these 
Can  1  go  from  Uiiui'  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His:  He  made  it."' 

Years  go  by,  and  no  tidings  of  the  voyager,  who  has  been 
wrecked  upon  a  tropic  island.  There,  with  infinite  yearning,  he 
thinks  of  the  domestic  heaven  far  away: 

'Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  cars. 
Though  faintly,  merrily  —  far  and  far  away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells; 
Then,  though  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful  isle 
Returned  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  That,  whieli  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speak  with  llim,  seem  all  alone. 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude.' 

At  hist  ho  is  rescued  by  a  passing  vessel,  returns  whence  he  had 
sailed,  roaches  home,  where  his  Annie  lived,  and  babes,  '  in 
those  far-off  seven  hapi)y  years ';  but,  '  finding  neither  light  nor 
murmur  there  (a  bill  of  sale  gleamed  tliro'  the  drizzle),'  the  .sad 
wanderer  seeks  a  tavern  which  he  knew  of  old.  The  good  and 
garrulous  liostess,  never  suspecting  the  identity  of  her  guest  — 
'so  brown,  so  bowed,  so  broken  ' — tolls  liim,  with  other  annals  of 
the  port, — 

'All  the  story  of  his  house: 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  jxjverty. 
How  Pliilii)  put  her  little  ones  to  school. 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her. 
Her  <l(>w  I'onscnt,  and  marriage  and  the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child:  and  o'er  his  countenance 
No  siiadow  passed,  nor  motion:  anyone, 
Kegardiug,  well  had  deemed  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than   Ihr  teller:  only  when  she  closed 
"Knixh,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost" 
He,  -hakiui:  Ids  gray  head  pathetically, 
Itcpeated,  muttering,  "cast  away  and  lost": 
Atraiii  in  deeper  inward  whispers    Most!"' 

Loiigitig  tn  look  oiioo  iiioi'c  upon  Jicr  sweet  face,  in  the  darkness 
ho  goes  and  ])i  e])s  in  ;it  tlie  window,  sees  tlumi  all  in  perfect 
comfort,  retraees  liis  steps,  feeling  along  the  garden-wall  lest  he 
should  swoon,  tlnn  falls  jirone,  and  pravs: 

•••'I'oii  hard  to  bi-arl   why  did   iliiy  lake   inr  tlicncc? 
O  God  .\lnii<:htv,  blc<scd  Saviour.  Thou 


TENNYSON.  496 

That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle. 
Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer  I  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace." ' 

The  Idyls  of  the  King  may  in  future  be  rated  as  an  epochal 
composition.  It  is  the  renewed  legend  of  Arthur,  Merlin,  and 
the  knights  of  the  Round  Table,  in  which  the  poet  not  only 
restores  the  primitive  age,  purified  and  elevated,  but  gives  noble 
expression  to  the  aspirations  of  man,  the  hopes  of  religion,  and 
the  harmonies  of  Nature.  It  is  subdivided  into  ten  distinct 
poems,  some  of  which,  for  imaginative  passion  and  admirable 
art,  must  be  classed  as  belonging  to  the  mountain-summits  of 
English  poetry.  Lancelot,  though  he  swerves  from  virtue,  is  &,t 
heart  heroic,  deeply  in  sympathy  with  righteousness  and  honor, 
just,  brave,  and  generous,  with  love  and  compassion,  enough  and 
to  spare,  for  every  living  creature.  The  'lily  maid  Elaine'  is 
smitten  with  an  absorbing  fondness  for  the  great  warrior: 

'Tlie  <rreat  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the  Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord, 
Had  marred  his  face,  and  marked  it  ere  his  time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one. 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the  world, 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it:   but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marred  as  he  was,  he  seemed  the  goodliest  man 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 
And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
However  marred,  of  more  than  twice  her  years, 
Seamed  with  an  ancient  sword-cut  on  the  check. 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom." 

She  keeps  liis  shield,  a  pnH-ious  token,  counting  daily  'every 
dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it,  and  every  scratch  a  lance  had 
made  u])on  it.'  He  is  wounded:  she  seeks  him  out,  'brain- 
feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony,'  heals  liim,  and  he  is  grateful: 

'And  tlic  sick  man  forgot  her  sinii)le  blusli 
Would  (all  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet   Klaine; 
Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
Her  i)artiiig  stej),  and  held  her  temliTly, 
And  loved  her  witli  all  love  excejjt  the  love 
Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their  best, 
Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the  death 
In  anv  knightlv  fashion  for  her  sake.' 


496  DIFFISIVK    PKRIOIt — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

His  heart  is  another's,  she  suspects  the  truth,  and  sorrow  dims 
her  sight: 

'She  inurinur'd  "vain,  in  vain:   it  cannot  1k'. 
He  will  i\ot  love  me:   how  thfii  1'  nmst  1  die?'' 
Then  a^  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird, 
That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes, 
Will  sinf;  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "Must  I  die'r"' 

She  confesses  her  secret,  prays  to  be  his  wife,  or  —  when  that 
cannot  be  —  to  remain  with  him,  to  wait  upon  him.  This  refused, 
she  droops  and  fades,  mixing  Iter  fancies  with  the  moanings  of 
the  wind,  her  flower  of  life  passing  away  in  the  measures  of  this 
little  song: 

'Love,  art  thou  sweet?    Then  bitter  death  must  be: 
Love,  thou  art  bitter:   sweet  is  deatli  to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  nic  die. 

Sweet  love  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  uway, 
Sweet  dentil,  that  seems  to  mak('  us  loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not   I. 

F  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  he; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me: 
fall  and  I  follow,  I  follow  :   let  me  die." 

Her  body,  by  her  own  prayer,  is  floated  in  a  l)arge  to  Arthur's 

palace,  with  only  a  steerer  old  and  dumb,  bearing  in  her  hand  the 

written  ainiouncement  of  her  fate: 

'Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  tlie  dead, 
Steered  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  nitli  the  flood, — 
In  her  riuht  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter, —  all  her  bright  hair  streaming  down, — 
And  all  the  co\erlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  slie  herself  in  white. 
All   hut   her  face;  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  !ovi]y,   for  she  did  not  -ceui  as  dead. 
Hut   ra>t  a-leep.  and  lay  as  though  slu'  smiled." 

The  illicit  loves  of  Lancelot  and  (Juiiievere  are  detected,  not, 
however,  till  the  dark  shadows  of  repentance  have  begun  to  cro.ss 
bet\sceii  liiiii  and  iiis  idol.  They  lia\c  had  a  last  meeting,  and 
she  has  Jle(|  tlie  coiut  to  taki-  sanctuary  at  .Vlnu'sbury,  without 
making  known  her  name  'Hnre  the  persistent  allusions  of  a 
sinijiic  child  tn  the  golden  days  df  the  I'ouiid  Table  'before  the 
cominof  of  tli<-  sinfid  (|iicen'  lotcc  fioin  licr  tliis  solemn,  fatetiil 
burst  <if  pjissioti : 

•"Kul   lulp  uic.   licavin.   fnr  -urrly   1   r<|.int. 
For  wb.it   !•■   true   r(|ieiilaiicc   hut    in   lli(iii;.'lit.— 


TENNYSON.  497 

Not  cv'n  in  ininopt  thougbt  to  think  again 
The  Bins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant  to  us: 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more,— 
To  see  him  more."' 

Where  in  modern  verse  is  there  anything  finer  than  the  interview 

between  Arthur  and  his  remorseful  wife?     Where,  in  history  or 

in  letters,  is  there  a  nobler,  grander  conception  of    man  as  he 

might  be,  than  in  this  resplendent  king  who  says  to  the  penitent 

and  stricken  queen: 

*"LoI  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives;  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved  ? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  nscd  to  play, 
Not  knowing!    O  imperial-moulded  form. 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee. 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine.  .  .  . 
My  love  tlirough  flesh  hath  wrought  into  ray  life 
So  far  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 

Let  no  man  <lream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul. 
And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Hereafter,  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure. 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 
I  am  thine  husband, —  not  a  smaller  soul.  .  .  . 

Leave  me  tluit, 
1  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.    Now  must  I  hence. 
Through  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow; 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine  hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west. 
Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man  they  call 
My  sister's  son  —  no  kin  of  mine,  who  leagues 
With  lords  of  the  White  Horse,  heathen,  and  knights  — 
Traitors  —  and  strikt;  him  dead,  and  meet  myself 
Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 
And  thou  remaining  her(^  wilt  learn  the  event; 
Hut  hither  sliall  I  never  conie  again. 
Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more. 
Farewell '."  ' 

Never  will    the  air  of   sublimity  pass   from   this,   nor  the  air  of 
nobleness  from  her  apostrophe  of  recalled  and  revived  affection; 

'"NowT  see  thee  what  thou  art. 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human  too. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  anotlier.     Is  there  none 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  though  so  hitr? 
Now— ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battler  none: 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life. 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.     A/i,  my  Ooif. 
What  mUjht  I  not  hure  made  of  tliy  fair  iior/d. 
Had  I  but,  loced  tliij  luqUfM  crfatuve  Itfref"' 
32 


498  DIFFUSIVE    PKKIOI)  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

In  that  '  cloudy  battle/  King  Arthur  is  deeply  '  smitten  through 
the  helm.'  Feeling  himself  about  to  die,  he  bids  the  last  of  his 
knights  fling  his  sword  '  far  into  the  middle-meer.'  He  had 
received  it  from  the  sea-nymphs,  and  after  him  no  mortal  must 
handle  it.  Sir  Bedivere,  dazzled  by  the  wondrous  jewelled  hilt, 
hesitates, — 

'This  waj- and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw.' 

Twice  he  returns,  j)retending  to  have  cast  it  away.  The  third 
time  he  hurls  it,  and  'flashing  round  and  round,'  'whirled  in  an 
arch,'  it  — 

"Shot  lilce  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn. 
Seen  when  t\u:  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  tlashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
Bnt  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clotlied  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  canght  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  tin)es,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  meer.' 

Then  Arthur  bids  the  knight  quickly  '  bear  me  to  the  margin.' 
Through  'icy  caves  and  barren  chasms'  they  reach  the  shores  of 
the  'great  water': 

'Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold:  and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  a-s  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  iamentaiion,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  niirlit  in  a  wa^te  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world.' 

'Place  ine  in  the  barge,'  says  tlie  shattered  King.  The  Queens, 
weeping,  receive  liiin;  one,  tlie  fairest  and  tallest,  lays  his  head 
uj)on  her  laj),  cliafcs  hi.s  hands,  'complaining  loud.'  Then,  ere 
tlie  barge  drifts  out,  he  speaks  tliese  solemn  and  heroic  words 
to  tlie  desolate  Sir  ]?ediv(>ie,  who  sees  himself  companionless 
amid  darkening  days  and  strange  face.'<, —  the  whole  Round  Table 
dissolved,  'whicli  was  an  image  of  the  niightv  world': 

'The  1)1(1  iirder  ihan^'eth.  yielding  place  to  new. 
Anil  (!i>d  fullils  hiiiiM-ir  in  many  ways, 
I,("^t  oni-  irooil  cw-tDin   -hoiilil  corni))!   the   world. 
(_'i)iiif(irt   tliy-elf;    wliat  rmiifort  is  in  me?  .   .  . 
If  thou  .-houldst   neMT  <rf  my   face  airain. 
I'r.'iy  for  my  m>u1.   .  .   . 
Hut  U'>\y   fan-Well.      I   aui  •^'Diui;  a  long  way 


TENNYSON.  499 

With  tlu'ise  thou  seest  — if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  Ik  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  the  Avilion: 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loutlly;   but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sen. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound."  " 

Could  anything  be   more  imposing-  than  this  farewell,  or  more 
pathetic  than  this  spectacle?  — 

'  Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  meer  t/ie  ivaUing  died  aivay.' 

Tn  his  minor  key,  Tennyson  has  perhaps  produced  nothing 
finer  than  this  little  song: 

'  Break,  break,  break.  And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  \  To  the  haven  under  the  hill; 

And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter  But  oh  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me.  And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still: 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy,  Break,  break,  break, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  I  At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 

O  Well  for  the  sailor  lad.  But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Tliat  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay '.         Will  never  come  back  to  me." 

Style. — Pure,  sitnple,  correct,  polished,  elegant,  ornate;  want- 
ing the  variety  and  freedom  of  the  forest-like  Shakespeare  and 
the  impassioned  Byron,  yet  not  unfrequently  rising  to  the  level 
of  the  former  in  expressiveness;  sometimes  Homeric  in  severity 
and  elevation,  sometimes  Spenserian  in  splendid  imagery  and 
cloying  music;  mingling  in  chaste  harmony  the  flowers  of  all 
•iges,  native  and  e.xotic. 

Rank.^llis  method,  which  is  not  that  of  the  mo.st  inspired 
periotis,  is  essentially  descriptive  —  idyllic.  He  delights  in 
minutely  finished  pictures,  felicities  of  ex])ression,  and  subtle 
harmonies  of  sound.  His  verse  is  more  remarkable  for  finish 
than  for  fervor.  In  technical  execution,  lie  has  no  living  sujicrior. 
In  the  mastery  of  language,  few  have  been  so  highly  favored. 
He  affords  samples  of  Knglish  which,  for  strength  and  beauty, 
can  hardly  l)c  rivalled.      For  instance,  consider  the  following: 

'The  hjinl-gtained  muses  of  the  cube  and  sipiare." 

'With  twelve  great  sliocks  of  sound,  the  shameless  noon 
Was  clashed  jind  hatuniered  from  a  hundred  towers." 

'.\   ro>e-biHl  >et  Willi  little  wilful  thorns. 
.Vnd  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  her.' 


600  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  hioking  as  he  walked. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills." 

His  chief  limitations  are  excessive  elaboration  —  over-anxiety 
in  regard  to  unimportant  details,  and  inability  to  catch  the  life 
of  action  —  to  depict  sublime  height  or  depth  of  mood.  His 
dramas,  though  noble  examples  of  ambition,  are  theatrical  fail- 
ures, written  for  the  brain,  not  for  the  eye;  forced,  not  intuitive; 
intellecrtual  exercises,  destitute  of  dramatic  spirit  in  the  Shake- 
spear«»an  sense. 

Without  the  sweep  or  power  of  the  great  wits  —  Coleridge, 
Shelle\-,  liyrnn,  and  the  Elizabethans,  to  whom  the  natural  taste 
of  mankind  will  recur  forever  —  he  is  the  first  of  present  English 
poets  in  the  union  of  intellect,  imagination,  and  literary  form; 
in  wisdom,  melody,  adroitness,  in  faith  and  doubt,  in  the  })oetic 
use  of  scientific  matc^rials,  he  is,  by  eminence,  the  representative 
of  our  refined,  speculative,  and  composite  age. 

Character. — Reading  him  we  may  not  guess  his  life  and 
story  so  easily  and  reliably  as  we  trace  those  of  Byron;  never- 
theless, his  essential  fpialities  are  in  his  work,  not  of  head  alone, 
but  also  of  heart.  From  no  other  data  than  his  verses,  we  con- 
clude with  confidence  that  he  is  a  traiupiil,  well-proportioned 
soul,  who  rarelv  attains  to  the  lire  of  the  strongest  ;  that  he 
possesses  a  rare  combination  of  the  (>ritici'.l  faculty  and  the  pro- 
ducing ])ower;  that  he  is  endowed  with  an  earnest  capacity  for 
reflection,  with  a  luxurious  sense  of  rhythm,  color,  and  form; 
that  he  has  an  ex(}uisite  perception  of  beauty,  a  deep  ethical 
insight,  assf)ciated  with  a  turn  for  metajihysical  analysis;  that 
he  is  a  synipathctic  and  close  observer  of  Nature;  that  he  is  a 
)>ainstakiiig,  hardworking  poet:  that  he  has  the  culture  of  the 
university;  that  his  humanity  is  not  a  passion;  that  he  is  never 
carried  away  by  tlieories;  that  he  is  not  tlu"  man  to  lead  a  reform; 
that,  unlik(»  the  great  novelists  and  dramatists  who  have  studied 
character  in  the  thick  of  the  crowd,  he  —  like  Wordsworth  —  has 
cultivatecl  calm  revi-rie  in  the  seclusion  of  rural  haunts;  that  he 
is  at  least  Hioderat<'ly  pi-osjxrous  in  externals,  leading  a  life  of 
«-xclusive  devotion  to  art;  that  without  Ix'iug  an  enthusiast  he 
is  nobly  and  tenderly  moral.  How  niuch  personal  purity  and 
thought  fulness,  delicacy  ot  feeling,  constancv  of  faith,  idealitv 
of  c(jnception,  are  revealed  in  these  touches  alone; 


TENNYSON.  501 

'Look  through  mine  eyes' with  thine.    Tnio  wife. 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  through  my  very  soul  with  thine : '  > 

'  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more." » 

'More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.  .  .  . 
For  what  are  men  belter  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourisli  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend? 
For  HO  (lie  whole  round  earth  is  enery  rcaij. 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  Ood.'^ 

'Love  took  np  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  his  glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 
Love  look  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music  out  of  sight.'* 

Influence. —  Novel  and  despised  at  fir.st,  he  has  become  a. 
clas.sic  ill  his  own  lifetime.  His  aim  has  been  pure  and  lofty, 
his  teaching-  wholesome  and  elevating.  He  has  claims  upon  our 
gratitude  as  a  purifier  and  guarxlian  of  our  language.  Xot  many- 
writers  have  given  snch  delig-ht  to  the  reading  world  of  their 
day.  Byron  lias  ministered  to  the  appetite  for  poetry  in  the 
people  by  warmth  and  foi-ce  of  passion;  he,  by  weight  of  thought 
and  richness  of  poetic  speech.  How  many  of  his  lines  aiul 
plirasi's,  noble  or  wise,  like  the  following,  have  become  fixed  in 
the  popular  memory: 

'  "Tis  better  to  liavi'  loved  and  lost  * 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at   all.' 

'  Kf)r  words,  like  Nature,  half  levi-til. 
And  half  conceal,  the  soul  within." 

'There  live--  more  faith  in  honest  doubt. 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  cree<ls." 

'Kind  heart--  arc  more  thiin  coronets, 
.\n(l  simple  faith  than   Xorinan  lilood." 

|)(mbtless  flicre  will  be,  as  there  have  been,  periods  of  favor  and 
rejection.  Taste  will  eliange.  Fashions  fly.  But  when  new 
generations  have  re\ised  the  judgment  of  the  present,  tliere 
will  surely  nMuain  for  liim  a  high  and  abiding  place. 

^The  MiUfr'y  H<iiifj/,ter.     'T/it  ['r,n<;fi<.      -iTh,  Pa.^sinii  <'/  Arl/,'ir.     «/.<,</(.v^,/  Hall. 


502  DIFFUSIVE    PKKIOl) — KEPRESENTATIVK    AUTHORS. 


HAWTHORNE. 

Thore  wa>  .«oiiiPiliiJii;  of  straiiKfiu'-*!'  evt-n  in  his  cherished  intimacies,  as  if  he  set 
hiiii-iflf  afar  from  all,  and  from  himself  with  the  rest;  the  most  diffident  of  men,  as  coy 
a'^  a  maiden,  he  coiihl  only  be  won  l)y  som>/  ciiiininn;  artitice,  his  reserve  was  so  habitual, 
hi«  isolation  so  entire,  the  solitnde  so  vast.— .1.  lironsoti  Alcott . 

Biogppapliy. — Born  on  tlic  Fourth  of  July,  1804,  in  Salem, 
Massat'liust'tts,  a  villaoc  famous  in  Puritan  annals  for  its  perse- 
cutions; his  mother  beautiful,  with  remarkable  eyes,  and  a  mind 
of  singular  ])urity;  his  fatiier  wanu-hearted  and  kindly,  of  a  reti- 
cent disposition,  a  sea-ca])tain,  who  spent  all  his  leisure  time  over 
books;  early  accompanied  his  widowed  mother  and  his  sister  to 
Maint^,  where,  amid  the  shadows  of  the  pine  forests,  he  'lived  like 
a  bird  of  the  air,'  and  developed  his  'cursed  habits  of  solitude'; 
was  sent  by  iiis  uncle  to  the  'best  schools,'  one  of  his  instructors 
beinof  Worcester,  the  author  of  the  Dictionary  ;  graduated  in 
182-5  from  Howdoin  College,  where  he  did  'a  hundred  things 
that  the  Faculty  never  heard  of;  returned  to  his  native  town, 
as  to  'the  inevital)!c  centre  of  the  universe,'  and  devoted  his  days 
to  solitary  reverie  amid  the  ghostly  sceiies  of  witch  trials  and 
liangings;  started  a  i)aper — 'price  twelve  cents  per  annum,  pay- 
ment to  be  made  at  tlie  end  of  the  yc^-ir';  became  a  ])eriodical 
contril)Utor,  threw  wild  fancies  into  dim,  dreamy  tales,  under  the 
alluring  spell  wliicli  kindh^l  his  imagination;  held  office  in  the 
}3ostoii  (Justom-Ilousc  under  liancroft;  joined  with  some  friends 
in  a  socialistic  scheme  calliMl  the  'Brook  Farm  Community,' which 
"ended  in  failure;  married,  and  lived  in  the  'old  uianse'  at  Con- 
cord; a))p()iiited  Surveyor  of  ( 'ustoms  at  the  jiort  of  witch-haunted 
Salem;  removeil  (o  Lcikjx,  in  Berkshire,  where  lie  lived  in  'the 
ugliest  little  old  red  farm-house  that  you  ever  saw";  l)ack  to  Con- 
cord, then  to  Liverpool  as  coiisid  ;  travelled  in  Europe,  came 
home,  and  settled  fr)re\cr  uiuier  the  Concord  hill,  where  he  ])assed 
delectal)le  hours,  "in  the  hottest  \niri  of  the  dav,  stretched  out 
my  lazy  length  with  a  book  iti  my  hand  or  an  unwritten  book  in 
my  tlioughts.'  lb-  dieil  sinldcnly  —  as  had  l)een  his  lifelong 
d'--ire  —  on  the  I'.itli  of  M.iy,  I  S(;4  ;  and  now  rests,  with  Thoreau 
and  I'^mersoM,  in  the  i'enietei\-  of  S|eep\  Hollow,  on  a  ]iine-cov- 
ei-i'd  slop.-  ov(  rlooking  historie  IjeMs  and  the  rejioseful  Concord, 
—  til"'  river  of  pi-aee. 


THE    ARTIST   OF   THE   BEAUTIFUL.  503 

'Writing^. —  If  you  would  understand  the  secret  of  his 
genius  and  his  power,  imagine  a  contemplative  mind,  with  a  pre- 
dilection for  rusty  parchments  and  the  days  of  Puritan  witch- 
craft; a  mind  that  inclines  to  the  analysis  and  representation  of 
moral  anomalies,  that  revels  in  the  mixture  of  dark  and  bright 
which  produces  the  'blazes  of  the  infernal  regions';  a  mind  that 
deliglits  to  explore  mysteries,  carefully,  deliberately,  stating  to 
itself  a  problem,  then  proceeding  calmly,  coolly  to  its  solution; 
a  mind  that  seizes  upon  some  phase  of  human  experience,  with- 
draws it  from  the  atmosphere  of  actual  life  into  the  twilight  of 
its  own  reserve,  and  clothes  it  there  with  concrete  and  living 
form;  a  mind  that  selects  for  its  task  the  development  of  effects 
on  character  of  an  absorbing  idea  or  conviction,  and,  inverting 
the  process  of  De  Foe,  suppresses  outward  incident  in  order  to 
concentrate  attention  upon  inner  movement.  Thus  Kdicard 
Fane^s  Kosehud  is  the  story  of  a  blooming  damsel  who,  with  the 
revengeful  hope  of  breaking  her  false  lover's  heart,  imprisons  her 
buoyant  youth  with  the  torpid  age  of  another  who  sickens  and 
dies,  his  brain  so  palsied  with  his  body  that  its  utmost  energy  is 
peevishness.  But  his  groans  and  misery  have  proved  a  more 
potent  spell  to  knit  her  affections  than  gayety  and  grace: 

'Wlicti  tlie  palsied  old  man  was  gone,  even  her  early  lover  conkl  not  have  supplied 
his  i)lace.  She  had  dwelt  in  a  siek-ehaniher,  and  been  the  companion  of  a  half-dead 
wreteli,  till  she  eould  scarcely  hreathe  in  a  free  air,  and  felt  ill  at  ease  with  the  healthy 
and  the  happy.  She  missed  the  fra!,'ranee  of  the  doctor's  stuff.  She  walked  the  chamber 
with  a  noiseless  footfall.  If  visitors  came  in,  she  spoke  in  soft  and  soothing  accents, 
and  was  startled  and  shocked  by  their  loud  voices.  Often  in  the  lonesome  evening,  she 
looked  timorously  from  the  flreside  to  the  bed,  with  almost  a  hope  of  recognizing  a 
trhasily  face  upon  the  pillow.    Then  went  her  thoughts  sadly  to  her  husband's  grave." 

She  loves  even  infirmity  for  the  sake  of  the  dead;  in  his  soiu- 
blance  (liseas(>  itself  wins  her  for  a  l)ri(le,  and  slio  gains  a  home 
in  every  chamber  of  ])ain  or  woe,  thoroughly  imbued  with  all  that 
is  saddest  in  tlie  doom  of   mortals: 

'All  awful  wcunan!  she  is  the  jialron  saint  of  young  physicians,  and' the  bosom 
friend  of  old  ones.  In  the  mansions  where  she  enters,  the  inmates  provide  themselves 
black  garments,  the  coflln-maker  follows  her,  and  the  bell  lolls  as  she  ronie-  away  from 
the  thrcsbold.  J)ealh  himself  h;is  met  her  at  so  many  a  l)cd->i(le,  tliat  he  inns  fortli  lii.s 
brmy  band  to  greet  Nurse  Toothiikir." 

At  liottoiii,  again,  every  man  is  soiitarv:  and  the  crape  whieh 
hides  the  coniiteiiaiice  ol  the  iiiihl  parson  in  Tfic  ^Mintst>  rs 
HJiidc  I  ' //  is  but  a  synilxil  of  tlie  veil  which  is  on  all  faces.  Hv 
the    \isil>le    assertion    of    his    isolation,    lie    becomes    an    ol)iect    of 


504  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

thrilling'  wonder  or  fear  to  beholders.  A  preternatural  horror 
seems  interwoven  with  the  threads  of  his  mysterious  emblem. 
Like  Pythagoras  behind  his  screen  or  in  his  sable  robes,  he 
acquires  an  awl'ul  power  over  souls.  Yet  not  from  caprice  or 
vanity  had  he  chosen  to  wear  the  dismal  shade: 

'In  truth,  his  own  antipathy  to  the  veil  was  known  to  be  so  great,  that  he  never 
willingly  passed  before  a  mirror,  nor  stooped  to  drink  at  a  still  fountain,  lest,  in  its 
peaceful  bosom,  he  should  be  affrighted  by  himself.  .  .  .  With  self-shuddering  and  out- 
ward terrors,  he  walked  continually  in  its  shadow,  groping  darkly  within  his  own  soul, 
or  gazing  through  a  medium  that  saddened  the  whole  world.' 

Even  on  his  dying  bed: 

'In  his  most  C()n^ulsive  struggles,  and  in  the  wildest  vagaries  of  his  intellect,  when 
nootiier  thought  retained  its  sober  influence,  he  still  showed  an  awful  solicitude  lest  the 
black  veil  should  slip  aside." 

After  all,  the  solitude  of  another,  if  you  think  of  it  deeply,  is 
less  incomprehensible,  less  startling,  than  your  own.  With  the 
breath  rattling  in  liis  throat,  the  old  man  cries  to  the  pale  and 
wondering  spectators: 

'"Why  do  you  tremble  at  nic  alone?  .  .  .  Tremble  also  at  each  otherl  Have  men 
avoided  me,  and  women  shown  no  pity,  and  children  screamed  and  fled,  only  for  my 
black  veil?  What,  but  the  mystery  which  it  obscurely  typilies,  had  made  this  piece  of 
crape  so  awful?  When  the  friend  sliows  his  inmost  heart  to  his  friend;  the  lover  to  his 
best  beloved;  when  man  docs  not  vainly  shrink  from  the  eye  of  his  Creator,  loathsomely 
treasuring  u))  the  secret  of  his  sin;  then  deem  me  a  monster,  for  the  symbol  beneath 
which  1  have  lived,  and  die  I    I  look  around  nie,  and,  lo  I  on  every  visage  a  Black  Veil !  "  ' 

So  in  Ktippdcinrs  iJaugJder,  where  a  philosopher  who  has 
devoted  himself  to  occult  studies,  nourishes,  in  his  zeal  for  sci- 
ence, his  beautiful  child  u])on  the  same  poisons  which  have  given 
so  rich  a  lustre  and  so  sweet  but  deadly  a  perfume  to  the  rare 
llowers  which  fill  his  garden.  The  malignant  influence,  gradually 
administered,  becomes  essential  to  health  and  conducive  to  love- 
litiess;  but  the  ii)s<-ct  that  comes  within  the  atmosphere  of  her 
l)reath  instantly  dies,  and  her  v(M'v  touch  is  fatal.  Gentle,  })ure, 
worthiest  to  be  w()rshi])}ie(l,  she  shudders  at  herself.  She  loves, 
and  by  lia])])a<'ini's  skill  her  lover  is  likewise  bewitched.  He 
sus])ects  the  fearful  truth,  and,  rc^solving  to  institute  some  deci- 
sive test,  hastens  to  the  florists,  ])urcliases  a  bouquet,  and  retains 
it   in  his  hand: 

'A  thrill  of  inilifinablc  hcirror  >hi)i  ihroui,'))  bis  frame  on  jxTceiving  that  those  dewy 
flowers  v.iTi'  alnuily  b(  ^riiinini:  to  ilriHij) :  iIk-v  wore  the  a>pcct  of  tilings  that  had  been 
froh  :uul  lovely  ye-^terday.  ;.ii)v;nini  i:rew  white  as  marble,  and  stood  motionless  before 
the  mirror  st:irii;Lr  al  liis  own  relleciion  llirre  as  ;it  tlie  likeness  of  something  frightful. 
II''  reiiie!iil)ere(l  I!:i;.'lioiii'v  reniurk  :ilioiit  tlie  fragrance  that  seemed  to  pervade  the 
clmmher.     It  niu-t  have  been  the  poison  in  his  hreatlil" 


HAWTHORNE.  505 

His  passion  seems  blended  equally  of  love  and  horror.  He  seeks 
Beatrice,  and  his  rage,  quelled  for  a  moment  by  the  presence  of 
the  heavenly  angel,  breaks  forth  from  its  sullen  gloom  as  light- 
ning from  the  cloud: 

'"Thou  hast  done  it:  Thou  hast  blasted  niel  Thou  hasil  filled  my  veins  with 
poison!  Thou  hast  made  me  as  hateful,  as  ugly,  as  loathsome  and  deadly  a  creature  as 
thyself, —  a  world's  wonder  of  hideous  monstrosity  I  Now,  if  our  breatli  be  happily  as 
fatal  to  ourselves  as  to  all  others,  let  us  join  our  lips  in  one  kiss  of  unutterable  hatred, 
and  so  die  I"  ' 

Innocent  that  he  has  been  imbued  with  the  poison,  she  bids  him 
mingle  with  his  race  and  forget  her.  He  breathes  upon  a  swarm 
of  insects  circling  round  his  head,  and  smiles  bitterly  as  a  score 
of  them  fall  to  the  ground: 

*"I  see  it!  I  see  it!"  shrieked  Beatrice.  "It  is  my  father's  fatal  science!  No,  no, 
Giovanni:  it  was  not  1 1  Never!  never!  1  dreamed  only  to  love  thee  and  be  with  thee  a 
Jittle  time,  and  so  to  let  thee  pass  away,  leaving  but  thine  image  in  mine  heart."  ' 

A  mournful  sense,  not  without  tenderness,  of  tlieir  separation 
from  humanity  comes  over  him,  and  he  mentions  a  redeeming 
medicine,  which  may  restore  them  within  the  'limits  of  ordinary 
nature.'  The  powerful  antidote  kills  her;  and  as  she  sinks  she 
murmurs: 

•"I  would  fiiin  have  been  loved,  not  feared.  .  .  .  But  now  it  matters  not.  I  am 
ijoing,  father,  where  the  evil  which  thou  has  striven  to  mingle  witli  my  being  will  pass 
away  like  a  dream, —  like  the  fragrance  of  these  poisonous  flowers,  which  will  no  longer 
taint  my  breath  among  the  flowers  of  Eden.  Farewell,  Giovanni  1  Thy  words  of  hatred 
arc  like  lead  within  my  heart;  but  they,  too,  will  fall  away  as  I  ascend.  O,  was  there 
not,  from  the  first,  more  poison  in  thy  nature  than  in  mine?"  ' 

Thi"  Blithedale  Romance^  founded  on  the  experiment  at 
Brook  Farm,  de])icts  the  j)erilous  and  often  ruinous  effects  of 
philanthropy  on  the  individual,  when  it  becomes,  in  one  exclu- 
sive channel,  a  ruling  enthusiasm.  A  knot  of  transcendental 
dreamtM-s  separate  themselves  from  the  greedy,  self-seeking, 
'swinish  nniltitude,'  and  undertake  the  establishment  of  a  mod- 
ern Arcadia,  the  basis  of  the  institution  being  the  ])urpose  'to 
olTfir  uj)  the  earnest  toil  of  our  bodies  as  a  prayer  no  less  than  an 
ofTort  for  the  advancement  of  our  race.'  But  the  .Arcadians  find 
tliat  the  desired  solitude  charms  only  by  its  contrast  with  the 
civilization  they  have  left: 

■While  our  enler|)rise  lay  all  in  theory,  we  had  pleaso<l  ourst  Ivi-s  witli  delectable 
visions  of  tlic  spiritualiziition  of  hibor.  It  was  to  bo  our  form  of  prayer  and  ceremonial 
of  worsliij).  Va\v\\  stroke  of  the  lii>e  was  to  uncover  some  aromatic  root  of  wisdom  here- 
tofore liidden  fioui  the  sun.  Pausing  in  tlie  field,  to  let  the  wind  exhale  the  moisture 
from  our  foreheads,  we  wi-re  to  look  upward,  and  catch  u'limpses  into  tlii'  far-off  -oul  of 


506  DIFFUSIVE    PEUIOU  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

trutli.  In  thiM  point  of  view,  matters  did  not  tnrn  out  quite  so  well  us  we  anticipated. 
It  is  very  true  that,  sometimes,  gazing  casually  around  me,  out  of  the  midst  of  my  toil,  I 
used  to  discern  a  richer  picturesqueness  in  the  visible  scene  of  earth  and  sky.  There 
was  at  such  moments  a  novelty,  an  unwonted  aspect,  on  the  face  of  Nature,  as  if  she 
had  been  taken  by  surprise  and  seen  at  unawares,  with  no  opportunity  to  put  off  her 
real  look,  and  assume  the  mask  with  which  she  mysteriously  hides  herself  from  mortals. 
But  this  was  all.  The  clods  of  earth  which  we  so  constantly  belabored  and  turned  over 
and  over,  were  never  etherealized  into  thought.  Our  thoughts,  on  the  contrary,  were 
fast  becoming  cloddish.  Our  labor  symbolized  nothing,  and  left  us  mentally  sluggish 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening.  Intellectual  activity  is  incompatible  with  any  large  amount 
of  bodily  exercise.  The  yeoman  and  the  scholar  —  the  yeoman  and  the  man  of  finest 
moral  culture,  though  not  the  man  of  sturdiest  sense  and  integrity  — are  two  distinct 
individuals,  and  can  never  be  melted  or  welded  into  cue  substance.' 

'I'he  real  interest,  however,  depends  upon  the  delineation  of  the 
tender  passion  under  the  modified  forms  it  assumes  in  Zenobia, 
a  high-spirited  woman,  whose  life  is  hopelessly  entangled  with  a 
villain's;  in  Priscilla,  a  butterfly  maiden,  whose  nerves  are  fragile 
harp-string.s,  endowing  her  with  'sybilline  attributes';  in  Cover- 
dale,  a  generous  poet,  who  begins  his  career  with  strenuous  aspi- 
rations, which  are  extinguished  with  his  youthful  fervor ;  in 
Hollingswortli,  a  Hercules,  of  noble  impulse  but  narrow  range 
of  sympathy  and  thought,  whose  ca.stle  in  the  air  is  the  con- 
struction of  an  edifice  for  the  reformation  and  mental  culture  of 
<-riminaLs, —  a  l)ond-slave  to  a  theory. 

The  Honm  of  the  Seven  Gahlcs  is  a  history  of  retribution. 
In  the  long  past  a  (^olonel  Pyncheon,  a  grasping  Puritan,  had 
Ix'cn  in.strumental,  with  invidious  acrimony,  in  one  Matthew 
.Maule's  execution  for  the  crime  of  witchcraft ;  and  the  con- 
dcnniod  had  uttered  a  prophecy  from  the  scaffold:  'God  will 
giv(,'  him  blood  to  drink  I'  On  the  .soil  for  which  he  had  disputed 
witli  the  (lead  —  over  the  sj)ot  first  covered  by  the  log-built  hut 
of  till'  wizard, —  the  relentless  ]iersecutor  erects  a  spacious  man- 
sioii,  and  dies  suddenly  in  one  of  its  rooms  at  the  appointed  hour 
i>f  its  conscciation.  .\  shadow  henceforth  hangs,  like  a  murky 
pall  of  jiidgincnt,  over  the  heads  of  his  descendants,  who  cling 
to  tilt'  sevcn-Liablcil  house  from  father  to  son,  from  generation 
to  Lif-ncration.  Tlic  lustiness  and  infirmity  of  age  gather  over 
It.  .\  huge  dim  niiii-or  is  fal)led  to  contain  within  its  rlej^ths  all 
the  shapes  of  the  dej>arted  Pynelieotis.  The  progenitor's  half- 
efTaeed  picture  ren-ains  atlixed  to  the  wall  of  the  room  in  which 
he  died.  Mvf-ry  detail  points  backward.  The  most  consider- 
able   reality  seems   to   be.  not    the   white-oak    frames,  the   boards. 


HAWTHORNE.  ^U7 

shingles,  and  crumbling  plaster,  but  the  story  of  human  exist- 
ence latent  in  the  upreared  venerable  peaks: 

•So  much  of  mankind's  varied  experience  had  passed  there, —  so  much  had  been 
suflfered,  and  something,  too,  enjoyed, —  that  the  very  timbers  were  oozy,  as  with  the 
moisture  of  a  heart.  It  was  itself  like  a  great  humaii  heart,  with  a  life  of  its  own,  and 
full  of  rich  and  sombre  reminiscences.' 

The  distinctive  traits  of  the  founder  live  in  the  blood  and  brains 
of  his  posterity,  and  the  curse  flung  from  the  scaffold  becomes  a 
part  of  their  inheritance.  If  one  of  them  gurgles  in  his  throat, 
a  by-stander  is  likely  to  whisper,  '  He  has  Maule's  blood  to 
drink  !  *  The  sudden  demise  of  a  Pyncheon  a  hundred  years  ago 
is  held  as  giving  additional  probability  to  the  current  opinion. 
Thirty  years  before  the  story  opens,  one  member  of  the  family  is 
sentenced  to  perpetual  imprisonment  for  the  murder  of  another. 
The  little  sho])  which  *old  maid  Pyncheon'  now  reopens,  was 
opened  a  century  since  by  a  miserly  ancestor  who  is  sup])osed 
to  haunt  it: 

'The  old  counter,  shelves,  and  other  flxturcs  of  the  little  shop  remained  just  as  he 
had  left  them.  It  used  to  be  attirmed  that  the  dead  shopkeeper,  in  a,  white  wig,  a  faded 
velvet  coat,  an  apron  at  his  waist,  and  his  ruftles  carefully  turned  back  from  his  wrists, 
might  be  seen  through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters,  any  night  of  the  year,  ransacking  his 
till,  or  poring  over  the  dingy  pages  of  his  day-book.  From  the  look  of  iinulterable  woe 
upon  his  face,  it  appeared  to  be  his  doom  to  si)end  eternity  in  a  vain  effort  to  make  his 
accounts  balance.' 

The  principal  ro])resentative  of  the  family,  worldW,  hardened, 
outwardly  respectable,  is  stricken  dead  by  apoplexy,  in  the 
ancestral  anu-thair,  while  ho  i.s  bent  on  the  most  wi(!ked  project 
of  his  life.  P^ven  the  exhausted  breed  of  aristocratic  fowls  form 
a  tragic  aspect  of  the  law  of  descent,  embodying  the  traditional 
peculiarities  of  their  whole  line,  'derived  through  an  unbroken 
succes.'iioii  of  eggs': 

'CliainiclciT  himself,  thougli  stalking  on  two  slilt-lik<'  legs,  with  the  dignity  of  inler- 
minablf  dc-cfut  in  all  his  gestures,  was  hanily  bigger  than  an  onlinary  partridge;  his 
two  wi\('s  Were  about  the  size  of  (piails;  and  as  for  the  one  chicken,  it  looked  small 
enough  to  be  slill  in  the  eg;,',  and.  at  the  same  time,  sufticiently  old,  withered,  wizened, 
ami  ex|)eriene((l,  to  liave  I)cen  the  founder  of  the  antiquated  race.  Instead  of  being  the 
youngi'st  (if  the  family,  it  rather  seemed  to  liave  aggregated  into  itself  the  ages,  not  oidy 
of  tbcsr  Ii\ing  specimens  of  the  breed,  but  of  all  its  fore-fathers  and  fore-mothers,  whose 
iiMiIe<l  exciOleiices  and  oddities  were  >queezeil  into  its  little  body.  Its  motlier  evidently 
regarded  it  as  tile  onc>  eliicken  of  the  world,  and  as  neeessary.  in  fact,  to  tlie  world's  con- 
liMiianee,  or.  at  any  rat<'.  to  tlie  e(|iiilibrinm  of  tlie  presi'ur  sysli'ui  of  affairs,  wbetlier  in 
cliureli  or  stall'.  No  les<er  sense  of  the  infant  fowl's  importance  could  have  justified, 
even  in  a  niollier"s  eyes,  tlie  perseverance  with  which  she  watched  over  its  safety 
nillliiig  her  small  perMin  to  twice  its  jjroper  size,  and  Hying  in  everybody's  face  that  so 
much  as  looked  toward  her  hopeful  proLreny.  N'o  lower  estimate  could  have  vindicated 
till'  indefatii:able  zeal  with  which  she  scratched,  and  her  un-cnipiilonsiiess  in  digging  up 


508  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — KEPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

tht;  choicest  flower  or  vegetable,  for  the  sake  of  the  fat  earth-worm  at  its  root.  Her 
nervous  cluck,  wlieii  the  chicken  happened  to  be  hidden  in  the  long  grass  or  nndcr  the 
squiish  leaves:  her  gentle  croak  of  gatisufaction,  while  sure  of  it  beneath  her  wing;  her 
note  of  ill-concealod  fear  and  obstreperous  defiance,  when  she  saw  her  arch-enemy,  a 
neighbor's  cat,  on  the  top  of  a  high  fence :—  one  or  other  of  these  sounds  was  to  be  heard 
at  almost  every  moment  of  the  day.  15y  degrees,  the  observer  came  to  feel  nearly  as 
much  interest  in  this  chicken  of  illustrious  race  as  the  mother-hen  did.' 

The  characters  are  described,  not  self-manifested.  Clifford  is  '  an 
abortive  lover  of  the  beautiful,'  whose  artist-instinct  reduces  his 
entire  nature  to  a  refined,  unconscious  selfishness,  a  forlorn  voy- 
ager from  tlie  Islands  of  the  Blest,  his  tendencies  hideously- 
thwarted,  the  records  of  infinite  sorrow  across  his  brow,  Hepzi- 
bah  is  a  mixture  of  pathos  and  humor,  whose  undying  remem- 
brance of  vanished  affection  dries  up  the  well-springs  of  being. 
The  beam  of  sunshine  in  the  dismal  picture  is  Phoebe,  so  cheery, 
so  natural,  so  innocent,  so  sweet: 

'Natural  tunefulness  made  Phoebe  seem  like  a  bird  in  a  shadowy  tree ;  or  conveyed 
the  idea  thut  the  .stream  of  life  warbled  tlirough  her  heart  as  a  brook  sometimes  warbles 
through  a  pleasant  little  dell.  It  betokened  the  chcerincss  of  an  active  temperament, 
fiiuiing  joy  in  its  activity,  and,  therefore,  rendering  it  beautiful;  it  was  a  New  England 
trait,— the  stern  old  stuff  of  Puritanism  with  a  gold  thread  in  the  web.' 

Eternal  and  illimitable  are  tiie  consequences  of  human  action. 
This,  also,  is  the  fundamental  conception  of  the  Scarlet  Letter, — 
the  fruits  of  wrong-doing  as  displayed  in  two  natures,  intrinsically 
fine,  marred  by  th*ir  joint  sin;  Hester  Prynne,  who  is  publicly 
branded  with  the  .shame,  and  the  Rev.  Dimmesdale,  whose  guilt 
is  not  published,  but  who  is  frantic  with  the  stings  of  conscience. 
Add  to  these,  subordinately,  tlie  elfish  Pearl,  who  is  the  offspring 
of  the  transgression,  and  Chillingworth,  the  injured  and  vindic- 
tive husband. 

The  unfortunate;  Hester  is  sentenced  to  stand  in  the  market- 
place, on  the  platform  of  the  pillory,  exposed  to  a  thousand 
unrelenting  eyes,  all  concentrated  at  the  ignominious  letter, —  a 
scarlet  A,  wrought  elaborately  on  tlie  bosom  of  her  dress,  and 
to  be  worn  there  for  the  remainder  of  her  days.  She  does  not 
betray  the  partner  of  her  iiii(|uity,  and  the  magistrates  lay  their 
heads  together  in  vain.  Slie  realizes  that  she  will  become  the 
symbol  at  whieh  tlie  preaclier  and  the  moralist  will  point.  Chil- 
dren oreej)  nigh  <,'nough  to  behold  her  in  the  thatched  cottage 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  then  scamper  off  with  a  strange, 
eoiitagious  fear;  or  they  ])ursiie  iier  with  shrill  cries  as  she  glides 
silf^ntly  through   the  streets.      Tiie  poor,  upon  whom  she  bestows 


HAWTHORNE.  509 

her  charity,  often  revile  her.  The  rich  contrive  drops  of  anguish 
for  her.  Maidens  glance  at  the  symbol,  shyly  and  aside.  The 
vulgar  aver  that  it  may  be  seen  glowing  all  alight  in  the  dark, 
'  red-hot  with  infernal  fire ' !    What  scrutiny,  what  inquisition  !  — 

'It  seemed  to  arjjiie  so  wide  a  diffusion  of  her  shame,  that  all  nature  knew  of  it;  it 
could  have  cniised  her  no  deeper  pang,  had  the  leaves  of  the  trees  whispered  the  dark 
story  among  themselves, —  had  the  summer  breeze  murmured  about  it,— had  the  wintry 
blast  shrieked  it  aloud !  Another  peculiar  torture  was  felt  in  the  gaze  of  a  new  eye. 
When  strangers  looked  curiously  at  the  scarlet  letter,— and  none  ever  failed  to  do  so, — 
they  branded  it  afresh  in  Hester's  soul;  so  that,  oftentimes,  she  could  scarcely  refrain, 
yet  always  did  refrain,  from  covering  the  symbol  with  her  hand.  But  then,  again,  an 
accustomed  eye  had  likewise  its  own  anguish  to  inflict.  Its  cool  stare  of  familiarity 
was  intolerable.  From  first  to  last,  in  short,  Hester  Prynne  had  always  this  dreadful 
agony  in  feeling  a  human  eye  upon  the  token.  The  spot  never  grew  callous;  it  seemed, 
on  the  contrary,  to  grow  more  sensitive  with  daily  torture.' 

Naturally,  under  this  pitiless  condemnation  and  scorn  of  the 
Puritan,  she  accepts  her  exclusion,  but  hardens,  and  sees  the 
fabric  of  society  somewhat  awry: 

'  For  years  past  she  had  looked  from  an  estranged  point  of  view  at  human  institu- 
tions. .  .  .  Shame,  Despair,  Solitude!  These  had  been  her  teachers, —  stem  and  wild 
ones,— and  they  had  made  her  strong,  but  taught  her  much  amiss.' 

Hourly  the  unhappy  minister  abhors  himself  in  dust  and  ashes. 
Ever  the  concealed  sin  rankles  and  festers.  His  trouble  drives 
him  to  the  vain  practices  of  Romanism  as  penance.  He  keeps 
vigils,  fasts,  scourges  himself.  More  than  dnc-e  he  has  gone  into 
the  pulpit  with  a  purpose  to  confess  himself  a  pollution  and  a  lie, 
but  falls  instead  into  wild  self-accusations  of  general  depravity. 
His  flock  only  reverence  him  the  more.  'The  godly  youth,'  they 
say.  'The  saint  on  earth  !  Alas,  if  he  discern  such  sinfulness 
in  his  own  white  soul,  what  horrid  .s])ectaclo  would  he  behold 
in  tliine  or  mine!'  His  very  burden  inspires  a  sad,  persuasive 
eloquence: 

'  They  fancied  him  tlio  mouthpiece  of  Heaven's  messages  of  wisdom,  and  rebuke, 
and  lovt;.  In  their  eyes,  the  very  ground  on  which  he  trod  was  sanctified.  The  virgins 
of  his  church  grew  pale  around  him,  victims  of  a  passion  so  imbued  with  religious  senti- 
ment tlKii  they  iiniigined  it  to  be  all  religion,  and  brought  it  oi)enly,  in  their  white  bosoms, 
as  their  most  aceei)table  sacrifice  before  the  altar.  The  aged  members  of  his  tlock, 
belioliliiig  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  frame  so  feeble,  while  they  were  tliemselves  so  rugged 
in  tlieir  infirmity,  believed  tliat  be  W()nl<l  go  heavenward  before  tliem,  and  enjoined  it 
upon  their  children,  tliat  tht'ir  old  bones  should  be  buried  close  to  their  younu  pastor's 
holy  grave.' 

His  misery  is  intensified  unspeakably  In'  the  rclined  torture  of 
the  luisband,  who,  under  the  .same  roof,  in  tlie  character  of  phy- 
sician, seeks  revenge  lik(^  an  artist  who  })robes  calmly  to  the 
bottom  of  the  wound  to  paint  with  joy  a  living  agony. 


510  DIFFU.SIVK    PERIOD — UEPRESExNTATlVK    AUTHORS. 

Chlllingwortli,  the  student  and  recluse,  is  transformed  into  a 
fiend  by  the  wrong  that  turns  his  learning  and  experience  into 
a  curse.  He  lives  only  to  keep  the  destroyer  of  his  happiness 
on  the  rack.  When  his  wasting  patient  —  creeping  to  the  scaf- 
fold where  Hester  had  stood  —  confesses  his  infamy  to  the  horror- 
stricken  multitude,  and  sinks  exhausted,  he  kneels,  with  a  blank 
countenance  from  which  the  life  seems  to  have  departed,  and 
repeats,  again  and  again,  'Thou  hast  escaped  me!'  Thence- 
forward. stnMtgth  and  energy  desert  him.  He  withers,  shrivels, 
and  fades  from  the  circle  of  human  activities.  Hatred  and  love 
may  leave  us  alike  forlorn  and  desolate. 

r^ittle  Pearl  is  an  almost  anomalous  creature,  illustrating  with 
infinite  variety  the  truth  that  what  is  sown  must  be  reaped. 
Partly  from  wanton  mischief,  partly  from  the  singular  fascina- 
tion of  the  subject,  she  is  the  'messenger  of  anguish'  to  her 
parents,  constantly  fi-etting  the  ever  open  Avounds  of  both.  She 
is  at  once  a  pain  and  a  solace.  Though  affectionate,  her  delight 
is  in  the  scarlet  A.  Her  first  baby  smile  was  at  the  gold  em- 
broidery, which  l)ecomes  the  curiosity  of  her  childhood.  She 
throws  wild-flowers  at  it,  dancing  with  glee  whenever  she  hits  it. 
She  associates  it  with  the  minister's  custom  of  putting  his  hand 
over  his  heart  when  agitated.  She  seeks  pertinaciously  to  forces 
his  ])ublic  acknowledgment  of  herself  and  her  mother.  'But  wilt 
thoii  promise  to  take  my  hand,  and  mother's  hand,  to-morrow 
noontide?'  ^^'ll('Il  lie  kisses  lur,  she  runs  to  the  brook,  and 
l)athes  her  forclu^ad  till  the  unwelcrome  impress  is  'diffused 
tiirough  a  Icjiig  !aps(^  of  gliding  water.'  When  she  misses  the 
flaining  stigma  from  Hester's  breast,  she  will  not  a))pr()acli  till  it 
has  l)een  fasti'iicd  on  again.      Then: 

•  111  ji  mood  of  tiiulcriH's-i  tliiil  wfis  not  iisiiiil  with  lior,  she  drew  down  Iut  iiiollicr"s 
licad,  and  kis-i-d  lur  firow  ;ind  i)oth  licr  checks.  But  then  —  hy  ii  kind  of  iicccs^^ity  that 
iilwiiys  impelled  ihi>  ihild  to  alloy  whatever  comfort  s^he  iiiiLrht  chaiico  to  {;i^f  with  a 
Ilirol)  i.f  aiiL'iii-h—  I'carl  jmt  uji  her  nioiilh,  and  kissed  the  scarlet  letter  too!  ' 

A  liud  plucked  Iroiii  a  wild-iosc  Imsh,  or  a  tropic  biril  of  rich 
plumagi',  ever  poisiMl  for  liiglit  ;  a  wiiyward,  impulsive,  im])erious 
Kieiiig,  whose  (•lemcnts,  bcautil'iil  and  brilliant,  are  'all  in  dis- 
order,' till'  untempored  elllucncc  of  a  jiassioiiate  moment,  the 
reflex  of  the  medium  tiirough  \vlii<'li  had  been  transmitted  the 
rays  of  its  inor;i]  life. 

The  ceiitial  idea  of   the   Marhli    Judiii  —  called   1)V  the  Knylish 


HAWTHORNE.  511 

publishers  Transformation  —  is  the  necessity  of  sin  to  convert 
the  '  natural '  man  into  a  moral  agent.  Its  whole  ideal  essence  is 
the  imaginative  rendering  of  this  notion  —  that  a  perfect  culture 
is  impossible  to  a  state  of  simple,  unconscious  innocence;  that 
we  are  but  imperfect  and  partial  so  long  as  our  condition  is  one 
of  mere  guilelessness;  that  the  higher  humanity  can  be  evolved 
only  through  moral  and  spiritual  struggle.  The  characters  are 
drawn  to  exhibit  the  development  of  the  doctrine:  Donatello, 
rumored  to  be  descended  from  an  ancient  Faun,  sportive,  joyous, 
instinctive,  unreflectingly,  spontaneously  happy,  awakened  to 
higher  responsibilities  and  a  higher  destiny  by  his  remorse  for 
an  impulsive  crime  —  his  personal  fall  and  his  repentance; 
Miriam,  an  artist,  with  whom  he  falls  in  love,  ardent  and  gifted, 
in  whom  —  enthralled  to  a  sinister  personage  —  there  is  one  of 
'those  fatalities  which  are  among  the  most  insoluble  riddles 
propounded  to  mortal  con\prehension ';  Hilda,  who  is  the  silver 
lining  to  the  cloud,  a  fair,  sweet,  sanctifying  presence,  *  whom 
God  has  set  here  in  an  evil  world,  and  given  her  only  a  white 
robe,  and  bid  her  wear  it  back  to  Him,  as  white  as  when  she  put 
it  on.'  Here,  as  in  the  other  romances,  little  is  made  of  outward 
actualities.  Incident  plays  a  comparatively  insignificant  part. 
'I'lu'  crisis  is  reached  in  the  middle,  where  Donatello,  walking 
with  Miriam  on  a  moonlight  night,  discovers  her  persecutor 
under  tlic  shadow  of  an  archway,  seizes  him,  reads  in  her  eye 
a  ticicc  assent,  then  hurls  him  ovcj'  the  precipice  of  the  Tarpeian 
rock.  In  the  description  of  this  sc(>ne  we  have  an  instance  of 
Hawthorne's  fondness  lor  studying  and  dissecting  a  mixture  of 
eniiitioiis  iinitually  repell(>nt: 

■  •■  Dill  von  not  incftii  tliat  lie  should  dieV  sternly  asked  Donatello,  still  in  tlie  glow 
of  tli:il  iiitcIliL'eiice  wliieli  passion  had  developed  in  liini.  "  There  was  short  time  to  weigh 
till-  matter:  l)iit  he  had  his  trial  in  that  hreath  or  two  while  I  held  him  over  the  cliff,  and 
hi-  -cnleiice  in  that  one  glance,  when  vour  eyes  resi)on<ied  to  mine!  Say  that  I  have  slain 
liiiii  au'iiinsi  your  will,— say  tliat  he  died  without  your  whole  consent,— and,  in  another 
brcatli.  you  sliall  see  me  lying  beside  him.""  "  O,  never;"  cried  Miriam.  "My  one,  own 
friend:  Never,  never,  never!  "  Slie  turned  to  him,— the  guilty,  blood-stained,  lonely 
wnman. — she  turned  to  her  fellow-criminal,  the  yonth,  so  lately  innocent,  whom  she  had 
drawn  into  lier  doom.  Slie  pressed  him  close,  close  to  her  bosom,  with  a  clinging  embrace 
tliat  brouglit  their  two  liearts  together,  till  the  liorrov  and  a^'ony  of  each  was  combined 
into  one  emotion,  and  tliat  a  kind  of  rapture. 

•Yes,  Donatello,  yon  spi'ak  the  truth!"  saiil  she:  "my  lieart  consented  to  wliat  you 
did.  W<'  two  sh'W  yonder  wretch,  Ttie  deed  knots  us  together  f<ir  time  and  I'ternity, 
likt'  tile  coil  of  a  •<erpenl  !  "  ' 

The  subsidiary  and  extraneous  portions — criticisms  on  Art,  delin- 


512  DIFFUSIVK    PKKIOD — HEFRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

eatiohs  of  Italian  scenery  and  Roman  antiquities  —  possess  an 
interest  and  a  value  of  their  own.  His  analysis  of  the  marble 
Faun  of  Praxiteles  affords  the  key-note  to  the  book: 

'The  P'aun  is  the  marble  image  of  u  young  man,  leaning  his  right  arm  on  the  trunk 
or  stump  of  a  tree:  one  liand  hangs  carcle:?slv  by  his  side;  in  the  other  he  liolds  the  frag- 
ment of  a  pipe,  or  some  such  sylvan  instrument  of  music.  His  only  garment  —  a  lion's 
skin,  with  the  claws  upon  his  shoulder — falls  half  way  down  his  back,  leaving  the  limbs 
and  entire  front  of  the  figure  nude.  The  form  thus  dis|)layed  is  marvellously  graceful, 
but  has  a  fuller  and  more  rounded  outline,  more  flesh,  and  less  of  heroic  muscle  than  the 
old  sctilptors  were  wont  to  assign  to  their  types  of  masculine  beauty.  The  character  of 
the  face  corresponds  with  the  figure.  .  .  .  The  whole  statue  —  unlike  anything  else  that 
ever  was  w rotiglit  in  that  siviTe  material  of  marble — conveys  the  idea  of  an  amiable  and 
-ensual  creature,  easy,  mirthful,  apt  for  jollity,  yet  not  incapable  of  being  touched  by 
pathos.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  is  the  very  lack  of  moral  severity,  of  any  high  and  heroic  ingre- 
dient in  the  character  of  the  Faun,  that  makes  it  so  delightful  an  object  to  the  human 
eye  and  to  the  frailty  of  the  human  heart.  The  being  here  represented  is  endowed  with 
no  principle  of  virtue,  and  would  be  incapable  of  comprehending  such;  but  he  would  be 
true  and  honest  by  dint  of  his  simplicity.  \\a;  should  expect  from  him  no  sacrifice  or 
effort  for  an  abstract  cause:  there  is  not  an  atom  of  nuirtyr's  stuff  in  all  that  softened 
marble:  but  he  has  a  cajjacity  for  strong  and  warm  attachment,  and  might  act  devotedly 
through  its  ;mi)ulse,  and  even  die  for  it  at  need.  It  is  possible,  too,  that  the  Faun  might 
be  educated  through  the  medium  of  his  emotions,  so  that  the  coarser  animal  portion  of 
his  nature  might  eventually  be  thrown  into  the  back-ground,  tlu>ugh  never  utterly 
expelled." 

With  a  loftier  aim  and  a  wider  ran<rc,  this  work  lacks  the  intensity 
of  the  Scarlet  Lfttf.r,  which,  for  concentrated  power,  sustained 
tone,  and  eulininatino;  effect,  is  the  j^reatest  production  of  tJiis 
genius. 

Style. — Siinj)ler,  cjoarer,  more  eleo-ant  Eiip,"Iish  has  never  — 
even  by  Swift,  Addison,  or  (Joldsmith  —  l)e('n  made  the  veliicle  of 
thduofht  and  emotion  e(|ually  {profound,  delicate,  variant,  and  tor- 
tuous. Sin<rularly  choice  and  a|)]iropriate  in  diction;  flowing  and 
placid  in  movement,  always  sweet  and  pellucid,  giving  to  objects 
a  subtle  ethereal  as|)ei-t.  His  ])en  is  a  magician's  wand,  'creating 
the  semblance  of  a  world  out  of  airv  matter,  with  the  impalpable 
beauty  of  a  soai)-})nl)ble.'  We  have  all  been  exhorted  to  give 
days  and  nighls  to  Addison.  Katlier,  let  us  give  days  and  nights 
to  .Ma<-aulay.  ("arlyle  aiid  llawthorne. 

Rank.- — Standing  aloof  from  common  interests,  looking  at 
the  present  with  shaded  eyes,  into  the  ))ast  with  a  half-wistful 
gaze,  attract<-d  l.y  the  remote,  strange,  and  unusiud,  with  a  style 
admiralty  adapted  to  produce  the  effect  of  weJrd-lik(!  mystery, — 
HawtlK)rne  is  not  a  novelist.  His  liclions,  in  conception  and 
performance,  are  always  and  essentiallv  romances.    Yet  have  they 


HAWTHORNE.  513 

a  character  of  fundamental  trueness  to  spiritual  laws,  of  harmony 
with  time,  place,  and  circumstance, —  of  realism  existing  in  an 
ideal  atmosphere,  or  invested  with  the  halo  of  a  poetic  medium. 
We  have  not  the  worn-out  paraphernalia  of  abbeys,  castles, 
courts,  gentry,  aristocracy,  and  sovereigns;  but  we  have  types, 
mental  conditions, —  beyond  the  sphere  of  habitual  experience, 
indeed,  yet  belonging  profoundly  to  spirit  and  to  man.  No 
civilization  has  produced  a  romantic  genius  at  all  comparable  in 
power  to  his.  Other  writers  have  been  more  learned,  more 
dramatic,  more  versatile,  more  comprehensive.  His  stories  are 
generally  deficient  in  converging  unity.  His  personages  seldom 
reveal  themselves;  but,  as  in  the  Marble  Faun,  we  are  told  what 
they  are,  in  page  upon  page  of  description,  keen,  minute,  fin- 
ished,—  marvellous  workmanship.  No  one  ever  depended  so 
little  upon  plot  or  incident.  Facts  are  subordinated  to  the  influ- 
ences with  which  they  are  charged.  He  is  not  a  portrait-painter 
who  sets  forth  a  complete  individuality.  His  forte  is  not  in 
adventure,  not  in  movement;  but  in  the  depicture  of  the  rare  and 
the  occult,  in  the  operation  and  results  of  involved  and  conflict- 
ing motives,  feelings,  and  tendencies.  He  is  here  a  solitary 
original  in  English  letters.  It  may  be  questioned  whether  the 
Scarlet  Letter,  as  an  example  of  imaginative  writing,  has  its 
parallel  in  any  literature. 

We  count  him  one  of  the  elect  spirits,  and  would  take  our 
cliarioos  of  universality  with  him  cheerfully.  First  in  America  as 
a  writer  of  fiction,  he  has  no  superior  in  the  language  as  a  literary 
artist.  He  is  something  more  than  this.  He  is  also  an  art-eritic, 
of  deep  and  thorough  insight,  of  refined  and  liberal  sympathies. 
Witness  his  criticisms  of  the  Faun,  the  Dying  Gladiator,  or 
(iuido's  Archangel  and  the  Dragon.  Consider  him  also  as  a 
speculative  observer,  a  psychologist,  a  moralist.  How  niaiiv  of 
the  select  few  who  are  placed  at  the  fountain-head  of  the  streams 
of  cailture,  afford  so  large  a  number  and  variety  of  sentences 
equally  elegant  and  wise?  We  quote  briefly,  limiting  ourselves 
to  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse : 

'  Kach  Hcct  surrouii(]>  its  own  righteousnef^s  willi  a  tiodfrc  of  thorns." 

"rhc  fimtasiies  of  one  day  are  the  decpoHt  rcalilicv  of  a  future  one." 

'The  prophet  dies,  and  the  man  of  torpid  heart  and  shiggish  brain  lives  on.' 

'  Each  human  soul  is  tlic  first-ereated  inhabitant  of  its  own  Kden." 
33 


514  DIFFITSIVK    PERIOD  —  KEPRESENTATIV  K    AUTHORS. 

'When  we  dcsin-  life  for  the  attainment  of  an  object,  we  recognize  the  frailty  of  its 
texture.' 

'Old  age  is  not  venerable  when  it  embodies  itself  in  lilacs,  rose  bushes,  or  any  other 
ornamental  shrub.' 

'Persons  who  can  only  be  graceful  and  ornamental,— who  can  give  the  world  nothing 
but  flowers,— should  die  young." 

'  Every  author  has  imagined  and  shaped  out  in  his  thought  more  and  far  l)etter  works 
than  those  which  actually  proceeded  from  his  pen." 

'On  the  soil  of  thought  and  in  the  garden  of  the  heart,  as  well  as  in  the  sensual  world, 
lie  withered  leaves  — the  ideas  and  feelings  that  we  have  done  with.' 

'It  is  as  we  grow  old  in  life,  when  objects  begin  to  lose  their  freshness  of  hue  and 
our  souls  the  delicacy  of  perception,  that  the  spirit  of  beauty  is  most  needed.' 

'Some  persons  assimilate  only  what  is  ugly  and  evil  from  the  same  moral  circum- 
stances which  supply  good  and  beautiful  results— the  fragrance  of  celestial  flowers— to 
the  daily  life  of  others." 

'Sweet  must  have  been  the  spring-time  of  Eden,  when  no  earlier  year  had  strewn  its 
decay  upon  the  virgin  turf,  and  no  former  experience  had  ripened  into  summer  and  faded 
into  autumn  in  the  hearts  of  its  inhabitants." 

Character. — Of  sombre,  retrospective  temperament  and  ten- 
dencies, cultivated  hv  solitude,  pursuits,  and  studies.  He  could 
pass  delicious  hours  among  the  old  advertisements  in  the  Boston 
newspaper  files.  The  English  State  Trials  were  enchanting  read- 
ing. In  Maine,  during  the  moonlight  nights  of  winter,  he  would 
skate  until  midnight  all  alone  on  the  Sebago  Lake.  lie  liked 
better  to  meet  the  sexton  of  a  church  than  the  rector,  and  loved 
to  wander  among  graves,  reading  the  epitaphs  on  moss-grown 
slabs.  He  had  a  ])redilection  for  the  remote,  the  shadowy,  the 
vague.  We  discover,  in  his  introduction  to  the  Scarlet  Ijetter, 
the  element  congenial  to  him: 

'M(X)nlight,  in  a  familiar  room,  falling  so  white  upon  the  carpet,  and  showing  all  its 
figures  so  distinctly,—  making  every  object  so  minutely  visible,  yet  so  unlike  a  morning 
or  noontide  visibility, —  is  a  medium  the  must  suitable  for  a  romance-writer  to  get 
acquainted  with  his  illusive  guests.  There  is  the  little  domestic  scenery  of  the  well- 
known  apartment;  the  chairs,  with  e;ich  its  separate  individuality;  the  centre-table, 
sustaining  a  work-basket,  a  volume  or  two,  and  an  e.xtingiiished  lamp;  the  sofa;  the 
book-ease;  the  picture  on  the  wall;  —  all  these  details,  so  completely  seen,  are  so  spir- 
itualized by  the  unusual  liL'ht,  that  they  seem  to  lose  their  actual  substance,  and  become 
things  of  inttllcct.  Nothiui,'  is  loo  small  or  too  trifling  to  undergo  this  change,  and 
acquire  dignity  thereby.  .\  ihild's  shoe;  the  doll,  seated  in  her  little  wicker  carriage; 
the  hobby- hor.-e : —whalevtT,  in  a  word,  has  been  used  or  played  with,  during  the  day,  is 
now  invested  witli  a  (juality  of  strangeness  and  remoteness,  though  still  almost  as  vividly 
present  as  by  dayliirht.  Thus,  therefore,  the  floor  of  our  familiar  room  has  become  a 
neutral  territory,  somewhere  between  llie  r<!il  world  and  fairy-land,  where  the  actual 
and  the  imaginary  may  meet,  and  <ii(^i  imbue  itself  with  the  nature  of  the  other.' 

The  atm()sj)li('ri'  ho  demands  is  not  that  of  broad  and  simple  day- 
light, but  of  a  poetic  or  fairy  pn-rinct.      'liomance   and   poetry, 


HAWTHORNE.  515 

ivy,  lichens,  and  wall-flowers,  need  ruin  to  make  them  grow.'  Or 
a  far-off  cloud-land,  the  debatable  border  between  the  natural  and 
the  supernatural:  '  Fain  would  I  search  out  the  meaning  of  words, 
faintly  gasped  with  intermingled  sobs,  and  broken  sentences,  half 
audibly  spoken  between  earth  and  the  Judgment-seat ! '  Hence 
the  fascination  which  the  occult  and  mysterious  had  for  him.  His 
pages  remind  us  continually  of  the  unseen  and  inscrutable;  of 
secret  associations  linking  things  the  most  improbable;  of  unsus- 
pected properties  in  Nature,  which  affect  us  hourly;  of  strange, 
subtle  sympathies  between  individuals,  between  ourselves  and 
inanimate  objects: 

'The  sympathy  or  magnetism  among  human  beings  is  more  subtle  and  universal 
than  we  think;  it  exists,  indeed,  among  different  classes  of  organized  life,  and  vibrates 
from  one  to  another.  A  flower,  for  instance,  as  PhoDbe  herself  observed,  always  began 
to  droop  sooner  in  Clifford's  hand,  or  Hcpzibah's,  than  in  her  own;  and  by  the  same  laws 
converting  her  whole  daily  life  into  a  flower-fragrance  for  these  two  sickly  spirits,  the 
blooming  girl  must  inevitably  droop  and  fade  much  sooner  than  if  worn  on  a  younger 
and  happier  breast." 

This  suggests  his  inclination  to  fatalistic  views,  due  to  inherited 
Puritanism  on  the  one  hand,  and  to  Iiis  training  in  a  school  of 
mystic  idealism  on  the  other.  The  present  ever  springs  from  the 
})ast.  An  evil  deed  is  invested  with  the  character  of  doom; 
always  vital,  though  it  may  slitmber  here;  finally  irresistible, 
though  it  may  be  ineffective  there,  obedient  ever  to  eternal  law. 
The  universe  will  keep  it  in  remembrance:  'All  the  powers  of 
nature  call  so  earnestly  for  tlie  confession  of  sin,  that  these  black 
weeds  have  sprung  up  out  of  a  buried  heart  to  make  manifest  an 
unspoken  crime.'  The  idea  of  relentless  justice,  of  the  implaca- 
bleness  of  a  holy  God  towards  the  guilty,  of  the  impassable 
chasm  between  innocence  and  sin, — was  the  soul  of  the  Greek 
Nemesis;  it  has  been  ctMitral  to  the  most  profound  discussions  of 
Pagan  theology;  it  was  ])rominent  in  the  austere  code  of  Puri- 
tanic faith;  it  ])<'rvades  the  romances  of  Hawthorne.  Turn  to 
the  ScarJt't  Lrttcr  or  tiie  Marble  Faun.  Miriam  the  fallen 
aji])eals  to  Hilda  the  ])ure  for  .sympathy:  but  a  voiceh-ss,  ever- 
lasting gulf  yawns  between  them: 

'Sliinding  on  tlie  utmost  vcrgi-  of  tliat  dark  chasm,  slie  might  stretdi  out  her  hand 
anil  lU'Ver  clasp  a  hund  of  theirs;  she  miglit  strive  to  call  out,  "Help,  friends!  help!" 
but,  as  witlj  dreamers  when  they  shout,  her  voice  would  perish  inaiidibly  in  the  remote- 
ness that  seemed  such  a  little  way.  This  per<ei)ti()ii  of  an  iutlnite,  shivering  solitude, 
amid  wliicli  we  cannot  couie  close  euougli  to  tiumau  beiii<rs  to  be  wanned  by  them,  and 
where  they  turn  to  cold,  chilly  Nhape-  of  mist,  is  one  of  tin'  most   forlorn  results  of  anv 


516  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

accident,  misfortune,  crinn',  or  peculiarity  of  character  that  puts  an  individual  ajar  with 
the  world.* 

One  effect  of  these  darker  traits  is  apparent  in  his  peculiar 
humor,  which,  always  fanciful,  is  often  grotesque,  and  sometimes 
grim.  One  of  his  notes,  suggesting  a  theme  for  a  story,  assumes 
that  two  persons  make  their  wills  in  each  other's  favor,  each  wait- 
ing patiently  for  the  death  of  the  other,  till  informed  that  the  long- 
desired  event  has  occurred,  then  hasten  to  be  present  at  each 
other's  funeral,  and  meet  in  perfect  health.  Again,  '  Curious  to 
imagine  what  murmurings  and  discontent  would  be  excited  if 
any  of  the  great  so-called  calamities  of  human  beings  were  to  be 
abolished, —  as,  for  instance,  death.'  Elsewhere  we  have  the  case 
of  a  man  who  tries  to  be  happy  in  love,  but  is  unable  really  to 
give  his  heart,  or  to  prevent  the  affair  from  seeming  a  mere 
dream.  The  degenerated  aristocratic  hens  lay  now  and  then  an 
(igg,  and  hatch  a  chicken,  '  not  for  any  pleasure  of  their  own, 
but  that  the  world  might  not  absolutely  lose  what  had  once  been 
so  admirable  a  breed  of  fowls.'  Of  his  secluded  study  in  the 
Old  Manse  he  says: 

'When  I  first  saw  the  room,  its  walls  were  blackened  with  tin;  smoke  of  unnumbered 
years,  and  made  still  blacker  by  the  grim  prints  of  Puritan  ministers  that  hung  around. 
These  worthies  looked  strangely  like  bud  angels,  or  at  least  like  men  who  had  wrestled 
so  continually  and  so  sternly  with  the  Devil  that  somewhat  of  his  sooty  fierceness  had 
been  imparted  to  their  own  visages." 

Of  the  monkish  practice  at   Rome  of  taking  the  longest-buried 

skeleton  out  of  the  oldt^st  grave  to  make  room  for  a  new  corpse 

of    the   brotherhood,   then   building    the    disinterred    bones   into 

architectural  devices,  he  says: 

'Thus  each  of  the  good  friars,  in  his  turn,  enjoys  the  luxury  of  a  consecrated  bed, 
attended  with  the  slight  drawback  of  being  forced  to  get  u])  long  before  daybreak,  as  it 
were,  and  make  room  for  another  lodger.' 

Thus  constituted,  it  is  not  surjirising  that  he  regarded  human 
beinirs  as  ])sychological  phenomena,  observed  and  studied  from 
some  speculative  outpost.  He  is  a  spectator  of  the  drama,  sym- 
pathetic, })ut  curious  and  interpretative.  His  part  is  like  that 
of   .Miles  Coverdah?  in  the  Blithedale  enterprise: 

'  It  resembles  that  of  the  cliorns  in  a  classic  play,  which  seems  to  be  set  aloof  from 
the  iK)ssibility  of  personal  concernment,  and  bestows  the  whole  measure  of  its  hope  or 
fear,  its  exultation  or  sorrow,  on  the  fortunes  <pf  others,  between  whom  and  itself  this 
sympathy  is  the  only  bond.' 

He  was  constitutioiiaily  shy,  recluse.  (Jossip  represents  him 
as   inaccessible  to   invitations;   that   he   would   scale  a   fence  and 


HAWTHORNE.  517 

take  to  the  fields,  to  avoid  a  stranger  on  the  highway.  'During 
all  the  time  he  lived  near  me,'  says  Alcott,  'our  estates  being 
sepa,rated  only  by  a  gate  and  shaded  avenue,  I  seldom  caught 
sight  of  him;  and  when  I  did,  it  was  but  to  lose  it  the  moment 
he  suspected  he  was  visible.'  *  Destiny  itself,' he  tells  us,  'has 
often  been  worsted  in  the  attempt  to  get  me  out  to  dinner.' 

He  strove  against  his  peculiar  moods,  his  reticence  and  his 
melancholy.  He  assures  his  publisher:  'When  I  get  home,  I 
will  try  to  write  a  more  genial  book  (than  the  Marble  Fami)'., 
but  the  Devil  himself  always  seems  to  get  into  my  inkstand,  and 
I  can  only  exorcise  him  by  pensful  at  a  time.'  Yet  the  sunny 
and  genial  scenes  of  childhood  and  natural  beauty,  which  abound 
in  his  works,  prove  his  general  healthiness.  Read  Little  Annies 
Ramble  or  The  Old  Manse  for  the  May-morning  freshness  of  a 
calm  peaceful  soul  that  looks  upon  all  things  with  the  spirit  of 
love.     For  example,  the  following: 

'  In  August  the  grass  is  still  verdant  on  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys;  the  foliage  of 
the  trees  is  as  dense  as  ever  and  as  green;  the  flowers  gleam  forth  in  richer  abundance 
along  the  margins  of  the  river,  and  by  the  stone  walls,  and  deep  among  the  woods;  the 
days,  too,  are  as  fervid  now  as  they  were  a  month  ago;  and  yet  in  every  breath  of  wind 
and  in  every  beam  of  sunshine  we  liear  the  whispered  farewell,  and  behold  the  parting 
smile  of  a  dear  friend.  There  is  a  coolness  amid  all  the  heat,  a  mildness  in  the  blazing 
noon.  Not  a  breeze  can  stir  but  it  thrills  us  with  the  breatli  of  autumn.  A  pensive  glory 
is  seen  in  the  far,  golden  beams,  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  The  flowers  —  even 
the  brightest  of  them,  and  they  are  the  most  gorgeous  of  the  year  — have  this  gentle  sad- 
ness wedded  to  their  pomp,  and  typify  the  character  of  the  delicious  time  each  within 
itself.  The  brilliant  cardinal-llower  has  never  seemed  gay  to  me.  Still  later  in  the 
season  Xatiire"s  tenderness  waxes  stronger.  It  is  impossible  not  to  be  fond  of  our 
mother  now:  for  she  is  so  fond  of  us  I  At  other  periods  she  does  not  make  this  impres- 
sion on  me,  or  only  at  rare  intervals;  but  in  those  genial  days  of  autumn  when  she  has 
perfected  her  harvests  and  accomplished  every  needful  thing  that  was  given  her  to  do, 
then  she  overflows  with  a  blessed  superfluity  of  love.  She  has  labor  to  caress  her  cliil- 
dren  now.  It  is  good  to  be  alive  and  at  such  times.  Thank  Heaven  for  breatli,— yes,  for 
mere  breath, — when  it  is  made  up  of  a  heavenly  breeze  like  this?  It  comes  with  a  real 
kiss  u|xin  our  cheeks;  it  would  linger  fondly  around  us  if  it  might;  but,  since  it  must  be 
gone,  it  embraces  us  with  its  whole  kindly  heart,  and  passes  onward  to  embrace  likewise 
the  next  thing  that  it  meets.  A  blessing  is  flung  abroad  and  scattered  far  and  wide  over 
ttie  earth,  to  be  gathered  up  by  all  who  choose.  I  recline  upon  the  still  uiiwitliered  grass 
and  whisper  to  myself,  "O  perfect  day  I  ()  beautiful  world  !  ()  benelicent  God  ! '"  And 
it  is  the  promise  of  a  blessed  eternity;  for  our  Creator  would  never  have  made  such 
lovely  (lays,  and  have  given  us  the  deep  hearts  to  enjoy  them,  above  and  beyond  all 
thought,  unless  we  were  meant  to  be  immortal.' 

He  .saw  things  on  too  many  sides,  licard  too  luaiiy  voices 
within  him,  to  he  dogmatic,  or  even  to  render  a  decision  on  the 
questions  he  was  prone  to  raise.  An  insohible  mystery  faced  him 
everywhere.  Possibly,  a  natural  indolence,  as  well  as  a  natural 
tiiniditv  and  a  wise  huniilitv,  inav  have  had  a  share  in  his  oscilla- 


518  DIFFUSIVK    FERIOI)  —  UKPRKSKNTATIVK    AUTHORS. 

tion  betweon  (livergeiit  or  ()))posing'  views  of  life  and  Diotives  of 
cofiduct.     This  soetiis  to  be  a  cliaracteristie  attitude: 

'The  gifsUfft  obstacK'  to  being  lieroic  is  the  doubt  whether  one  may  not  be  going  to 
prove  one's  self  a  fool;  the  truest  lieroisni  is,  to  resist  the  doubt;  and  the  profoundest 
wisdom  to  know  when  it  ouglit  to  be  resisted,  and  when  to  be  obeyed." 

Meditative,  dreamy,  coy,  sincere,  gentle,  reverent;  of  refined 
taste,  of  tenderest  affectioti  in  the  domestic  circle,  of  rare  kind- 
liness in  personal  intercourse;  so  shrinking,  so  exquisite. 

'Tliere  ip  Hawthorne,  with  genius  so  shrinking  and  rare 
That  you  hardly  at  lirst  see  the  strength  that  is  there; 
A  frame  so  robust,  witli  a  nature  so  sweet, 
So  earnest,  so  graceful,  so  solid,  so  fleet. 
Is  worth  a  descent  from  Olympus  to  meet.  ... 
When  Nature  was  shaping  him,  clay  was  not  granted 
For  making  so  full-sized  a  man  as  she  wanted. 
So,  to  fill  out  her  model,  a  little  she  si)ared 
From  some  finer-grained  stuff  for  a  woman  prepar(ul. 
And  she  could  not  have  hit  a  more  excellent  plan 
Kor  making  him  fully  and  perfectly  man.' ' 

Influence. — The  drift  and  weight  of  his  thought  and  art  are 
on  the  side  of  purity,  tonderue,><s,  and  aspiration.  He  has  too 
little  sympathy  with  action  and  its  responsibilities  to  be  soon,  if 
ever,  widely  popular.  He  is  too  ideal,  too  reflective,  too  deficient 
in  excitement,  to  be  reli.shed  by  readers  of  the  matter-of-fact 
type,  or  l)y  such  as  ntiuire  stirring  incident,  glittering  brilliance,- 
or  whirlwind  power,  [.ike  tli<'  greatest,  he  has  had  tardy  recog- 
nition. To-day  liis  posit if)n  among  men  of  imagination  is  com- 
manding. His  p(>pularity  will  .'xtend  with  the  relinement  of 
taste.  By  his  unifjue  vision  and  its  iniiiiitabh^  form,  he  mounts 
into  the  silent  blue  of  the  const (>llat ions. 

'  FiihU  for  Critii-H. 


THE    LAUREATE   OF   THE   GENTLE.  519 

LONGFELLOW. 

His  gracious  presenci!  uixin  earth 

Was  at*  a  tire  uynm  a  hearth; 

As  pleasant  sougi^,  at  inoruing  Kiir.g, 

The  wonis  that  dropped  from  hix  sweet  tongue 

Strengthened  our  heartti,  or,  heard  at  night. 

Made  all  our  !iluuiber»  soft  and  light.— ^'oW^rt  Legend. 

Biography. — Born  in  Portland,  Maine,  in  1807;  his  father,  a 
man  of  some  note  in  law  and  in  politics,  one  of  the  early  members 
of  the  House  of  Kepresentatives;  graduated  from  Bowdoin  in 
185^5,  in  the  same  class  as  Hawthorne;  was  immediately  appointed 
to  the  chair  of  Modern  Languages  and  Literature  in  his  alma 
mater,  and,  to  fit  himself  more  fully  for  his  professorship,  spent 
the  next  four  years  in  Germany,  France,  Spain,  and  Italy;  in 
1837,  having  again  visited  Europe,  removed  to  a  similar  chair  in 
Harvard  I'niversity,  made  vacant  by  the  resignation  of  his  friend 
Professor  Ticknor ;  continued  in  the  discharge  of  his  official 
duties  until  1854,  when  he  resigned;  received  the  degree  of 
I).Cf>.  from  the  University  of  Oxford  in  18G0,  and  a  compliment- 
ary vote  for  the  Lord  Rectorship  of  the  I'niversity  of  Edinburgh 
in  1874r.  He  died  in  March,  188'-^,  mourned  in  two  hemispheres 
by  the  greatest  and  the  least,  whose  common  experience  and 
sentiments  he  had  sung;  in  talent  and  fame,  a  man  of  steady 
growth;  having  had,  l)ey()nd  most,  the  satisfaction  and  joy  of 
existence: 

•Ty])i-  of  till-  wise  wlio  soar  l)iit  never  roam, 
'I'nii'  to  tile  Ivtndrcd  points  of  lieaveii  and  lionie." 

"Writings. — f.iving  in  the  heart  of  tln'  tninsci'udental  move- 
ment, vet  apparently  untouched  l)y  it,  Longfellow  wrote  his  first 
iniportant  work — Ifi/pcrio/i,  ii  romance  in  poetic  prose,  vivid  and 
beautiful  from  the  vividness  and  beauty  of  the  author's  own  mind; 
charged  witli  the  sentiment  and  lore  of  storied  and  pieturescjue 
Europe,  enriched,  ;ihnost  every  J^age,  witli  liis  fondness  for  color, 
his  passion  for  niusic,  or  line  intimations  of  the  gentle  faith  in 
which  h(^  lived.      Tluis: 

•Wlicn  I  talic  llu-  liistory  of  one  pour  iuarl  lliat  lias  siinicil  ami  -iitTired,  and  repre- 
sent to  myself  ilic  -tniL'trles  and  temptations  it  lias  pas-cd,  ilic  l)ricf  pnlsations  of  joy. 
Itie  fevcrjsli  in(|uii'tude  of  lioin'  and  fear,  tiic  tears  of  retrret,  tlie  feel)leness  of  purpose, 
tile  pressure  of  want,  tiie  desertion  of  friends,  tlie  scorn  of  a  world  that  lias  little  charity, 
tile  desolation  of  the  -ioiil's  sanctuary,  and  threatenintr  voices  wittiiii :  licaltli  j^'one,  happi- 
nef-  iToiie:  ev<-n  hope,  that  stays  lon^'esl  witli  us.  gone,— 1  have  little  ln'art  for  anything 


520  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

but  thankfulness  that  it  is  not  so  with  me,  and  would  fain  leave  the  erring  soul  of  ray 
fellow-man  with  Him  from  whose  hands  it  came.' 

And  still   better,  though  of  like   tone, —  neither  optimistic  nor 
pessimistic,  simply  submissive: 

'Tell  me,  my  soul,  why  art  thou  restless?  Why  dost  thou  look  forward  to  the  future 
with  such  strong  desire?  The  present  is  thine,  and  the  past;  and  the  future  shall  be! 
Oh,  that  thou  didst  look  forward  to  the  great  hereafter  with  half  the  longing  wherewith 
thou  longest  for  an  earthly  future,  which  a  few  days,  at  most,  will  bring  thee  I  —  to  the 
meeting  of  the  dead  as  to  the  meeting  of  the  absent!  Thou  glorious  spirit  land !  Oh, 
that  I  could  behold  thee  as  thou  art,  the  region  of  light  and  life  and  love,  and  the  dwell- 
ing-place of  those  beloved  ones  whose  being  has  flowed  onward,  like  a  silver-clear  stream 
into  the  solemn-sounding  main,  into  the  ocean  of  Eternity ! ' 

Evangeline,    based    upon   a    legend   of   Acadia;    a    story  of 

unsuccessful   love,  in  which  the  heroine,  exiled  by  the  fortunes 

of  war,  seeks  for  her  lover  with  pathetic  constancy  of  purpose: 

'  Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unremembered. 
i-"air  was  she  and  }"oung,  when  in  hope  began  the  long  journey; 
Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment  it  ended.' 

She  finds  him  at  last,  among  the  sick,  in  a  plague-stricken  city, 

where  she  had  taken  upon  herself  the  duties  of  nurse: 

'Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such  terrible  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their  pillows." 

Golden  Legend,  a  medineval  tale,  in  form  and  design  resem- 
bling Faust,  but  without  symmetry,  and  not  very  intelligible; 
an  ornament,  as  it  were,  in  which,  side  by  side  with  inferior 
substances  some  gems  of  the  purest  lustre  are  set;  for  example, 
the  virginal  prayer  of  Elsie: 

'My  l?('docnier  and  my  Lord, 
1  beseech  thee,  I  entreat  lliec. 
Guide  mc  in  each  act  and  word. 
That  hcre.-ifter  I  may  meet  thee. 
Watching,  waiting,  hoping,  yearning. 
With  my  lamp  well-trimmed  and  burning!' 

Ilor  reply  to  her  pariMits  when  she  communicates  to  them  her 

resolution  to  olTer  her  life  for  that  of  her  Prince: 

'Tliou  wilt  not  see  it.    I  shall  lie 
Bem-ath  !hc  llowers  of  another  land; 
Far  :il  .'^alcrnr),  far  away 
Over  the  iiioiintaiiis,  over  the  sea. 
It  i<  iippoiiiliMl  inc  to  (lie ! 
And   it  will   sccMi  no  more  to  tliee 
Than  if  at  tlu'  villaj,'f  on  iiiarkct-day 
I   should  a  little  lon^'cr  stay 
TIkui    1  am   used  ' 

Perhaps  Li)iigfcllf>\v\s  fame  rest.s  most  securely  on  JTiaicntha, 
the  dirge  tjf  a   departing  race,  in  .strains  that  sometimes  recall 


LONGFELLOW.  521 

the  passing  of  Arthur.  Its  best  episodes  are  the  accounts  of 
the  Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  of  the  Ghosts  and  the  Famine,  of 
the  hero's  childhood,  his  wooing  of  Minnehaha,  with  its  sorrow- 
ful sequel,  so  beautifully  told: 

'"Farewell,"  Bait!  he.    "Minnehaha! 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  I 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  ijufler, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed. 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed." ' 

The  poem,  it  may  be  said,  sings  the  parable  of  human  life, —  its 
birth,  love,  death,  civilization,  and  decay. 

But  Longfellow  throws  himself  not  more  completely  into  the 
spirit  of  aboriginal  Western  life  than  into  that  of  Northern 
Paganism  in  the  Challenge  of  Thor  — 

'Thou  art  a  God,  too, 
O  Galilean! 

And  tiius  single-handed 
Unto  the  combat. 
Gauntlet  or  Gospel, 
Here  I  defy  thee  1 ' 

Or  the  Skeleton  in  Armor  — 

'Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me. 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendor. ' 

Longfellow's  earliest  strains  preluded  the  music  of  his  prime, 
and  his  essential  qualities,  familiar  emotion,  clear  thought,  pure 
aspiration,  simple  molody,  reappear  in  all  his  verse;  in  his  longer 
as  in  his  shorter  pieces;  in  his  translations,  as  in  his  originals; 
ill  the  Orcultatioti  of  Orion,  in  the  Buildint/  of  tlw  Sliip,  in 
Rcni<in<ition,  in  KxceUior,  in  the  Psahn  of  Life. 

Style. — A'arious  but  simple,  clxMee,  musical,  sincere,  vitalized 
with  sympathy;  clear  as  crystal,  pure  as  snow;  admirable  in  prose 
as  in  poetry.  We  have  seen  the  quality  of  the  foriiHM-,  but  the 
following  passage  is  remarkably  pleasing: 


522  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

'The  voice  within  ns  is  nioredisitinctly  audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  place;  and  the 
gentler  affections  of  our  nature  spring  up  more  freshly  in  its  tranquillity  and  sunshine  — 
nurtured  by  the  healthy  principle  which  we  inhale  with  the  pure  air,  and  invigorated  by 
the  seiiial  influences  which  descend  into  the  heart  from  the  quiet  of  the  sylvan  solitude 
around,  and  the  soft  serenity  of  the  sky  above." 

None  Studied  rhythm  nion;  thoroughly.  Few  have  bestowed 
more  pains.  He  has  himself  expressed  the  rule  that  prevails  in 
all  his  works:  '  Tn  character,  in  maimers,  in  style,  in  all  things, 
the  supreme  excellem!e  is  simplicity.' 

Rank. —  In  extent  of  popularity,  the  central  figure  in 
American  poetry.  In  respect  of  airy  grace,  elegance,  melody, 
pathos,  naturalness,  he  stands  unsurpassed,  if  not  unequalled, 
among  the  poets  of  the  age.  In  scholarship,  in  polite  culture, 
he  must  be  classed  among  the  learned;  yet  he  has  not  the  strong 
pinion  to  dive  into  the  abyss  of  thought  or  soar  into  the  empyr- 
ean of  speculation.  He  does  not  approach  the  concentration 
and  intensity  of  the  grand  masters,  nor  their  dramatic  movement 
and  variety.  lie  is  not  the  bard  of  ])assion,  as  Byron;  nor  of  ide- 
ality, as  Shelley;  nor  of  high  contemplation,  as  Wordsworth;  but 
of  daily  life,  familiar  experience,  domestic  affection.  The  form 
is  artistic,  the  ideas  are  mediocre.  In  his  verse  we  see  the  cheer, 
the  glow,  the  benevolence,  of  a  sunny  and  benignant  spirit  in 
sympathy  with  the  universal  life  of  men;  l>ut  where  is  the  insight 
into  the  deep(M'  passag(>s  of  the  soul?  Magnificent  almost  never; 
creative  rarely.  Cut  out  Gerniany,  it  has  Ijeen  said,  and  you  cut 
out  iH'arly  one  half.  His  version  of  Dante  aside,  he  has  given  us 
forty  or  fifty  translations  from  the  European  tongues.  As  a  clear 
and  elegant,  though  uiiins[)ired,  translator,  he  is  well-nigh  incom- 
parable. Loving  humanity  is  the  secret  of  his  magnetism.  'Be 
kind,  be  patient,  l)e  hopeful,'  seems  the  ])erpetual  refrain  of  his 
songs.  Hence  his  iinpi-egnal)le  position  as  the  laureate  of  wo- 
men, <-liil(lren,  and  i:<MitI('  folk. —  his  the  desire  and  the  power  — 

•To  (|iiict 
'I'hi'   i-i-stlc->  puNc  of  care 
And  coiui-  like  th(^  hciii'dict  inn 
Tliiil   rollout  Mflcr  iiriiy.T." 

Character.  As  a  l)oy,  modest,  refined,  studious,  of  gentle 
inanncrs,  and  personal  <liaiin;  as  an  instructor,  mild,  sympathetic, 
gein-roiis,  litlpful;  as  a  man,  the  most  urbane  of  men,  ca])able  of 
uniform  courtesy  to  an  eiuljess  jirocessif)n  of  pilgrims;  medita- 
tive, inleii(.i-.  til-'  soul  of  eliarity  ami   of   kindness,  a  l)enii>-n  lover 


EMERSON.  523 

of  children;  destitute  of  vanity,  and  without  envv,  as  without 
guile;  independent,  without  being  aggressive  or  self-assertive; 
devout,  trusting  and  submissive  before  the  veiled  problems  of 
faith;  a  poet  — 

'Whom  all  the  Muses  loved,  not  one  alone.* 

Like  Hawthorne,  but  without  his  intense  imagination,  he  had  a 
genuine  fondness  for  the  mellow,  the  distant,  the  old.  His  poems 
indicate  the  region  of  his  habitual  thought, —  the  legendary  of 
the  Old  World  or  the  New.     The  man  is  n)ore  than  his  work. 

Influence. — In  this  country,  by  general  consent,  he  is  a 
pervading,  purifying,  and  beneficent  agency.  He  is  hardly  less 
extensively  read  in  England,  where  his  death  was  pronounced  a 
national  loss.  It  is  doubtful  whether  any  singer  of  this  genera- 
tion has  so  wide  a  circle  of  present  admirers.  But  we  remember 
that  the  most  popular  are  not  always  the  most  enduring.  Many 
who  once  stirred  the  hearts  and  touched  the  fancies  of  a  day, 
have  disappeared  in  the  night,  or  are  names  only.  Others  who 
were  disparaged  in  their  own  age,  have  made  the  earth  whole- 
some in  a  succeeding  one,  and  men  have  travelled  into  foreign 
parts  to  find  their  works.  The  veneration  of  mankind  has  selected 
for  the  highest  place  one  whom  the  influential  of  the  contem- 
porary world  despised  or  ignored,  if  they  knew  of  him  at  all. 
The  sentiments  common  to  races  and  centuries  are  the  most 
likely  to  live.  Building  upon  these  with  consummate  art,  Long- 
fellow has  qualities  which  guarantee  him  against  ol>livion.  Ilis 
immortality  is  secure  in  the  bosoms  of  the  bereaved,  the  tired, 
the  lonely,  the  desponding,  the  asjiiring,  the  struggling. 


emp:rs()x. 

Ill'  lias  iKit  iitt<Ti'(l  ,1  word  that  is  false  to  l)i<  own  mind  or  conscience;  lia<  noi  siip- 
lir»~se<i  a  word  Ix'causc  hi'  thouj^ht  it  too  hiprli  for  man's  comprehension.  .  .  .  Nothinir 
impedes  tiim  in  his  search  for  the  true,  the  lovely,  anrl  tlie  -rood:  no  private  Impe,  no 
jirivate  fear,  no  love  of  wifi- or  child  or  gold  or  ease  or  fame.  .  .  .  He  takes  care  of  hi- 
l)cinL',  and  li'a\cs  Ids  seeminsj  to  take  care  of  itself.  Fame  may  seek  him;  lie  iii'Vcr 
lTix's  out  of  lii-  way  a  simile  inch  for  her. — Parker. 

Biography. — Born  in  Boston,  in  ISd;'),  the  sch-oikI  of  five 
sons;  his  fatlier  a  liberal  and  accomplished  j)ulpit-orator,  de- 
scended   from   a    ministerial    ance.strv;    his    mother   a   woman    of 


524  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

great  sensibility,  placid  temper,  and  devout  life;  sent  to  school 
at  ei^^ht,  and  at  eleven  was  in  correspondence  with  his  aunt,  who 
says,  in  a  letter  of  inquiry: 

'You  love  to  trifle  in  rhyme  a  little  now  and  then;  why  will  you  not  complete  this 
versification  of  the  f.fth  bucolic  ?  You  will  iinswer  two  ends,  or,  as  tlie  old  proverb  goes, 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone,— improve  in  your  Latin  as  well  as  indulge  a  taste  for 
poetry.  Why  can't  you  write  me  a  letter  in  Latin  ?  But  Greek  is  your  favorite  language ; 
epUtola  in  lingua  (intra  would  be  still  better.  All  the  honor  will  be  on  my  part  to  corre- 
spond with  a  young  gentleman  in  Greek.  Tell  me  what  most  interests  you  in  Rollin;  in 
the  wars  of  contending  princes  under  whose  banner  you  enlist,  to  whose  cause  you 
ardently  wish  success.    Write  me  with  what  stories  in  Virgil  you  are  most  delighted." 

Entered  Harvard  College  at  fourteen;  graduated  in  1831,  taught 
school  five  years,  then  studied  divinity,  and  in  1829  was  ordained 
minister  of  the  Second  Unitarian  Church  in  his  native  city; 
resigned  in  1833,  because  his  purely  spiritual  interpretation  of 
religion  could  not  sanction  the  commuuion  service  as  commonly 
observed;  failed  in  health,  visited  Sicily,  Italy,  France,  and  Eng- 
land, met  Landor,  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  Carlyle,  his  visit 
to  the  latter  resulting  in  a  warm  friendship  and  mutual  admira- 
tion; entered  upon  his  career  as  a  lecturer,  selecting  his  home  in 
historic  Concord,  since  the  Mecca  of  literary  pilgrims;  meantime 
had  twice  married;  began  to  .study  the  English  idealists  and 
German  mystics,  became  prominent  in  the  new  philosophical 
movement  under  the  leadership  of  Channing;  preached  occasion- 
ally until  he  was  troubled  with  doubts  as  to  public  prayer,  when 
he  ceased;  joined  Margaret  Fuller,  Alcott,  Parker,  and  kindred 
spirits,  in  the  conduct  of  the  Dial,  a  short-lived  but  famous 
quarterly,  known  as  the  organ  of  the  Transcendentalists;  took  an 
active  interest  in  the  work  of  reform,  achieved  recognition  as  a 
thinker,  wrote  sonic  of  his  I)est  essays,  again  crossed  the  Atlantic, 
d<-liver<'d  a  course  of  hn-tures  in  London;  welcomed  Kossuth  to 
Concord  iti  IH;")-^,  addressccl  societies  and  fraternities,  contiimed 
to  write,  to  lecture,  and  Xo  ])ul)lish;  was  ]>resented  with  the 
degree  of  LL.IX  by  liis  ahixt  iiHitcr  in  ISfiO;  shortly  set  out  for 
I']nro|)t'  once  more, —  on  tliis  occasion,  with  iiis  daughter;  was 
eordiiilly  received,  on  his  return,  with  nuisic  and  a  procession  by 
his  ni'igjibors;  in  ]8T4,  was  jiut  in  nomination  by  the  independ- 
ents of  (ijasgow  I'niversity  for  the  oHice  of  Lord-Rector,  and  won 
the  fair  laurel  of  five  hundred  votes  against  sin-en  htuidred  for 
Disraeli;  lived  in  meditative  seclusion,  as  hitherto,  seeing  few, 
enjoying   a    comfortable    income,    a    growing    reputation,    and    a 


EMERSON.  525 

widening  circle  of  listeners.  He  died  in  May,  1882,  of  acute 
pneumonia,  contracted  during  exposure  to  the  inclement  weather 
at  Longfellow's  grave. 

"Writing^. — '  It  is  one  central  fire  which,  flaming  now  out  of 
the  lips  of  Etna,  lightens  the  capes  of  Sicily,  and  now  out  of  the 
throat  of  Vesuvius,  illuminates  the  towers  and  vineyards  of 
Naples.  It  is  one  light  which  beams  out  of  a  thousand  stars.  It 
is  one  soul  which  animates  all  men."  Thus  early,  in  a  Harvard 
dis«ourse,  nearly  a  half  century  ago,  did  Emerson  strike  the  key- 
note of  his  philosophy.  The  principle  had  been  announced  by 
Plato,  and  by  the  succession  of  grandees  who  followed  in  the 
wake  of  that  inexhaustible  fountain  of  speculation, —  Plotinus, 
Fichte,  Schelling,  Coleridge,  Carlyle.  Matter  is  a  garment  of 
spirit.     Mind  is  the  sole  reality,  whose  symbol  is  Nature: 

'There  seems  to  be  a  necessity  in  spirit  to  manifest  itself  in  material  forms;  and 
day  and  night,  river  and  8torni,  beast  and  bird,  acid  and  alkali,  preexist  in  necessary 
Ideas  in  the  mind  of  God,  and  are  what  they  arc  by  virtue  of  preceding  affections,  in  tlie 
world  of  spirit.  Tiie  visible  creation  is  the  terminus  or  the  circumference  of  the  invis- 
ible world. ''i 

Ideas  are  the  uncreated  essences,  necessary,  immortal.  In  their 
presence,  the  outward  is  an  appearance,  a  dream: 

•Culture  inverts  the  vulgar  views  of  nature,  and  brings  the  mind  to  call  that  appar- 
ent, which  it  uses  to  call  real,  and  that  real,  which  it  uses  to  call  visionary.  Children,  it 
is  true,  believe  in  the  external  world.  The  belief  that  it  appears  only,  is  an  afterthought ; 
but  with  culture,  this  faith  will  as  surely  arise  on  the  mind  as  did  the  first. '^ 

Ilonce  the  first  and  last  lesson  of  religion,  as  of  ethics:  'The 
things  that  are  scon,  are  temporal;  the  things  that  are  unseen, 
are  eternal.'  Under  the  ceaseless  ebb  and  fiow  of  circumstance 
is  tlie  abyss  of  real  Being,  who.se  currents  circulate  through  you 
and  mo.  The  animate  and  the  inanimate  are  its  expression, — 
the  ono  in  a  lower,  the  otlior  in  a  higlior  form.  Our  thoughts  are 
its  inanifostations: 

'Man  is  conscious  of  a  universal  soul  within  or  beliind  his  individual  life,  wherein, 
.•i<  iti  a  lirniaueiit,  tlie  natures  of  Justice,  Love,  Freedom,  arise  and  sliine.  This  uni- 
\ir-iil  soul,  he  culls  Heasnn.  That  wliieh,  intellectually  considered,  we  call  Heason, 
I  oiisidiic  il  in  n  latlon  to  nature,  we  call  Spirit.     Spirit  is  the  Creator.'* 

A  groiit  act,  a  now  truth,  or  a  suhlimo  emotion,  is  a  ]mi1so  from 
tliiit  surging  soa.  It  flows  into  individual  life,  and  makes  genius. 
In  it  we  exist.  In  us  it  ti-nds  ovormoro  to  become  wisdom,  virtue, 
powiT,   lioauty.      Subjort   and   oliject   aro  ono, —  shining   pjirts  of 

'77/'  .Iriieririiii  Scholar.  'Xaturt^.  ^Ih'uJ.  *Ibi.d. 


526  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

this  sovereign  energy  whose  organs  we  are,  this  moral  beatitude 
which  we  incarnate,  and  which  inspires  the  vision  of  illimitable 
possibilities: 

'  I,  the  Imperfect,  adore  my  own  Perfect.  I  am  somehow  receptive  of  the  great  soul, 
and  thereby  I  do  overlook  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  feel  them  to  be  the  fair  accidents 
and  effects  which  change  and  pass.  More  and  more  the  surges  of  everlasting  nature 
enter  into  me,  and  I  become  public  and  human  in  my  regards  and  actions.  So  come  I  to 
live  in  thoughts,  and  act  with  energies,  which  are  immortal.'' 

Mind  and  matter  are  the  polar  opposites  of  the  Absolute,  the 
first  positive,  the  second  negative.  'Everything  in  nature  is 
bipolar.'  "Body  and  spirit  are  not  two  separate,  independent 
things,  but  are  necessary  to  each  other,  and  are  only  the  inward 
and  outward  conditions  of  one  and  the  same  being.'  The  laws  of 
the  moral  nature  answer  to  those  of  matter  as  face  to  face  in  a 
glass.  So  intimate  is  this  relation,  so  identical,  that  man  can 
know  the  external  by  self-revelation.  '  Man  carries  the  world  in 
his  head,  the  whole  astronomy  and  chemistry  suspended  in  a 
thought.  Because  the  history  of  nature  is  charactered  in  liis 
brain,  therefore  is  he  the  prophet  and  discoverer  of  her  secrets.' 
This  may  seem  to  bl6t  out  all  distinctions.  But  it  avoids  alike 
tlie  anthropomorphism  of  theistic  faiths  and  the  fatalism  of  the 
pantheistic.  God,  though  the  substance  of  the  universe,  is  an 
Intelligenco,  a  ^V'^ill,  the  transcendent  Unity  in  the  midst  of  end- 
less diversity.  'The  glory  of  the  One  breaks  in  everywliere,' 
The  individual  is  not  submerged  in  the  universal.  We  find  eter- 
nity affirmed  in  tin;  ])romis(>  of  our  faculties: 

'A  man  who  liiis  read-  tlic  works  of  Plato  and  Plutnrch  and  Soneca  and  Kant  and 
ShakfsptJire  and  Wordsworth  would  scorn  to  ask  such  school-danic  questions  as  whether 
we  (ihall  know  each  other  in  the  world  lieyond  the  grave.  Men  of  genius  do  not  f<ar  to 
die;  tlK'V  are  sure  thai  in  Itic  other  life  they  will  be  permitted  to  finish  the  work  begun 
ill  this:  it  is  only  sm-re  men  of  affairs  wlio  tri'iuble  at  the  apjiroach  of  death. '» 

True,  hiw  is  omnipresent,  witli  invariable  methods,  because  tlie 
<  )vt'r-s()td  is  always  in  universal  jirocess  of  self-evolution.  There 
is  no  r-hance,  no  anarchy.  The  wilful  and  the  fantastic,  the  low 
and  the  lofty,  an;  (Micireleil  by  a  necessity.  Touch  the  ring  on 
many  sides,  and  you  learn  its  arc.  In  its  highest  ascension  it  is 
impassable: 

'  Whiitivir  limit-  us,  we  call  Fate.  If  uc  are  brute  and  barbarous,  the  fate  takes  a 
liniK'  and  drtiidful  shape.  As  we  rctim'.  our  cliccks  become  finer.  If  we  rise  to  si)irit- 
ual  cultur.-,  tlic  niitau'onism  takes  a  spiritual  form.  In  the  Hindoo  fables,  Vishnu  follows 
Maya  throii.'li  all  her  asccndinir  diauges  from  iusi^ct  and  craw-flsli  up  to  elephant:  what- 

1  n^  <,,.rsnu'.  ■^hn,„„riai;t,j  :  ,1  Ictiirr  iMforr  tln'  Parker  Fraternity,  1S70. 


EMERSON,  527 

ever  form  she  took,  he  took  the  male  form  of  that  kind,  until  she  became  at  last  woman 
and  goddess,  and  he  a  man  and  a  god.  The  limitations  refine  as  the  soul  purifies,  but  the 
ring  of  necessity  is  always  perched  at  the  top."' 

Yet  the  world  is  dual.  There  is  more  than  natural  history. 
Power  antagonizes  Fate.  Limitation  has  its  limits.  Freedom  is 
necessary.  Forever  wells  up  the  impulse  of  choosing  and  acting. 
Talk  much  of  Destiny,  and  you  invite  the  evils  you  fear.  '  If 
there  is  omnipotence  in  the  stroke,  there  is  omnipotence  of  recoil.' 
Show  your  lordship  by  manners  and  deeds  on  the  scale  of  ada- 
mantine force.  By  the  polarity  of  being,  whatever  paralyzes  you 
draws  in  with  it  the  divinity  to  strengthen  you.  The  central 
intention  of  all  is  harmony  and  joy.     Therefore: 

'  Lot  us  build  altars  to  the  Blessed  Unity  which  holds  nature  and  souls  in  perfect 
solution,  and  compels  every  atom  to  serve  a  universal  end.  Let  us  build  altars  to  the 
Beautiful  Necessity.  If  in  thought  men  were  free  in  the  sense,  that,  in  a  single  excep- 
tion, one  fastastical  will  could  prevail  over  the  law  of  things,  it  were  all  one  as  if  a  child's 
hand  could  pull  down  the  sun.  If,  in  the  least  particular,  one  could  derange  the  order  of 
nature,— who  would  accept  the  gift  of  life  ?'* 

Such  conceptions  involve  optimism.  The  direction  of  the 
whole,  and  of  the  parts,  is  melioration  —  a  constant,  everlasting 
effort  from  better  to  best.  The  indwelling  All-fair  seeks  forever 
to  realize  its  own  largeness  and  excellence.  Therefore  at  heart 
all  things  are  good,  and  the  Divine  methods  are  perfect: 

'All  tilings  are  moral.  That  soul,  which  within  us  is  a  sentiment,  outside  of  ns  is  a 
law.  We  feel  its  inspiration;  out  there  in  liistory  we  can  see  its  fatal  strength.  .  .  . 
Justice  is  not  postponed.  A  perfect  etiuity  adjusts  its  balance  in  all  i)arts  of  life.  .  .  . 
Every  secret  is  told,  every  crime  is  punished,  every  virtue  rewarded,  every  wrong 
redressed,  in  silence  and  certainty.  What  we  call  retribution  is  the  universal  necessity 
by  wliieh  the  whole  appears  wherever  ti  part  appears.  .  .  .  Crime  and  i)unishinent  grow 
out  of  one  stem.  Punishment  is  a  fruit  that  unsuspected  ripens  within  the  tlower  of  the 
))leusiire  which  concealed  it.  Cause  and  effect,  means  and  ends,  seed  and  fruit,  cannot 
lie  si'v.-reii;  for  the  ctfect  already  blooms  in  the  cause,  the  end  preu.xists  in  the  means, 
the  fruit  in  the  seed."  ' 

Kvil  is  not  an  entity:  it  is  merely  privative,  like  cold,  which  is  the 
piivatiDii  of  heat.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  intellect,  sin  is 
the  absi'iice  of  light.  The  bad  is  superficial  and  evanescent. 
Tlie  good  and  the  true  are  j)ositive  and  imperishal^lc.  Pain, 
liartlshij),  humiliation,  defeat,  ai"e  disciplinary,  and  teach  the 
lessons  of  spiritual  loyalty: 

'I'lssions,  resistance,  danger,  are  educators.  We  accpiire  the  strength  we  have 
()\  irconu'.  Without  war,  no  soldier:  witliout  enemies,  no  hero.  The  sun  were  insipid, 
if  the  universe  were  not  opaque.  .\nd  the  glory  of  cliaracter  is  in  aflronting  ttie  liorrors 
of  (Icpravity,  to  draw  thenc-c  new  nobilities  of  power:  as  .\rt  lives  and  tlirills  in  new  use 
and  coiubiiiin::  i)f  (dutra-ts,  an<l  miiiiiii,'  ii\li)  the  dark  evermore  for  blacked  pits  of 
night.  •< 

'/■'a/''.  'Ibi'l,  'Voini>''ii>ia'ioii.  ^Consvierat'iont  by  Ihe  W<i>j. 


528  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

To  say  that  the  majority  are  wicked,  means  simply  'that  the 
majority  are  unripe,  and  have  not  yet  come  to  themselves.'  To 
purify  is  to  live  onward.  To  advance  is  to  abandon  grossness. 
Beheld  from  a  j^reater  elevation,  virtues  become  vices;  for  no 
virtue  is  Knal  —  all  are  initial.  Therein  are  you  adapted  to 
infinity.  Vou  are  only  a  suggestion  of  what  you  ought  to  be. 
Reform  and  aspire,  be  an  endless  seeker  after  the  starry  possible; 
so  shall  you  renew  your  spirit  perpetually: 

'Whilst  we  converse  with  what  is  above  us,  we  do  not  grow  old,  but  grow  young. 
Infancy,  youth,  receptive,  aspiring,  with  religious  eye  looking  forward,  counts  itself 
nothing,  and  abandons  itself  to  the  instruction  flowing  from  all  sides.  But  the  man  and 
woman  of,  seventy  asume  to  know  all,  they  have  outlived  their  hope,  they  renounce 
aspiration,  ac-ept  the  actual  for  the  necessary,  and  talk  down  to  the  young.  Let  them 
then  become  organs  of  the  Holy  Ghost:  let  them  be  lovers,  let  them  behold  truth:  and 
their  eyes  are  uplifted,  their  wrinkles  smoothed,  they  are  perfumed  again  with  hope 
and  iK)wer.' ' 

Man,  a  portion  of  the  Universal  Mind,  is  the  chaimel  through 
wliich  heaven  flows  to  earth.  Enthusiasm  is  the  thrilling  mixture 
of  the  private  soul  with  the  adorable  Over-soul,  which  has  various 
names;  a.s,  Power,  Goodness,  Holy  Ghost,  Comforter,  D;emon. 
However  designated,  it  is  thoroughly  a  unit;  and  the  flood  of  it 
is  the  same,  whether  it  appear  as  the  trances  of  Socrates,  the 
conversion  of  Paul,  or  the  illuminations  of  Swedenborg.  Repre- 
sentative men  are  its  sj)ecitic  Revelations.  The  inward  attrac- 
tion for  it,  the  worship  of  it,  is  religion  —  a  motive,  an  impulse,  a 
trust,  an  obedience.  Systems  are  different,  not  the  fact  wlii(;h 
they  endeavor  to  embody.  The  .same  religious  sentiments  recur 
under  whatever  garb  of  sect  —  Unitarian,  Trinitai'ian,  Romanist, 
Proff'stant.  All  faiths  are  fundamentally  identical — 'the  same 
wine  poured  into  difTt^-ent  glasses.'  The  highest  is  that  which 
has  the  profoinidest  conviction  and  sense  of  spiritual  realities. 
Ceaseless  progressif)n  turns  the  oldest  into  mvtlis.  On  the  ruins 
of  creeds  and  clmrches  the  t.'ni))le  of  (Jod  is  built.  It  is  the 
Sjiirit  that  endures,  and  tlie  purpose  that  imports.  Tlie  central, 
surviving  core  is  the  nioral  sentiment: 

'The  chaiiires  are  inrvil;il)lc:  tlie  new  ML'c  r.iiinot  see  with  thi'  eyes  of  the  last.  Hut 
the  rhaiit-'f  is  in  what  is  supertieial:  tin'  i)riii(ipl(s  are  immortal,  and  the  rally  on  the 
principle  must  arriv.-  as  i.eople  become  int.llcctiial.  I  consider  theology  to  be  the 
rhetoric  of  morals.  The  mind  of  thi^  a^i-  has  fallen  away  from  theology  to  morals.  I 
r.inreive  it  an  advance.  I  snsiX'Ct,  that,  when  the  liicolotry  was  most  florid  and  dogmatic, 
ii  u,,-  t'l.-  barbarism  of  the  people:  and  that,  in  ili;it  very  time,  the  best  men  also  fell 
.•.w.iv  fi..ih  ri.  ..lo-y.  and  rested  in  morals,     f  think  that  all  the  dogmas  rest  on  morals, 


EMERSON.  529 

and  that  it  is  only  a  question  of  youtli  or  maturity,  of  more  or  less  fancy  in  the  recipient; 
that  the  stern  determination  to  do  justly,  to  speak  the  truth,  to  be  chaste  and  humble, 
was  substantially  the  same,  whether  under  a  self-respect,  or  under  a  vow  made  on  the 
knees  at  the  shrine  of  Madonna/  ' 

Let  these  principles  be  applied  to  the  conduct  of  life.  Holi- 
ness is  health-.  Incapacity  of  melioration  is  distemper.  Calamity, 
resistance,  weight,  are  wings  and  means.  The  soul  of  Fate  is 
also  yours.  Be  self-reliant.  It  is  the  attribute  of  Deity,  whose 
nature  you  share.  Know  your  worth,  and  carry  yourself  in  the 
presence  of  pretension  and  opposition  as  if  all  else  but  you  were 
ephemeral.     Be,  not  seem.     Postpone  yourself  to  none: 

'The  man  that  stands  by  himself,  the  universe  stands  by  him  also.  It  is  related  of 
the  monk  Basle,  that,  being  excommunicated  by  the  Pope,  he  was,  at  his  death,  sent  in 
charge  of  an  angel  to  find  a  fit  place  of  suffering  in  hell;  but,  such  was  the  eloquence 
and  good  humor  of  the  monk,  that,  wherever  he  went  he  was  received  gladly,  and  civilly 
treated,  even  by  the  most  uncivil  angels:  and  when  he  came  to  discourse  with  them, 
instead  of  contradicting  or  forcing  him,  they  took  his  part,  and  adopted  his  manners: 
and  even  g(K)d  angels  came  from  far.  to  see  him,  and  take  up  their  abode  with  him.  The 
angel  that  was  sent  to  find  a  place  of  torment  for  him  attempted  to  remove  him  to  a 
worse  pit,  but  with  no  better  success;  for  such  was  the  contented  spirit  of  the  monk, 
that  he  found  something  to  praise  in  every  place  and  company,  though  in  hell,  and  made 
a  kind  of  heaven  of  it.  At  last  the  escorting  angel  returned  with  his  prisoner  to  them 
that  sent  him,  saying,  that  no  phlegethon  could  be  found  that  would  burn  him;  for  that, 
in  whatever  condition,  Basle  remained  incorrigibly  Basle.  The  legend  says,  his  sentence 
was  remitted,  and  he  was  allowed  to  go  into  heaven,  and  was  canonized  as  a  saint.'  * 

The.  perpetual  effort  of  Nature  is  to  attain  beauty,  which  is 
not  on  the  surface,  but  under  it, —  an  emanation  from  the  creative 
Radiance.  Hence  a  beautiful  person  was  tliought  by  the  Greeks 
to  have  .some  secret  favor  of  the  gods.  Hence,  too,  nothing  is 
truly  beautiful  —  however  rich,  elegant,  or  pretty  —  until  it  have 
suggestiveness,  as  of  the  immeasurable  and  divine: 

'The  new  virtue  which  constitutes  a  thing  beautiful  is  a  certain  cosmicul  quality,  or, 
a  power  to  suggest  relation  to  the  whole  world,  and  so  lift  the  object  out  of  a  pitiful 
individuality.  Kvery  natural  feature  — sea,  sky,  rainbow,  flowers,  musical  tone  — has  in 
it  soinewliat  which  is  not  private  but  universal,  speaks  of  that  central  benctit  which  is 
the  soul  of  Nature,  and  thereby  is  beautiful.  And,  in  chosen  men  and  women,  I  find 
sotiu'wiiat  in  form,  speech,  and  manners,  which  is  not  of  their  person  and  family,  but  of 
a  humane,  catliolic,  spiritual  character,  and  we  love  them  as  the  sky.  They  have  a 
largoiu'ss  of  suggestion,  and  their  face  and  manners  carry  a  certain  grandeur,  like  time 
and  justice."  ' 

Tilt*  high«>st  beauty  ha.s  in  it  a  moral  element,  like  fine  music  or 
antitjue  sculpture,  convincing  the  beholder  of  his  unworthiness, 
and  suggesting  gleams  of  the  unattainable.  Tlierefore  is  higliest 
fricniLshij)  no  other  tlian  love  of  the  celestial  good  and  fair,  as 
was  taugiit  by  Plato,  Petrarch,  Angeh),  Milton.  Its  btJiid  is 
'Character.  '' fir /i<  trior.  ^JJfaii/y. 


530  DIFFUSIV?:    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

interior,  and  takes  hold  upon  the  upper  world.  Real  marriage  is 
union  of  the  soul  with  the  Over-soul,  and  hence  a  purification  of 
the  intellect  and  heart  from  year  to  year: 

'By  convfriJiition  with  iliat  whicli  is  in  itself  excellent,  magnanimous,  lovely,  and 
just,  the  lover  comes  to  a  warmer  love  of  these  nobilities,  and  a  (luicker  apprehension  of 
them.  Then  he  passes  from  loving  them  in  one  to  loving  them  in  all,  and  so  is  the  one 
beautiful  soul  only  the  door  throngh  which  he  enters  to  the  society  of  all  true  and  pure 
souls.  In  the  particular  society  of  his  mate,  he  attains  a  clearer  sight  of  any  spot,  any 
taint,  which  her  beauty  has  contracted  from  this  world,  and  is  able  to  point  it  out,  and 
this  with  mutual  joy  that  they  are  now  able,  without  offence,  to  indicate  blemishes  and 
hindrances  in  each  other,  and  give  to  each  all  help  and  comfort  in  curing  the  same.  And, 
beholding  in  many  souls  the  traits  of  the  divine  beauty,  and  separating  in  each  soul  that 
which  is  divine  from  the  taint  which  it  has  contracted  in  the  world,  the  lover  ascends  to 
the  highest  beauty,  to  the  love  and  knowledge  of  the  Divinity,  by  steps  on  this  ladder  of 
created  souls.  .  .  .  Thus  are  we  put  in  training  for  a  love  which  knows  not  sex,  nor 
person,  nor  partiality,  but  which  seeks  virtue  and  wisdom  everywhere,  to  the  end  of 
increasing  virtue  and  wisdom.  We  are  by  nature  observers,  and  thereby  learners.  That 
is  our  permaiient  stale.  But  we  are  often  made  to  feel  that  our  affections  are  but  tent.s 
of  a  night.  Though  slowly  and  with  pain,  the  objects  of  the  affections  change,  as  the 
objects  of  thought  do.  There  are  moments  when  the  affections  rule  and  absorb  the  man, 
and  make  his  happiness  dependent  on  a  person  or  persons.  But  in  health  the  mind  is 
presently  seen  again, —  its  overarcliing  vault,  bright  with  galaxies  of  immutable  lights, 
and  the  warm  loves  and  fears  that  swept  over  us  as  clouds,  must  lose  their  finite  char- 
acters and  blend  with  God,  to  attain  their  own  perfection.  But  we  need  not  fear  that 
we  can  lo^e  anything  by  the  progress  of  the  soul.  The  soul  may  be  trusted  to  the  end. 
That  which  is  so  beautiful  and  attractive  as  these  relations,  must  be  succeeded  and 
supplanted  only  by  that  which  is  more  beautiful,  and  so  on  forever.' ' 

Carlyle  regards  the  great  man  as  a  controlling  force,  and 
resolves  history  into  a  series  of  bioo-raj)hies;  Emerson,  as  a  finger- 
post for  the  future,  a  rare  spirit  possessed  of  a  larger  share  of 
the  Over-soul,  an  inspired  mouth-piece  of  universal  or  national 
ideas,  not  to  ]>e  obeyed  but  to  be  followed,  more  serviceable  by 
his  exam|)le  than  l)y  his  acts, —  an  imperfect  approximation  of 
the  ideal  of  the  multitude: 

•All  that  re>pciMs  the  individual  is  lemi)orary  and  prospective,  like  the  individual 
himself,  whu  is  ascending  out  of  his  limits,  into  a  catholic  existence.  We  have  never 
coiue  at  the  true  and  best  benelit  of  any  genius,  so  long  as  we  believe  him  an  original 
force.  In  the  moment  when  he  ceases  to  help  us  as  a  cause,  he  begins  to  help  us  more 
a-  ,in  effect.  Then  he  ap)>e:irs  as  an  exponent  of  a  vaster  mind  and  will.  The  opaque 
si-if  b.-comes  transparent  with  the  lit;ht  of  the  First  Cause.  Yet,  within  the  limits  of 
liiiuiaii  education  and  airency,  we  may  say,  great  men  exist  that  there  may  be  greater 
imii.  The  destiny  of  organized  nati.re  is  amelioration,  and  who  can  tell  its  limits?  It 
1«  for  man  1..  lame  the  rliaos.  on  every  side,  whil~t  he  livrs,  to  scatter  the  seeds  of 
»i  ii-nc  .•  and  of  soni:,  tlial  cliuiate,  ((irii,  aniniuls,  men,  may  be  niildei-,  and  the  germs  of 
\>\\K  ai)il  IxMirtil  may  be  uiulliplii'd  ' '•" 

Since  each   individual   is  an    incarnation   of   the    Supreme,   there 

is    one    mind    common    to    all    men.      ^Vhat    a    ])hilosopher    has 

thought,   we  may   think.      What   a  saint   has  felt,   we   may   feel. 

'Zo/;<.  '^Uf -present alive  Men. 


EMERSOX.  531 

You  are  interested,  for  example,  in  Greek  letters  and  art, 
because  you  pass  through  the  whole  cycle  of  experience,  ai  d 
have  been  personally  a  Grecian.  You  may  see  the  first  monks 
and  anchorites  without  crossing  seas  or  centuries,  because  your 
nature  is  thus  central  and  wide-related.  The  totality  of  history 
is  in  you, —  the  Age  of  Gold,  the  Argonautic  Expedition,  the 
Advent  of  Christ,  the  Dark  Age,  the  Reformation,  the  Renais- 
sance.    So  should  the  student  read,  and  the  historian  write: 

•The  student  is  to  read  history  actively,  and  not  passively;  to  esteem  his  own  life 
the  text,  and  boolts  the  commentary.  Thus  compelled,  the  muse  of  history  will  utter 
oracles,  as  never  to  those  who  do  not  respect  themselves.  I  have  no  expectation  that 
any  man  will  read  history  aright,  who  thinks  that  what  was  done  in  a  remote  age,  by 
men  whose  names  have  resounded  far  has  any  deeper  sense  than  what  he  Is  doing 
to-day.' 

Emerson's  philosophy  explains  his  poetry,  which  is  first  of 
all  an  insight  —  a  vision  of  the  identity  of  nature  and  mind  — 
a  more  or  less  nebulous  embodiment  of  idealism.  At  the  out- 
set we  perceive  the  idealist  in  the  exultant  joy  with  which  the 
college  graduate  escapes  from  the  Boston  school-room  to  rustic 
solitude: 

'  O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Home; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man. 
At  the  sojjhist  sch(X)ls,  and  the  learned  clan; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit. 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet?'' 

We  perceive  his  elevation  of  motive  and  mysticism  of  mood  in 
the  sustained  beauty  and  symbolism  of  lines  like  tlie  following: 

'Lon;:;  I  followed  hai)py  guides; 
I  could  never  reach  their  sides.  .  .  . 
Keen  my  sense,  my  heart  was  young. 
Right  good  will  my  sinews  strung. 
But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 
To  hunt  upon  Ilieir  shining  trails. 
On  and  away,  their  hasting  feet 
Make  tlu-  uioniing  proud  and  swt-et; 
Flowers  they  strew  —  I  catcti  the  scent; 
Or  tone  of  silver  instrument 
Leaves  on  the  wind  melodious  trace; 
Yet  I  could  never  see  their  face.  .  .  . 
Fleetest  couriers  alive 
Never  yet  could  once  arrive. 
As  they  went  or  they  returned, 

'  Sylvan  Home. 


532  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

At  the  house  where  these  sojourned.  .  .  . 
Their  near  camp  my  spirit  knows 
By  signs  gracious  as  rainbows. 
T  thenceforward,  and  long  after. 
Listen  for  their  harp  like  laughter. 
And  carry  in  my  heart  for  days. 
Peace  that  hallows  rudest  ways.' ' 

Though  never  far  distant,  the  ideal  forever  eludes  us.  We  perr 
ceive  his  seership,  also,  in  half-eastern  rhapsodies  such  as  these: 

'The  fate  of  the  man-child. 
The  meaning  of  man : 
Known  fruit  of  the  unknown ; 
Dfedalian  plan: 
Out  of  sleei)ing  a  waking. 
Out  of  waking  a  sleep; 
Life  death  overtaking; 
Deep  underneath  deep?'^ 

In  poem  after  poem,  in  forms  continually  varied  and  ever  new, 
this  is  the  flame-image  of  his  inspiration, —  the  incarnated  Divine, 
the  Real  shining  through  the  apparent,  seeking  constantly  higher 
and  clearer  expression  of  itself.     Thus: 

'A  subtle  chain  of  countless  rings 
The  next  nnto  the  farthest  brings; 
The  eye  reads  omens  where  it  goes, 
And  speaks  all  languages  the  rose; 
And  striving  to  be  man  the  worm 
Mounts  through  all  the  spires  of  form."  ' 

This  is  an  anticipation  of  Evoluti(jn,  not  from  Darwin's  but  from 
Plato's  point  of  view, —  nature  struggling  everywhere  to  reach 
consciousness.      Again,  'Bring  me,'  he  says, — 

'Wine  which  Music  is, — 
Music  and  wine  are  one, — 
That  I,  drinking  tliis, 
Shall  hear  far  Chaos  talk  with  me; 
Kings  '.inborn  shall  walk  with  me; 
And  the  poor  grass  shall  plot  and  plan 
Wliat  it  will  do  when  it  is  niati."* 

Eternal  development  is  the  primordial   law.      At  the  root  of  all 

mutations   is   an   orderly    Intelligence.     All   change  is   progress. 

Rapturously  he  declares: 

'All  tlio  forms  are  fugitivo, 
[{tit  the  substances  survive. 
Kver  fresh  the  broad  creation, 
A  divine  improvisation. 

From  the  heart  of  (Joil  proceeds,  ,    . 

A   single  will,   a  iiiiliicui  deeds. 

^  Forernnnerf.  '■' Spfiiu.r.  *  Kltmfnts.  *  Bacchiit. 


EMERSON.  53S 

Once  slept  the  world  an  egg  of  stone. 

And  pulse,  and  sound,  and  light  was  none; 

And  God  said  "Throb!"  and  there  was  motion, 

And  the  vast  mass  became  vast  ocean. 

Onward  and  on,  the  eternal  Pan, 

Who  layeth  the  world's  incessant  plan, 

Halteth  never  in  one  shape, 

But  forever  doth  escape, 

Like  wave  or  flame,  into  new  forms 

Of  gem  and  air,  of  plants  and  worms."' 

A  keen  susceptibility  to  Beauty,  a  deep  delight  in  it,  were  never 
more  elemental  to  poet: 

'The  leafy  dell,  the  city  mart, 
Equal  trophies  of  thine  art; 
E"en  the  flowing  azure  air 
Thou  hast  touched  for  my  despair; 
And,  if  I  languish  into  dreams. 
Again  I  meet  the  ardent  beams. 
Queen  of  things!    I  dare  not  die 
In  Being's  deeps  past  ear  and  eye; 
Lest  thee  I  find  the  same  deceiver. 
And  be  the  sport  of  Fate  forever. 
Dread  Power,  but  dear!    If  God  thou  be. 
Unmake  me  quite,  or  give  thyself  to  me!"' 

One  more  example  of  the  seer's  ecstasy,  which,  mounting  to  the 
divine  dark  like  the  eagle  towards  the  sun,  admits  the  mind  to 
the  constitution  of  things,  and  announces  truths  that,  from  the 
moment  of  their  emergence,  are  carried  hither  and  thither  till 
they  work  revolutions: 

'Subtle  rhymes,  with  ruin  rife. 
Murmur  in  tlie  house  of  life. 
Sung  by  the  sisters  as  they  spin: 
In  perfect  time  and  measure  they 
Build  and  unbuild  our  echoing  clay. 
As  the  two  twilights  of  the  day 
Fold  us,  mnsic-drunken,  in."^ 

Method. — -Holding  all  tilings  subservient  to  thouglit,  his 
mind  was  perpetually  alert,  and  its  suggestions  were  jotted 
on  the  instant.  Gossij)  tells  that  his  wife,  before  she  knew  his 
habits,  was  suddenly  aroused  in  the  night  by  his  movements  in 
the  room.  She  inquired  anxiously  if  he  were  ill.  'Only  an  idea,' 
was  the  reply.  Observation  and  ex])erienoe,  conversation  and 
wayside  reverie,  thus  contributed  to  fill  his  note-books.  Tlie 
separate  memoranda  were  tiuui  at  intervals  copied  into  larger 
commonplaces,  and  there  classified,  the  subject  of  each  being 
^  Wood- Notes.  ''(hh  I o  Beauty.  ^Merlin. 


534  UIFFLSIVK    PERIOD — KEPKESEXTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

writtoii  in  the  iiiaryin.  ])osiriiig'  to  prepare  an  essay,  he  turned 
to  his  chronicles,  and  transcribed  all  the  paragraphs  on  the  given 
theme.  A  friend  <Mice  found  him  in  his  study,  on  the  eve  of  a 
lecture,  in  tiie  midst  of  scattered  manuscripts  which  he  was 
endeavoring  to  reduce  to  coherence  and  system  for  the  occasion. 
After  the  exigencies  of  the  platform,  the  lectures  are  wrought 
over,  unsparingly  j^runed,  careful! v  corrected,  sentence  by  sen- 
tence, revised  again  and  again,  until  only  the  most  pregnant  and 
perfect  parts  remain. 

The  cost  of  e.xcellence  is  an  old  stoiy.  Sheridan,  urged  by  his 
j)ul)lislHr  to  Hnish  the  ISchool  for  ^Hcandcd,  declared  that  he  had 
spent  nineteen  years  in  the  vain  attempt  to  satisfy  himself. 
Lamb's  humor  was  tlie  result  of  intense  labor.  Tennyson  made 
the  lirst  draught  of  Locknb  ij  Hall  in  t\vo  days,  then  devoted  the 
bettt'r  part  of  six  weeks,  eight  hours  daily,  to  its  alteration  and 
improvement.  Goldsmith  occupied  ten  years  with  the  Traveller, 
setting  down  his  ideas  in  prose,  turning  them  into  rhyme,  and 
retouching  with  infinite  pains.  BufTon's  Natural  History  was 
reco))ied  eighteen  times  before  it  was  sent  to  the  printer.  He 
wrote  on  a  })age  of  five  columns.  His  thoughts  were  jotted  in 
the  first,  corrected  in  the  second,  enlarged,  pruned,  and  so  on  to 
the  tiftli,  where  the  result  was  entered.  He  once  searched  four- 
teen hours  for  a  word  to  round  a  i)eriud. 

Style. — Tersely  rdlned  in  phrase,  trenchant  and  subtle  in 
illustration;  compact,  eitigramniatic,  all  armed  with  j)oints  and 
antitheses.      Here  is  a  s])(H'iniej) : 

•Our  slrcMu'lli  '_'rf)\v<  out  of  fnir  ^^•(';lkll(•^^s.  .  .  .  A  trrcat  man  is  alwavf;  willing  to  be 
litlli'.  Wliili'  he  -its  on  thi'  ciisliion  of  iidvantaire^,  ho  goes  to  slec]).  Wlion  In-  is  pushed, 
toriniiiiiil,  (ItfiMlfd.  he  lia-^  a  chance  to  learn  soinethinL.';  lie  has  put  on  his  wits,  on  his 
iiianhnod:  he  has  u'-iined  fact>;  learns  hi>  lirnorance;  is  cured  of  the  insanity  of  conceit, 
ha-  L'ot  moderation  and  real  ^liill.  Tile  \\i>e  man  always  throws  liimself  on  the  side  of 
hi-  a--ailant-.  It  is  more  his  interest  than  it  is  theirs  to  I'lnd  liis  weak  point.  The  wound 
rir:itri/.e-,  and  fnll-  olT  from  him  like  a  dead  skin;  and  when  they  would  triumph,  lol  he 
ha-  pa--cd  on  iii\  ulnerable.' 

I  suiilly  elegant,  often  jtoetieal  bv  an  imaginative  sympathy  with 
Nature,  as  in  this  ]>assae'e: 

■I  -■■!•  \\\i-  -|M ctacli' of  niorniii'.:  from  ibe  hill  top  over  against  my  house,  from  day- 
ttr- :ik  t'.  -iii,ri-e,  V.  iili  iinotion-  \\  hi'h  :iii  air.'cl  iiii'.'ht  share.  The  long,  slender  bar.s  of 
ci"iMl  llo  ii  Ilk.  !i-h.--  in  til.-  -.'i  ■if  irini^oii  liL'ht.  I-"rom  the  earth,  as  a  shore,  I  look  out 
into  ih.it  sjiriit  -,.,1.  I  -leni  t'l  |i.ir!:ike  \\~  r  ipid  I raii^loriiKitioiis :  the  active  enchantment 
r>:e  h'  -  inv  (In-t,  and  I  dilate  and  i  nii-iiin'  with  the  iiiorniiiL:  wind.  How  does  Nature 
deify  '1-  u  ii'i  ,i  fi-\s  aii'l  cheap  ehnii-nt-  !    (iive  nie  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make  the 


EMERSON.  535 

pomp  of  emperors  ridlcnlons.  The  dawn  is  my  Assyria;  the  sunset  and  moonriso  my 
Paphos,  and  unimaginable  realms  of  faerie;  broad  noon  shall  be  my  England  of  the 
senses  and  the  understanding;  the  night  shall  be  my  Germany  of  mystic  philosopliy  and 
dreams.' 

Always  cal«i,  as  with  the  serenity  of  Jove:  oracular  rather  than 
sequacious.  His  method  of  composition  secured  a  marvellous 
conciseness  of  expression  and  condensation  of  thought.  Aphor- 
istic, he  sacrifices  unity  —  what  we  are  accustomed  to  consider 
such  —  to  richness  of  detail.  Logical  order,  in  the  common  sense 
of  dependence,  is  not  infrequently  wanting.  His  sentences  have 
been  compared  to  Lucretius's  'fortuitous  concourse  of  atoms.' 
The  connection  is  really  in  the  supreme  idea.  Their  relation  is 
organic  in  the  central  theme.  Read  them  in  view  of  this  capital 
image,  and  interpret  them  in  accordance  with  the  writers 
philosophy  of  the  Over-soul. 

Unavoidably,  such  a  style  lacks  repose.  There  is  also,  with 
the  author's  characteristic  disdain  of  rule,  an  occasional  contempt 
or  disregard  of  grammar;  as,  in  the  use  of  'shined'  for  'shone,' 
and  of  'shall'  for  'will.'  In  coining  terms,  he  is  not  always 
felicitous.  A  more  offensive  defect,  if  not  a  more  serious  one,  is 
his  undignified  mannerism  in  tlie  employment  of  "'tis;  as  "Tis 
certain  that  worship  stands  in  some  commanding  relation  to  the 
health  of  man.' 

We  must  think,  however  inspirational  they  may  a])pear,  tliat 
his  jxK'ms  underwent  the  same  patient  elaboration  as  his  essays: 

'I  hung  my  verses  in  the  wind, 
Time  and  tide  their  faults  may  find. 
All  were  ivinnoned  /hronfjh  and  fhro"gh. 
Five  lines  Imted  sound  and  true.' 

\'('t  how  many  of  his  verses  have  tlie  rush  of  fever  heat,  quite 
wortliy  (.){  the  greatest  masters  l)y  their  fantasies  and  energy  I  If 
sonutimes  obscure,  irregular,  unmelodious,  these  peculiarities  are 
referable  to  the  lack  of  lyric  spontaneity,  the  remoteness  or 
weight  of  the  si)iritual  clenieiit.  Judge  tliem  bv  tlie  artist's 
coiicoptioii  of  his  art: 

'firtat  be  the  iiunmcrs  of  ilu'  liard. 
He  shall  not  his  brain  emiiTiibcr 
With  tlie  coil  of  rh\thni  and  niiinl)(r: 
Hut,  Icaviiiir  rule  and  \n\\i'  forilhoiiirht, 
He  sliall  aye  climb 
For  liis  rhyme. 

"Pass  in,  pass  in,"  the  aiisrcl--  ^ay, 
Into  tlic  iijipcr  doors, 


536         DIFFUSIVE   PERIOD  —  REPIIESENTATIVE   AUTHORS. 

Nor  count  conipartinents  of  the  floors. 

But  mount  to  paradise 

By  the  stairway  of  surprise.' 

Rank. — We  say  at  once  that  lie  belongs,  first  of  all,  to  the 
intuitive  order  of  minds,  that  extend  their  penetrating  surmises 
beyond  the  region  of  observation,  and  discern  the  vast,  indistinct, 
but  populous  abyss  behind  visible  phenomena;  not  a  dialectician, 
like  Hobbes,  apt  in  arranging  ideas,  but  a  revealer,  like  Bacon, 
productive  of  conceptions;  a  diviner  who  casts  a  comprehensive 
view  over  the  provinces  of  thought,  condenses  universals  into 
maxims,  and  speaks  after  the  manner  of  prophets,  without  proof, 
with  no  effort  to  convince,  relying  upon  simple  faith  in  the  high- 
est; not  a  discursive  thinker,  like  Locke  or  Hume,  not  a  clear 
and  graduated  logician,  like  Mill,  nor  a  pure  classifier,  like  Spen- 
cer; not  of  those  who  dispose  notions  in  a  continuous  series,  but 
of  those  who  have  vision  of  remote  causes  and  distant  effects; 
a  spectator  of  Being,  like  Plato,  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  who  are 
essentiall}-  poetical,  who  perceive  objects  in  a  lump  —  in  their 
entirety,  with  the  sovereignty  of  an  unique  faculty.  These  are 
the  seers.  Theirs  is  the  organ  of  the  Godlike.  Striving  to 
assimilate  all  in  tiie  circle  of  knowledge,  they  hold  themselves 
aloof  from  ])articular  schools  and  societies,  while  friendly  to  each. 

Beyond  any  ])oet  of  the  age,  he  has  subtle  insight  and  cosmo- 
politan breadth.  Not  a  jingling  serenader,  but  a  kingly  bard, 
whose  gift  it  is  to  'make  tiic  wild  blood  start  in  its  mystic 
s])rings.'  He  is  some  generations  ahead,  and  hence  must  be 
unappreciatc^d  1)V  a  large  class  of  readers.  He  is  vvanting  in  the 
lyric  warmth,  too,  and  the  sensuous  charm,  which  the  general 
taste  will  long  demand.  Like  ali  who  have  seen  into  the  heart  of 
tilings,  he  is  attracted  In*  the  freshness  and  wildness  of  Nature, 
whose  boundless  resources  suii-g(>st  a  transcendence  over  rule. 
His  poems  are  of  the  Vedic  and  Orphic  class,  sure  to  gain  in 
fame  as  tlie  years  roll  on.  It  accords  with  his  philosophy  to  say, 
'The  ))()et  discovers  that  wliat  men  value  as  sul)stances  have  a 
higher  value  as  svinbrils;  that  nature  is  the  itnmense  shadow  of 
man.'  It  accords  with  his  art  to  sav,  '  Poetrv  is  the  perpetual 
endeavor  to  express  the  s])irit  of  the  tiling;  to  ]iass  the  brute 
body,  and  search  tin-  life  and  reason  wliicli  cause  it  to  exist.' 

I  iie<jual  as  a  critic;  chieflv  from  liis  strong  transcendental  or 
si)iritual   bias,  and   his  inal^ility  to  place   himself  dramatically  in 


EMERSON.  537 

the  position  of  another.  He  must  underrate  utilitarians.  "Tis 
of  no  importance  what  bats  and  oxen  think.'  Himself  as  unde- 
viating  and  unperturbed  as  a  planet,  he  could  see  in  Byron  only 
perversion,  excluded  Shelley  from  the  list  of  singers,  and  eulo- 
gized Whitman.  Too  fond  of  epigram  to  be  consistent;  too 
limited  in  sympathy  to  be  just.  While  some  of  his  characteriza- 
tions of  men  have  never  been  surpassed,  while  he  is  at  all  times 
penetrating,  vigorous,  and  genuine,  he  is  too  liable  to  be  either  a 
censor  or  a  panegyrist. 

Between  Emerson  and  Carlyle,  contemporaries  and  friends, 
there  are  some  points  of  resemblance,  and  many  of  divergence. 
Both  are  similarly  related  to  their  period.  Both  have  drawn 
from  the  same  German  masters.  Both  are  protestants  against 
materialism.  Both  have  the  sentiment  of  actuality  and  of  the 
sublime.  Both  believe  that  sensible  things  are  but  appearances. 
Both  feel  the  divine  and  mysterious  character  of  existence.  Both 
decry  too  much  analysis,  too  careful  calculation.  Both  are  sincere 
and  fearless.  Both  are  revolutionary, —  disdainful  of  the  tradi- 
tional and  stereotyped.  The  one  is  tragic  —  sometimes  grotesque; 
the  other  is  neither.  The  one  feds  more  profoundly,  the  other 
sees  more  truly:  rather,  the  one  looks  into  the  abyss,  and  is  over- 
whelmed; the  other  looks  in,  and  is  sustained.  'With  the  ideal 
is  in)mortal  hilarity,  the  rose  of  joy.'  Tlie  one  doubts,  darkens, 
and  circles  round  the  Centre  of  IndifTerence  alternatoly  from  tlie 
Everlasting  No  to  the  Everlasting  Vea;  the  other  ranges  freely, 
is  tranquil,  and  never  falters, —  his  head  in  the  empyrean,  his 
feet  on  the  solid  earth.  The  one  is  gloomy,  the  other  hopeful. 
The  one  sees  deterioration  in  the  midst  of  progress;  the  otiier 
sees  melioration  in  the  midst  of  conflict.  The  one  adores  men  of 
action  and  intensity  —  Odin,  Mahomet,  Dante,  Luther,  Cromwell. 
The  other  venerates  preeminently  men  of  intellectual  grasp  — 
l^lato,  Swedenborg,  Montaigne,  Shakespeare,  Goethe.  What 
contrasted  styles !  The  one  impetuous,  oratorical,  sweeping, 
fairly  coiniected  even  when  most  abrupt;  the  other  aphoristic 
and  (•()in])la(;ent,  seemingly  unsystematic  and  without  emphasis. 

\\'ho  among  English  writers  of  the  nineteenth  century  has 
had  wider  wisdom  in  human  alTairs?  Who  has  possessed  in 
larger  measure  the  national  realism  and  the  craving  for  profound 
belief?     Who  has  penetrated  mor»>  deeply  into  the  moral  sense 


538  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

of  things,  with  greater  extent  of  survey?  What  poet  has  in 
so  catholic  a  spirit  accepted  the  scientific  discoveries  of  his  day, 
or  so  happily  interpreted  as  poetic  revelation  of  the  Over-soul 
those  abstract  laws  which  are  supposed  to  make  poetry  impossi- 
ble? How  many  have  bequeathed  to  posterity  an  equal  number 
of  quotable  sentences,  so  pithy,  so  wise,  so  suggestive,  so  stimu- 
lating,—  jewels  all?     We  venture  to  select  a  few: 

•  Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star.' 

'  Every  man's  task  is  liis  life-preserver.' 

'Beauty  is  the  mark  God  sots  upon  virtue." 

'The  joy  of  tlie  spirit  indicates  its  strength.' 

'The  hero  Is  he  who  is  immovably  centred." 

'If  there  ever  was  a  good  man,  be  certain  there  was  another,  and  will  be  more.' 

'If  yj)U  believe  in  Fate  to  your  harm,  believe  it,  at  least,  for  your  good.' 

'Thefts  never  enrich;  alms  never  imi>overish;  murder  will  speak  out  of  stone  walls.' 

'The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  Divine  Spirit  are  so  pure,  that  it  is  profane  to  seek 
to  interpose  helps." 

'Jesus  and  .Sliakespeare  are  fragments  of  the  soul,  and  by  love  I  conquer  and  incor- 
[Kjrate  them  in  my  own  conscious  domain.' 

'  Kings  and  other  jewels  are  not  gifts,  but  apologies  for  gifts.  The  only  gift  is  a  por- 
tion of  thyself." 

'We  fancy  men  are  individuals;  so  are  i)iuni)kins;  Ijut  every  pumpkin  in  the  field 
goes  through  every  point  of  pumpkin  history." 

'The  life  of  every  man  is  the  true  romance,  which,  when  it  is  valiantly  conducted, 
will  yield  tlie  imagination  a  higher  joy  than  any  Action." 

'A  breath  of  will  blows  <'tcrnully  through  the  universe  of  souls  in  the  direction  of  the 
Right  and  the  Necessary." 

'.\  great  man  is  a  new  statut-  in  every  attitude  and  action.  .V  beautiful  woman  is  a 
picture  which  drives  all  beholders  nol)Iy  niiul  ' 

'.\  just  tliink.r  will  allow  full  swing  to  lii^  scepticism.  I  dip  my  pen  in  the  blackest 
ink,  tie(  nusc  I  mn  not  afraid  of  fulling  into  my  ink|K)t." 

•  How  shall  a  man  escape  from  lii^  an<  istors,  or  draw  off  from  his  veins  the  black 
ilrop  which  he  drew  from  his  father's  or  his  mothers  life  V" 

'  If  your  eye  is  on  the  eternal,  your  intellect  will  grow,  and  your  opinions  and  actions 
will  have  a  beauty  whicli  no  learning  or  ((^11)111(^1  advantages  of  other  men  can  rival." 

'  Ni>  man  can  write  anytliiuL.',  "  lio  does  not  tliink  that  what  lie  writes  is  for  the  time 
the  history  of  the  world;  or  do  anything'  well,  who  does  not  esteem  his  work  to  be  of 
imporlaiii'e." 

'Wherever  snow  falls,  or  watir  lU.w~.  or  birds  lly.  wherever  day  and  night  n)eet  in 
twilight,  wherever  the  blue  lieavin  is  huni;  by  i  loucls,  or  sown  with  stars,  wherever  are 
forms  with  transparent  boundari.s.  wh.river  :ip-  outlets  into  celestial  space,  wherever 
is  danger,  and  awi-,  and  love,  therf  is  ItcMuty.  ])lenteoiis  as  rain,  shed  for  thee,  and 
thout'li  thou  -houldst  walk  the  world  tixcr.  thou  shalt  not  be  aide  to  find  a  condition 
inopportune  or  ignoble." 


EMERSON.  539 

Among  men  there  is  no  such  thing  as  pure  originality  —  the 
initiation  of  materials  absolutely  new.  The  least  live  by  con- 
sitraint;  the  greatest  by  assimilation.  The  ages  play  into  the 
tutelage  of  genius.  Literature  is  the  ever-renewing  flower  of 
antiquity: 

•  For  out  of  ohle  feldes,  an  iiu'ii  saith, 
Cometh  al  thirt  iicwe  corn  from  ycrc  to  yere. 
And  out  of  olde  booker,  in  good  faith, 
Cometh  al  this  newe  (science  that  men  lere.' 

Emerson  converted  all  his  predecessors  into  nutriment  for  him- 
self. 'What  is  a  great  man,'  he  asks,  'but  one  of  great  affinities, 
who  takes  up  into  himself  all  arts,  sciences,  all  knowables,  as  his 
food  T  Elsewhere  he  affirms  that  the  great  man  must  be  a  great 
reader,  and  possess  great  assimilating  power.  Many  of  his  lead- 
ing ideas  are  derived  from  Plato,  who  seems  to  have  impressed 
liim  strongly.  He  was  an  early  and  earnest  student  of  Plotinus. 
His  debt  to  the  Platonists  of  the  Elizabethan  era  is  large.  He 
drew  liberally  from  the  Oriental  mystics,  in  particular  those  of 
Persia  and  India.  The  aggregate  influence  of  the  representative 
( rermaiis  —  Kant,  B^ichte,  Hegel,  Schelling,  Herder,  Lessing, 
(loethe  —  has  been  considerable.  With  Carlyle's  moral  aspira- 
tion he  was  ever  in  warm  sympathy.  His  style,  and  even  his 
phraseology,  were  affected  not  a  little  by  T^andor,  of  whom  he 
was  a  hearty  admirer. 

No  man's  resources  are  wholly  in  himself.  'Every  book,'  says 
our  aiitlior,  '  is  a  (juotation;  and  every  house  is  a  quotation  out 
of  all  forests,  and  mines,  and  stone  (juarries;  and  every  man  is  a 
(|Uotatioji  from  all  his  ancestors.'  '  Very  little  of  me  would  be 
left,'  says  Goetli»>,  '  if  I  could  but  say  what  I  owe  to  my  great 
prt'det't'ssors  and  contemporaries.  Moliere,  accused  of  theft, 
itpli<'d  that  he  recovered  his  property  wherever  he  found  it. 
\  irgil  conveys  images,  epithets,  and  i)aragra})hs  from  Homer  and 
liesiod.  Spenser  borrows  heavily  from  Tasso,  and  .lohnson 
thought  Milton  a  whoU'sale  plagiarist.  Byron  is  only  excelled 
by  Poi»e  as  an  adopter  and  adapter  of  ideas  and  dietion.  Emer- 
son masters  l;is  acfjuisitions,  and  organizes  them  into  otiier  and 
higher  forms,  like  Plato,  Aristotle,  Shakespeare, —  all  sublime 
borrowers.  The  unfailing  fountains  of  literature  have  had  the 
tribute  of  a  hundred  rivers. 


M 


540  DIFFUSIVE    PEKIOD  —  REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

Character. —  In  relation  to  the  ultimate  ends  of  life,  a 
mystical  idealist;  in  relation  to  its  means,  a  discriminating  man 
of  action.'  A  thinker,  without  being  a  recluse;  a  scholar,  with- 
out being  a  pedant.  Self-poised,  yet  modest,  never  cynical. 
*  The  great  man  is  he  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,  keeps,  with 
perfect  sweetness,  the  independence  of  solitude.'  Simple,  though 
profound.  Calmly  cordial,  never  demonstrative.  Benignant, 
always  accessible.  His  heaven-lit  face  set  the  shyest  at  their 
ease,  while  it  forbade  the  undue  familiarity  or  conventional 
compliment  of  any.  His  humblest  neighbor  received  from  him 
a  smile  of  recognition.  *  It  was  good,'  says  Hawthorne,  '  to  meet 
him  in  the  woodpaths,  or  sometimes  in  our  avenue,  with  that 
})ure  intellectual  gleam  diffused  about  his  presence  like  the 
garment  of  a  shining  one.'  Carlyle  compared  his  presence  to  a 
heavenly  vision.  In  persons,  lie  liked  the  plain,  preferred  the 
earnest,  shunned  the  egotistic.  August  and  serene,  yet  intense. 
Have  we  not  seen  how  like  a  sun-worshipper  he  could  gaze  on 
the  morning  sky?  And  who  could  sing  more  finely  of  the 
remedial  life  in  the  season  of  birds  and  buds?  Who  has  divined 
more  justly,  more  clearly,  and  uttered  more  appropriately,  the 
sentiment  of  affection?  See  Celestial  Love  for  a  scientific  study 
of  this  passion;  the  Aymdrt  and  the  lines  To  Kva,  for  a  love  that 
is  not  'celestial,'  but  human:  and  T/irenocly,  for  a  grief  'too 
deej)  for  tears ': 

'()  cliild  of  parudi.se, 
IJoy  who  iiiaih?  dear  his  father's  homo, 
III  wliosc  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 
1  am  too  iiiiieli  Itereft: 
The  worhl  dishonored  thou  has  loft. 
()  truth's  and  nature's  costly  lie! 
<)  trusted  broken  proi))iecy ! 
()  richest  fortnne  sourly  crossed ! 
Horn  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost  I' 

Tliougli  a  niiister  ol"  expression,  ho  was  not  fiu<Mit.  In  a  swift 
comjiany,  he  was  mute  or  hesitating.  Yet  '  Fortunate  the  visitor,' 
says  Alcott,  '  who  is  admitted  of  a  morning  for  the  high  discourse, 
or  permitted  to  join  the  j)oet  in  his  afternoon  walks.'  He  talked 
as  he  wrot(;, —  not  continuously, —  logically,  but  al)ruptly,  intui- 
tively, which  was  his  mental  process. 

Report  says  that   In;   lived    irn!proaclial)ly,  ilevoted  to  human 

'  Head  thi'  essays  on  Powr  and  WmUli. 


EMEKSON.  541 

good,  loyal  to  his  own  precepts.  He  reposed  on  the  attributes 
of  InHnity  with  an  unfaltering  trust.  He  held  uniformly  to  the 
Platonic  elevation  of  view.  '  Everything  is  beautiful  seen  from 
the  point  of  the  intellect,  or  as  truth.  But  all  is  sour,  if  seen  as 
experience.  Details  are  melancholy;  the  plan  is  seemly  and 
noble.'  Hence  the  chivalric  ideal  which  formed  the  goal,  the 
sanction,  and  the  motive  of  his  example  and  teaching.  'Always 
do  Avhat  you  are  afraid  to  do.'  *  If  I  will  stand  upright,  the 
creation  cannot  bend  me.'  Be  self-reliant,  he  would  say,  because 
you  are  the  agent  of  the  Over-soul.  Keep  to  your  orbit  with  the 
steadfastness  of  Nature  to  her  plan.  Live  to  the  level  of  your 
thought.  Insist  forever  upon  the  sovereignty  of  personality. 
The  present  is  thousand-eyed.  Why  let  the  corpse  of  memory 
scare  you  from  the  pursuit  of  truth,  which  is  many-sided  ? 
Dwell  ever  in  a  new  day: 

'A  foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds,  adored  by  little  Ptatesmcn 
and  philosophers  and  divines.  With  consistency  a  great  soul  has  simply  nothing  to  do. 
He  may  as  well  concern  himself  with  his  shadow  on  the  wall.  Speak  what  yon  think 
now  in  hard  words  and  to-morrow  speak  what  to-morrow  thinks  in  hard  words  again, 
though  it  contradict  everything  you  said  to-day." 

(iuard  your  individuality  with  jealous  care.  Reject  authority 
without  running  into  license.  Be  not  the  organ  of  a  party. 
Let  nothing  provoke  you  into  controversy.  Oppose  formalism, 
without  being  intolerant.  Be  frank,  fair-speaking,  but  not 
dogmatic.  Say,  'I  desire  no  man  to  take  anything  I  write  or 
speak  upon  trust  witliout  canvassing,  and  would  be  thought 
rather  to  {)r(jpound  than  to  assert.'  You  may  be  an  unbeliever 
in  the  orthodox  sense  —  lead  a  perfectly  orthodox  life,  devout 
toward  your  Maker,  brotherly  toward  your  kind.  'The  happiest 
man  is  he  who  learns  from  Nature  tlie  lesson  of  worship.'  '  No 
man  ever  i)rayed  heartily  without  learning  something.'  What 
more,  ()  fearful,  troubled  mortal?  Help  for  the  living,  hope  for 
tlie  (lead,  reverence  for  the  Creator,  love  for  the  creature, —  is 
not  this  better  than  all  burnt-olTering  and  sacrifice? 

Influence. — Such  was  the  charm  of  his  personal  character, 
tiiat  those  wlio  knew  him  loved  him  with  the  love  almost  of  a 
devotee, —  he  was  so  gentle,  so  willing  to  advise,  so  kindly  in 
reproof.  'Tell  Emerson  I  loved  and  reverenced  him,'  said  Sum- 
ner when  dying;  which  voiced  the  feeling  of  a  large  section  of 
eilucated   Americans.      Tlie  curious,   the    admiring,   the    anxious. 


542  DIFFUSIVE    PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE    AUTHORS. 

the  worshipful,  thronged  to  Concord,  as  to  a  shrine,  to  see  or 
hear  the  oracle,  "a  beauty  and  a  mystery,'  whose  master-word 
seemed  to  many  worth  the  world.  '  Voung-  visionaries,'  says 
Hawthorne,  'to  whom  just  so  much  of  insight  had  been  imparted 
as  to  make  life  all  a  labyrinth  around  them,  came  to  seek  tlie 
clew  that  should  lead  them  out  of  their  self-involved  bewilder- 
ment. Gray-headed  theorists  —  whose  systems,  at  first  air,  had 
imprisoned  them  in  an  iron  frame- work  —  travelled  painfully  to 
his  door,  not  to  ask  deliverance,  but  to  invite  the  free  spirit  into 
their  own  thraldom.' 

A  noble  antithesis  to  all  meanness,  flippancy,  and  sensuality, 
lie  has  been  a  forcible  protestant  against  materialism,  has  thrown 
his  weight  into  the  scale  of  justice,  has  fortified  men  against 
temptation,  and  taught  them  nobly  to  aspire.  In  the  mountain 
atmosphere  of  his  thought,  how  many  have  been  deepened  and 
enlarged,  stronger  by  his  strength,  greater  by  liis  greatness  !  In 
how  many  breasts  has  he  kindled  an  ardent  desire  for  improve- 
ment !  How  many  has  he  inspired  with  a  finer,  higher,  keener 
sense  of  the  purposes  of  existence  !  Even  where  inconclusive, 
what  a  tonic  to  the  will  and  the  understanding,  by  his  intense 
suggestiveness  ! 

We  are  not  likely  to  be  at  a  loss  for  ]>ractical  energy,  in  an 
age  when  commercial  interests  are  strong,  in  a  country  where 
brains  are  zealously  expended  on  the  farm  or  exchange,  there  is 
pressing  need  of  mon  who  lay  a  cliiof  stress  uf)()ii  the  divine 
symbolism  of  material  exist'mce,  that  the  home  may  not  sink  into 
a  hfjuse,  nor  the  grave  into  a  pit,  nor  the  fairer  elements  of 
human  nature  bccoinc  incrctlible  from  their  I'oul  environment. 
This  has  been  the  mission  of  Kmerson.  as  of  all  the  sages.  He 
has  been  light  to  the  illiuninators  —  ministers,  instructors,  writers. 
For  half  a  century  his  etiiical  and  prophetic  utterance  has  been 
an  active  and  growing  power  \(>  keep  the  cvc's  of  people  on  the 
strain  of  rare  and  noble  visions.  lie  has  fouiujed  no  school,  he 
lias  left  behind  him  no  l*]Mieisonian  svstem,  l)ut   fragments  of  him 

are    scattered     every  wlier( germs    of     bloom     that    will    perish 

never.  .\  irreat  liook  is  a  sliij>  deep  freighted  with  immortal 
treasures,  lireakinir  the  se;i  of  lilC  into  fadeless  beauty  as  it  sails, 
carrying  to  every  shore  seeds  of  truth,  goodness,  pietv,  love, 
to  flower  and  fruit   perennially  in  the  soil  of  the  heart  and  mind. 


EPILOGI^E. 


We  have  seen  a  numerous  and  powerful  society,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  material  splendor  and  a  complete  literature,  develop 
from  the  ravagin<r  tribes  that  issued  from  the  German  forests, 
crossed  the  intractable  sea  in  their  pirate  boats,  and  settled  in 
a  land  of  marsh  and  fog;  ill-housed,  fierce,  carnivorous,  long 
buried  in  grossness  and  brutality,  but  importing,  with  their 
savage  and  transient  manners,  redeeming  and  persistent  senti- 
ments—  their  native  fidelity  and  love  of  freedom,  their  instinct 
of  the  serious  and  sublime,  their  inclination  for  devotion,  their 
worship  of  heroism,  their  tragi-heroic  conception  of  the  world 
and  man.  From  the  Saxon  barbarian  to  the  Englishman  of 
to-day,  what  a  transformation  !  From  the  Heptarchy  to  the 
*  Model  Republic,'  how  vast  the  change  !  Yet  in  the  child  was 
the  promise  of  the  youth  and  adult,  as  a  thousand  forests  are 
potentially  in  the  acorn.  The  nomadic  Scandinavian  bore  within 
him  the  germ  of  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  JJacon,  Carlyle,  and 
Kmerson.  A  pereimial  miracle  —  Causal  Power  creating  forever 
—  Providential  Power  conserving  ff)rever — the  visible  proceeding 
from  the  Unseen,  like  an  odor  of  incense,  like  a  strain  of  music  — 
the  Over-soul  in  active  and  perpetual  accomplishment. 

But  is  j)rogrcss  to  .stoj)  here?  Wlio  knows  where  we  are 
in  the  duration  and  development  of  the  race?  In  the  cradle 
still,  or  in  opening  manhood?  By  the  same  Divine  law  of 
evolution,  we  too,  in  turn,  shall  ))o  outstripped.  Our  boundary 
is  movable  and  elasti<!.  Around  any  circle,  another  may  be 
(liawn.  Hach  end  is  a  begimiing,  and  must  be  superseded  bv  a 
better.  The  latest  civilization  will  be  a  suggestion  of  new  and 
liiLifher  possibilities.  The  gohlen  ages  are  before  us.  On,  ever 
(jii,  towanl  the  Hying  Perfect  I  — 

'  Profoundcr,  profoimdiir 
Man's  spirit  iniisl  dive, 
To  his  Mje-rolliiii;  orbit 
No  uoal  will  arrive. 

543 


544  EPILOGUE. 

The  lu-avcns  that  now  draw  him 
With  sweetnesn  untold, 
t)nce  found,  for  new  heavens 
He  spurneth  the  old." 

At  the  centre  of  succession  is  the  energizing  mind.  Beowulf 
and  Paradise  Lost,  St.  Peter's  and  the  Pyramids,  cities  and 
institutions,  have  their  roots  there.  History  is  the  multiform 
representation  of  it.  Other  things  are  external  and  fugitive. 
The  web  of  events  is  its  flowing  robe.  Ever  young,  ever  ripen- 
ing, ever  advancing  into  the  illimitable.  The  needle  has  its  dip, 
and  its  variation, — 

'But,  though  it  trembles  as  it  lowly  lies. 
Points  to  that  light  which  changes  not  in  heaven.' 

For  can  we  think  of  tendency  witiiout  thinking  of  purpose? 
Are  names  and  forces  alone  immortal,  and  not  the  souls  which 
give  them  their  immortality?  O  rich  and  various  man,  made  of 
the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  living  for  the  moment !  in  the  majestic 
Past  as  a  prophecy  to  the  Future,  in  thy  ceaseless  discontent 
with  the  Present,  in  thine  endless  ascension  of  state,  in  thine 
iiiHjuenchable  thirst  for  the  Infinite,  we  find  the  blazing  evidence 
of  thine  own  eternity.  Before  the  magnificent  procession  of 
History,  forth-issuing  from  Cimmerian  Night,  and  vanishing 
into  Fathomless  Silence,  wonder  and  veneration  are  the  true 
attitude: 

'Like  some  wild-rtamini:,  wi!d-tlnindiring  train  of  Heaven's  Artillery,  does  this 
mysterious  Mankinii  thunder  and  (lame,  in  long-drawn,  qniek-succeeding  grandeur, 
through  the  unknown  Deep.  .  .  .  Like  a  CJod-created,  rtre-breathing  Si)irit-host,  we 
emerge  from  the  Inane,  hast(!  stormfully  across  tlie  astonishe<l  Earth,  then  plunge 
again  into  the  Inane.  .  .  .  Rut  whence':'  — ()  Heaven,  whither?  Sense  knows  not;  Faith 
knows  nol :  only  that  it  is  through  Mystery  to  Mystery, //'o/;*  God  to  dod.' 


1  Is  D  E  X. 


AbsaloTii  and  Achituphd,  quoted  and 
criticised,  58. 

Absolute,  the  Hamiltonian  doctrine 
of  the,  319. 

Account  of  the  Kimjdum  of  Absurd- 
ities, 94. 

Adam  Bede,  quoted  and  criticised, 
471. 

Addison,  Joseph.  29  ;  quoted.  73  ; 
influence  of,  in  the  purification 
of  the  stage.  74;  biography  and 
criticism.  80-88. 

Address  to  Drifden,  81. 

^neid,  Drvden's  translation  of,  61. 

Agassiz,  L.'J.  R..  436. 

Ages,  387. 

Agnosticism,  barrenness  of,  434. 

Akenside,  Mark,  (juoted  and  criti- 
cised, 134. 

Alastor,  quoted  and  criticised.  285. 

Alcott,  A.  Bronson,  414  (note):  quot- 
ed, 502.  517,  541. 

Alexander's  Feast,  (juoled  and  criti- 
cised, 62. 

All  for  Lore,  (luoted  and  criticised, 
57. 

Amber  Gods.  419  (note). 

Amelia,  quoted  and  criticised.  154. 

America,  in  the;  first  (juarter  of  tlic 
present  century,  Engiisli  impres- 
sions of.  262;  democracy  of,  con- 
ti'ustcd  witii  liie  aristocracy  of 
Hii;.'l;uid.  in  penal  legislation.  2G5; 
in  manners.  265;  in  the  j)osition 
of  woman,  265;  in  temperament, 
266:  in  religion.  269;  in  the  pres- 
ent age,  the  firess  in,  294.  399;  r)o- 
liticid  aspects  of.  357:  unparalleled 
development  of,  361 :  education  in. 
361:  arts  and  humanities  in,  362; 
religion  in,  363;  jjoetrv,  and  poets. 
377;  tlK-  essay,  408:  the  novel,  419; 
history,  421;  ethical  science,  429. 

American  Daih/  Adrerfiser.  first 
daily  in  the  Uiiited  States.  294. 

Amcriraii  Lift rafure.  423  (note). 

Anu-ricans,  their  passion  for  wealth. 
266:  their  ofTicc-seeking.  266:  gen- 


eral view  of  their  inherited  and 
acquired  traits,  267. 

American  Scholar,  quoted,  525. 

Amulet,  540. 

Amusements  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, 71. 

Anabaptists,  the,  10. 

Analogy,  the  argument  from,  illus- 
trated, 142. 

Analoyy  of  Religion,  141. 

Anaximander,  precursor  of  the  mod- 
ern Development  Theory,  318. 

Ancient  Mariner,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 277. 

Anglo-Saxon  Poetry,  270. 

Annabel  Lee.  quoted  and  criticised, 
383. 

Antiquary,  f|Uoted.  326. 

Antiquity  of  Freedom,  387. 

A)itiquities  of  London,  quoted,  4. 

Anti-Trinitarians.  10. 

Antoninus  Pius,  (luoted.  160. 

Ants,  a  battle  of.  described,  411. 

Archimetles.  an  unrecognized  bene- 
factor, 192. 

Arians,  the,  10. 

Aristocracv,  the  modern,  illustrated, 
446. 

Aristotle,  intimations  of  the  Devel- 
opment Theory  in,  318. 

Arminianism.  progress  of.  30. 

Arnold.  Thomas,  criticised.  309. 

Arnold.  Matthew,  (pioted.  70  :  as 
poet.  372:  as  essayist,  401. 

Art.  puritv  the  foundation  of  great, 
407. 

Arthur  lionyncastlc.  419  (note). 

Artist,  the.  revealed  in  his  art.  156. 

Aspects  of  Poetry.  401. 

Association,  inlluence  of.  illustrated, 
399. 

Astnea.  (pioted  and  criticised.  388. 

Atlantic  Essays.  414  {note). 

Attention,  power  and  imjiortance  of. 
37  (and  note). 

Aurora  Leiqh.  (pioted  aiul  criticised, 
370. 

Aitruiigichi-.  (|uoted,  56. 


54») 


INDEX, 


Austen,  Jane,  307. 

Bacchus,  quoted,  532. 

Bacon,  Francis,  28,  44;  quoted,  110, 
202;  materialistic  influence  of,  14(5. 

Bain,  Alexander,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 432. 

Bancroft,  George,  cluiracterized.  421. 

Bttrhara  Fru'ichie,  393. 

Barbarity  in  the  seventecntii  cen- 
tury, 3;  in  the  eighteenth,  72. 

Buiffoof  Buy,  quoted  and  criticised, 
393. 

Barrow.  Isaac,  characterized,  24. 

Bascom,  John,  quoted,  151;  as  psy- 
chologist. 429,  430. 

Bastile,  destruction  of  the,  257. 

Baxter,  Richard,  .juoted,  9;  criti- 
cised, 27. 

Bayne,  Peter,  414  (note). 

Beau,  Addison's  anatomy  of  the,  82. 

Beauty,  tlie  attributes  of  typical, 
4(M):  must  be  ideallv  suggestive, 
529. 

Benutif,  fiuoted.  529. 

Beaux'  Stml<t(jcm,  (pioted  and  criti- 
cised. 21. 

Beecher.  II.  W..  414  (vot>'). 

Btyyiin^''  OpiTd,  VMS. 

Be/utrior,  quoted,  .529. 

Belief,  Hiiiiio's  philosophy  of,  1(57. 

BdU,  cliaracterized.  38;>. 

Benefactors,  unrecognizeil,  220. 

Beiithani.  Jcreniv,  31,  315. 

Bent  lev,  j^ichard",  29.  7<i. 

Berkclev,  Bishop,  43,  KIO. 

BiaiieoilMli.  melancholy  of.  329. 

Iiu)l<iir  I'djiiis.  ([iKiteil  and  criti- 
(■ised,  390. 

Bill  (tiid  •[()('.  (pioted  and  ei'iticised, 
389. 

Bhiik-vil'il  Siis,ni,  2!)3. 

Blacksiuiie.  Sir  William.  128. 

ISItichirDiid'-i  Mnfidliiii',  294. 

Jilithriliili-  JiiiiiKinri',  fjiioted  ami 
criticised,  505. 

Bojiiigbroke.  Henry  Si.  .lolm.  29; 
<|Uiile(l,  123:  postliiimoii^  piiblica- 
ti.)ii-  of,  141. 

Bunk-  1)1'  S>ii/l/-s.  .jUoted  Mild  criti- 
ciseii;  415. 

Bnoth.  Lucius  Junius.  :',!)8. 

JiosirfU's  Liir  III'  .Inlilisiiii.  (|Ui)te(l, 
210. 

Bov<l.  A.  K.  II..  414  (),<,h). 

Boyle.  Hol.ert.29.  44.  7(i:  .lunte,],  :58. 

Bric-n-Brar  Sfric'i.  414  inotf). 

Bridijf.  of  Sii^lii,  criticiseil,  307. 


Bright,  John,  (juoted  on  Free  Trade, 

357. 
Bi-itish  Critic,  182. 
British  Novelists,  401. 
Broken  Heart.  305. 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  419  {note). 
Brougham,  Ilenrv,  quoted,  170  {note). 

262,  268. 
Brown,  J.,  414  {note). 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  quoted,  180. 
Browning.  Elizabeth  Barrett,  quoted 

and  critici.sed,  369. 
Browning,  Robert,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 368;  as  dramatist,  396. 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  quoted,  356; 

and  criticised,  383. 
Buccaneer,  quoted,  378. 
Buckle.    Henry   Thomas,    criticised, 

420. 
Building  of  the  Ship,  521. 
Bidwer.  Edward  Lytton.     See  Lord 

Lytton. 
Bunyan,  John,  quoted.  3;  allusion  to. 

44;  biograjjhy  and  criticism.  45-54. 
Burke,   Edmund,   quoted.    183;   and 

critici-sed,  193. 
Burnet,  Bishop,  criticised.  28. 
Burnett.  Frances,  419  (note). 
Burns,  Kobert,  biography  and  criti- 
cism, 221-241. 
Butler,  Sanniel.  quoted  and  criticised, 

14. 
Butler.  Bishoji.  (pioted.  129;  defence 

of  Chrislianitv.  141 :  ethical  school 

of.  144.  ■ 

Bi/  fhi'  Xortli  Sea.  quoted.  375. 
Byron,  (pioted,  175,  435:  allusion  to, 

293;  biographv  and  criticism,  339- 

355. 

Cain,  quoted  and  criticised,  343. 

Caleh  Williams.  307. 

Calviinsm.  30,  230.  313. 

Camjibell.  Tlionuis.  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 272. 

C'aj)ital  and  Labor,  358. 

Carlyle,  Thomas.  313:  quoted,  336; 
as  critic.  401;  as  historian.  420;  as 
philosoj)her.  435;  biography  and 
criticism.  455-470;  parallel  be- 
tween, and  Emerson,  537. 

Colo.  74:  (|Uoti>d,  81, 

Causation,  Locke's  theorv  of,  42; 
Hume's,  101:  Hamilton's,  319. 

Cele.slial  Lore.  540. 

f^-nei.  (pioted  and  criticised,  289. 

Centennial  Exhibition,  302. 

Cervtintes.  241. 


INDEX. 


547 


Challenge  of  Thor,  quoted,  521. 
Channing.  W.  E., 
fised,  813. 


quoted  and  criti- 


Character,  contradictions  in,  120;  in- 
completeness of  the  sceptical.  171; 
contrasts  in,  255;  paradoxical,  329. 

Character,  quoted,  528. 

Charities,  262. 

Charles  II,  1;  quoted,  53. 

Charon,  the  Sty<rian  ferryman,  159. 

Chartists,  the.  356. 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  270. 

Chaucer,  motlcrnizcd,  61. 

Chesterfield.  Lord,  quoted,  128. 

Childe  Harold,  quoted  and  criticised, 
340. 

Ch  ild's  First  Impressions  of  a  Star, 
quoted.  381. 

Chillingworth.  William,  28. 

Christ.  J.  S.  Mill  concerning,  424. 

Christatjel.  quoted  and  criticised,  278. 

Christian  Hero,  77. 

Christianity,  183,  267.  313,  363. 

Christianitif  not  Mysterious,  75. 

Christian  Virtuoso,  38. 

Chronicle,  the  Saxon,  cjuoted,  139. 

Church,  the  KnjjHsh,  268;  divisions 
in.  363:  Irish  Protestant,  356;  the 
New,  425. 

Circles.  (| noted,  528. 

Civilization,  unprecedented  advance- 
ment in,  258. 

Ciriliziifion  in  England.  420  {note). 

Civil  Service,  corruption  of.  in  the 
United  States.  358. 

Clarendon.  Lord,  criticised,  28. 

ClarisfiO  Jlitrlowc,  (|U()ted  and  criti- 
cised. 147. 

Clarke.  Samuol.  29. 

Clcriry.  di-cline  of  political  influence. 
9:  alisohite  in  Scotland,  9;  in  the 
ay:"'  of  Anne.  72.  ^V-*'  Church  and 
Rt'liirion. 

Cloiiil.  (iu()te<l  and  criticised.  29L 

CofTcc  Houses.  71. 

<'oleri(igt'.  Sainucl  Taylor.  313: 
quoted.  316:  and  eriticiseii.  277. 

Collier,  .leremv.  attaeU  of.  on  the 
stai,'e.  23,  74] 

Collins.  William.  76. 

Collins.  William  Wilkie.  A\9  (not,-). 

Commons.  House  of,  258. 

Co»ipi'nsafion.  fpiotetl.  527. 

Compli'te  Ant/tcr.  (|Uo|ed  and  criti- 
cised. 24. 

Condillac.  43. 

Confesniun--,  of  an  Opium  K<tter.  300 
[nittc). 


Conflict,  the  condition  of  jx)wer,  220; 
.significance  of  moral,  illustrated, 
511. 

Congreve,  William,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 17;  quoted,  65. 

Con(^uest  of  Grenada,  quoted  and 
criticised,  55. 

Conquest  of  Mexico,  311. 

Conquest  of  Peru,  311. 

Conquest  of  the  Saracens,  420  (note). 

Conscience,  the  tortures  of  a  guiltv, 
illustrated,  440,  445. 

Cotiscious  Lovers,  77. 

Considerations  by  the  Way,  quoted, 
527. 

Constitutional  History  of  England, 
310. 

Contentment,  a  picture  of,  24.  25. 

Controversv,  the  stvle  of  theological, 
illustrated,  391.  ' 

Conversation,  Dryden's,  66. 

Cooke,  G.  W.,  414  {note). 

Cooper,  James  Fennimore,  quoted 
and  criticised,  308,  419. 

Coopers  Hill,  quoted  and  criticised, 
12. 

Corn  Law.  the,  356. 

Corsair,  (pioted  and  critic.iscd.  343. 

Colfpys  Saturday  Night,  quoted  and 
criticised,  230. 

Conntry  Parson.  414  {note). 

Countri/  Wife,  ((uoted  and  criticised, 
16. 

Cousin,  Victor.  318. 

Cowley.  Ahraliam.  14.  23. 

Cowj)er.  William,  quoted,  45,  64; 
biograjihy  and  criticism.  241-25f). 

Crahbe.  George,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 270. 

Craik.  G.  L..  quoted.  146. 

Creg.  W.  R..  414  {7ujte). 

Crimean  War.  356. 

Criticism.  10.  118.  183.296,301.313. 
401.  402. 

Cromwell.  Oliver.  28. 

Cromwell.  420.  460. 

Crowded  Street,  qnoted  and  criti- 
cised. 387. 

Cudworth,  Ralph.  29,  35.  44. 

Curse  of  h't'liiiiiia.  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 27r). 

Custom,  influence  of,  457. 

Ihiilfl  Thoughts.  414  [note). 
Dana.  R.  11..  (juoted  ami  criticist-d, 
3r,s. 

iJii/ii/l  hirouda.  (\\\<<\''i\  and  criti- 
rised.  481. 


548 


INDEX. 


Darkness,  quoted  and  criticised,-  347. 

Darwin.  Charles,  317:  quoted  and 
criticised,  430. 

David  Copperfidd,  quoted,  438:  and 
criticised,  447. 

Death,  Dryden's  image  of,  57,  58; 
Raleigh's  apostrophe  to.  14();  qual- 
ifications for  ineeting,  151):  paral- 
lel between,  and  sleep.  285;  the 
sorrow  of,  291,  292;  universjilitv 
and  dread  of,  384.  38(i. 

De  Cive,  condemned  by  Parliament, 
35. 

Declaration  of  Independence,  quoted. 
179. 

Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire. 198. 

De  Foe,  Daniel,  as  journalist.  74;  as 
novelist,  75;  biography  and  criti- 
cism. 89-94:  and  Hawthorne,  503. 

Deism.  English,  rise  of,  28;  decline 
of.  142.  183. 

Democracy,  growth  of.  257:  develop- 
ment of,  ni  the  United  States, 
358. 

Democrari/  in  America,  quoted.  202. 

Demonolnjiji  and  Wifchcnift.  325. 

Denhiim.  Sir  .lolni.  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 12. 

Dennis,  John,  (piotcd,  121. 

Descent  of  Man,  430. 

Deserted  Villftye,  (juoted  and  criti- 
cised. 212. 

De  Quincey.  Thomas,  (pitted.  220; 
and  criticised.  299. 

Design,  the  arguinnit  rroni.  184. 

Development,  modern  eonc-eption  of, 
430. 

Dialof/iies  of  the  Dead.  157. 

I)i(irii.  Kvelyn"s,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 25. 

Diari/,  Pc|»vs",  ipioled  and  eritieised, 
2(>.' 

Dickens,  Charles,  biography  and 
cril  ieism,  43S-454. 

Diclionarij  of  tin-  Eiijjllsli  Lmit/iiafip, 
criticiM'ij,  173. 

Disraeli.  I'.enjaniin,  ((iiotcd.  241:  as 
a  novelist.  419  (imh-]. 

Dissentfps,  the,  72. 

Disscrtdtiiiii  oil.  h'oas/  /'ii/,  ipioted 
and  eritiei^d.  299. 

Donihci/  am/  Soil,  ipioteil  and  crili- 
cisc(i,  44(1. 

Domestic  Miuiiii'r.<  nf  tin-  Ainiriinns, 
(ploted.  2r>:{. 

Don  dnitii.  (ploted  and  criticised,  348. 

Donne.  .lohn.  allusion  to,  14. 


Dorset,  Earl  of,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 11. 

Drama,  in  the  Restoration,  licen- 
tiousness of,  and  the  causes,  15;  in 
eighteenth  centiiry,  slight  literary 
importance  of,  74,  130,  181;  in 
nineteenth  century,  downward  ten- 
dency of,  continued,  390;  moral 
elevation  of,  398. 

Drama  of  Exile,  quoted,  370. 

Draper.  John  W,,  criticised,  422; 
allusion  to,  435. 

Drapier  Letters,  criticised,  102. 

Dream,  quoted  and  criticised,  339. 

Doubt,  the  function  of,  202. 

Dryden.  John,  allusion  to,  13,  22, 
45;  quoted,  15,95;  prose  works  of, 
24;  biography  and  criticism,  54r- 
69. 

Dugdale,  Sir  William,  allusion  to,  27. 

Dunciad.  quoted  and  criticised.  114. 

Dutch,  the  early,  Irving  on  the 
domestic  architecture  ancl  manners 
of,  304. 

Di/ing  Alchemist,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 380. 

Edgeworth,  ^laria,  Irish  Tales  of, 
308. 

Edinhnryli  Review,  294. 

Edward  Fane's  Rosebud,  quoted  and 
criticised,  503. 

Education,  classical,  Ilazlitt  on,  298. 

Eggleston.  Edward,  419  (note). 

Elegu  written  in  a  Count nj  Chnrch- 
i/ard.  <pioted  and  criticised,  135. 

E/rmenfs.  quoted.  532. 

Kliot,  (Jeorge.  Ijiographv  and  criti- 
cism, 470-487. 

Elizabefh,  420  {note). 

Emerson.  Kalpli  Waldo,  quoted.  239, 
318.  407.  425;  allusion  to.  414; 
anti-materialism  of.  435:  biog- 
rapliv  and  criticism.  523-543:  and 
Carlyle.  537. 

Em/ji'docfi's  on  Etna,  (pioted.  373. 

Endi/mion.  (pioted  and  criticised, 
2S'1. 

Kngland,  political  and  social  fea- 
tures of.  in  tiie  Restoration.  1-0; 
in  the  eighteenth  centurv.  70-72, 
120-129.  179-181:  in  the  nine- 
teenth. 257-202.  350-301. 

Knglisli  ('hurch.  Dryden's  metaphor 
of.  (it).     aScc  Church  and  Religion. 

Enii/mas  of  Life.  414  (note). 

Euocli  Arden.  (pioted  and  criticised, 
493. 


INDEX. 


549 


Essay,  the.  74,  295.  400. 

£ssays.  Goldsmith's,  criticised,  216. 

Easay  on  Criticism,  criticised,  112. 

Essays  in  Criticism,  quoted,  402.  403. 

Essay  of  Dramatic  Putsy,  quoted,  02. 

Essays  of  Elia,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, ii99. 

Essay  on  Man,  quoted  and  criticised, 
115. 

Essay  on  Milton,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 301. 

Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding, 
40. 

Essays  in  Biography  and  Criticism, 
414  (note). 

Essays,  Philosophical  and  I'heologi- 
cai,  414  {note). 

Essays,  Theological  ami  Literary, 
414  (note). 

Eternal  Goodness,  quoted.  390. 

Eternal  Hope.  414  (note). 

Etherege.  Sir  George,  iiis  definition 
of  a  gentleman,  10. 

Ethics,  intuitive  and  utilitarian 
schools  of.  characterized  and  dis- 
tiiiguislied,  31.  143:  utilitarian 
tone  of,  in  last  half  of  eighteenth 
century,  188:  also  in  nineteenth 
century.  315,  427;  representatives 
of  intuitive  school  of,  429. 

European  Morals  from  August  its  to 
Charlemagne,  420  (note). 

Evangeline,  (juoted  and  criticised, 
520. 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  (luotod  and  criti- 
cised, 282. 

Evelvn.  John,  (juoled  and  criticised. 
25." 

Every  Day  Topics.  414  (note). 

Evidences  of  Christianity,  75. 

Evil  not  an  entity.  527. 

Evolution,  theory  of,  introduction 
of.  into  KngKsii  science.  310:  not 
of  modern  origin.  318  :  general 
acceptance  of,  430:  feels  the  uplift 
of  the  ideal.  431:  eiulangers  no 
fundamental  belief,  432:  the  Pla- 
tonic view  of,  5:52. 

Excellence,  all,  perpetual,  25(1. 

Excelsior.  521. 

Excursion,  (juoted.  330. 

F<dde  for  Critics,  quoted,  518. 
Faldes.  (pioted  and  criticised.  61. 
Faith,  beauty  of  the  child's.  :}81. 
Faith  (iartney's  (rirlhood.  419  (n(de). 
Fame.  Iransitorinessof  poetical.  29(i: 
evils  of.  381. 


Fan,  Addison  t*n  the  use  of  the,  83. 
Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd,  419 

(note). 

Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother, 
393. 

Farfjuhar,  George,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 21. 

Farrar,  F.  W.,  41^  (note). 

Fate,  element  of,  in  the  government  of 
the  world,  526;  limitations  of,  527. 

Fate,  quoted,  526. 

Federal  Government,  420  (note). 

Few  Sighs  from  Hell,  46. 

Fichte,  philosophy  of,  318. 

Fiction,  sketch  of  the  growth  of,  307. 

Field,  James  T.,  414  (note). 

Fielding,  Henry.  127;  (juoted,  128; 
criticised,  137  :  biography  and 
criticism.  151-157. 

Fire,  the  Great,  account  of.  25. 

Fiske,  John,  414  (note),  435. 

Flood  of  Years,  criticised,  387. 

Flying  coaches  established,  4. 

Fontenelle,  quoted,  34. 

Fool's  Errand,  419  (note). 

Forerunners,  quoted,  531. 

Foster,  John,  quoted,  268. 

Fountain,  criticised.  3S7. 

Fox,  Charles,  quoted,  193. 

Fragments  of  Science,  quoted,  432. 

Free  Thought,  29.  423. 

Free  Trade,  first  advocated  by  Hume, 
170;  adopted  in  England.  356. 

Freedom  of  discussion,  180. 

Freeholder,  82. 

Freeman,  Edward.  420. 

French  influence  in  English  Litera- 
ture, 312.  320. 

French  poetrv.  Drvden's  description 
of.  62. 

French  Revolution.  A2()(nidi):  (pioted 
and  criticised.  4(!1. 

Froude.  .1.  A.,  as  a  critic.  401 :  (pioted 
and  criticised.  403.  420. 

Fuller.  Mai'garct.  (juoted,  469. 

Fullers  Worthies.  27. 

Fulton,  Kobert.  259. 

Funeral.  77. 

Future,  a  vision  of  the.  3.58. 

Future,  (juoted,  373. 

Future  Life,  (pioted  and  criticised, 
387. 

Galileo,  (pioted.  38. 

Gallows,  as  an  index  to  the  state  of 

society.  3. 
(»alvani.  an  unrecognized  benefactor, 

192. 


)50 


INDEX. 


Gambling,  2,  71,  128. 

Garden,  nnoted  and  criticised,  14. 

Garrick,  David,  136. 

Oarfh,  419  {note). 

Ga»,  introduction  of,  into  London, 
259. 

Gates  Ajar,  419  {note). 

Gay.  John,  13G. 

Gebi'r,  quoted  and  critiei.sed.  368. 

Gems  of  tlioiight  and  sentiment,  64, 
104,  118.  134,  274,  297.  306,  314, 
353,  371,  408,  413.  464,  486,  501, 
513.  538. 

Genius,  Newton's  conception  of,  37; 
llelvetius',  37;  Curlyle's.  460. 

Gentlenuiii,  definition  of  ii,  in  the 
Restoration,  16. 

Geology,  rise  of  the  science  of,  187; 
progress,  316. 

German  influence  in  English  Litera- 
ture, 312,  320. 

Gertrude  of  Wijo)niny,  (juoted  and 
criticised,  274. 

Ginnnr.  quoted  and  criticised,  343. 

Gihlxiii.  Hdward.  183.  310  :  biog- 
raphy and  ci-iticism,  195-203. 

trin.  discovery  of,  and  the  icsults. 
128. 

God.  Locke's  derivation  of  the  idea 
of.  41  ;  Pope's  prayer  to.  110  ; 
I'opc's  attempt  to  define,  117;  ar- 
gument of  natural  theology  for  the 
existence  of,  184:  on  the  ])rovi- 
dence  of,  331:  the  impartial  good- 
ness of.  332;  faith  in,  396:  the 
fundamental  reality.  457:  t  lie  Over- 
soul  in  pi'ocess  (if  self-evolution, 
525. 

Goetlie.  quoted.  171,  2.55.  539. 

(ii)ldeii  Li(jend,  ()aoted.  519,  520. 

Cioldsmitli.  Oliver,  (pioted.  175:  bi- 
ography jiiid  cniicisni.  203-221. 

Good  and  Evil.  Carlyle  on.  46(). 

(foodness  and  (ii'eat  rie.-s.  ends,  not 
means.  316. 

Giisjiil  (I  Jti'piililiiidiiiu  iif  I  III'  Rili- 
iji'ih  of  Xdiiiii',  75. 

Gra\.  Tlionias.  (pioled  and  <iMtieised. 
i:J5:  (|Uoled.  212. 

(jray.  .\>a.  ant i-mal(  riali>tic.  4:56. 

(ileal  .Man,  the.  Cai'ivle's  eo|iee|)t  ioll 
of.  Am:   Kiuerson's",  530. 

Griiil  i;i'l„'llii„i.  2.S. 

(ireelev.  iIora<c.  294. 

Green.' .lohn  !{..  420. 

Greenwich  Oliserva'my  founded.  36. 

Grimaldi.  melancholy  of.  329. 

Gwirdiiiii.  77.  82. 


Guizot,  quoted,  199. 

Guesses  at  Truth,  414  {note). 

Gvlliver's  Travels,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 103. 

Habeas  Corpus.  43. 

Habit,  and  the  sense  of  beaut  v.  407. 

Hall.  Kobert,  quoted,  267. 

Hallam,  Henry,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 310. 

Halleck.  Pitz  Greene,  quoted  and 
criticised,  378. 

Hamilton,  Gail,  414  {note). 

Hamilton.  Sir  William,  (pioted,  43; 
allusion  to.  315;  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 318. 

Happiness,  Giblwn  on.  201;  as  a 
motive  to  virtue,  and  the  grouiul 
of  the  moral  sentinu'iits,  315; 
essential  requisite  for.  315;  not  a 
usual  possession  of  the  highest 
minds,  404. 

Hardy,  Thomas.  419  {note). 

Harte.  Francis  Bret,  419  (note). 

Hartley.  David,  utilitarian.  143. 

Haven',  Joseph.  429. 

Hawthorne.  Julian,  AVd  {note). 

Hawthorne.  Nathaniel,  414.  419;  bi- 
ogra])liv  and  criticism,  502-518; 
(juoted,"  .540,  542. 

ILizlitt.  William,  quoted.  107:  and 
criticised.  298. 

llvaJinii  of  tlie  Daughter  of  J < rims. 
(pioted  and  criticised.  379. 

Hectors,  the.  3. 

Hegel,  318. 

Hell,  conception  of.  in  the  seven- 
teenth century.  ;^0:  Bunyan's  vivid 
sense  of.  53:  Southey's  description 
of  the  Indian.  275;  past  and  pres- 
ent views  of.  42(). 

Ilellrnirs.  368. 

Helps.  Sir  Arthur,  (pioted,  438. 
Herbert,  Lord,  deist ical  tenets  of,  28. 
llvnnit  of  Thetmid.  395. 
llcriiix    II nd    Jlero-Wornhip.    (pioted 

and  criticised.  459. 
Ilerschel.  Sir  William.  187. 
lliiiiviithd,  (luoted  and  critici.scd.520. 
Ilickok.  L.  P..  430. 
Ilii,^i,nnsoii.  T.  W..  414  {)ii>(r). 
llighwavs.  3.  4. 
High  Church.  72.  .363. 
Ilihil  iihd  Punllitr.  (luoted  and  criti- 

-■ised.  59. 
Historians,   three    schools   of.    in    the 

prr>ent  age.  419. 
lli>lory.  u'enei-al  view  of  progress  in 

Ihe    nielli. .d    of,    to   the    middle   of 


INDEX. 


561 


the  eighteenth  century.  138;  first 
work  of  literary  eminence  in.  140; 
humane  and  democnitie  features 
of,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  309; 
latest  ino<lesof  treating,  419;  Mac- 
aulay's  conception  of,  309;  Car- 
lyle's,  460:  Emerson's,  531. 

History  of  Animated  Nature,  216. 

History  of  the,  Britons,  139. 

History  of  England,  character  and 
scope  of  Macaulay's,  309. 

History  of  England,  Hume's.  140, 
164." 

Histoi'y  of  England,  Goldsmith's, 
216. 

History  of  English  Poetry,  183. 

History  of  Ferdinand  ami  Isabella, 
310. 

History  of  Greece,  216,  309. 

History  of  Henry  Es)iiond,  quoted 
and  criticised.  418. 

History  of  New,  York,  Irving's,  quoted 
and  criticised,  304. 

History  of  tlie.  Popes.  Macaulay's 
essay  on,  quoted.  303. 

History  of  liouu'..  Goldsmith's,  316. 

History  of  Rome,  Arnold's,  309. 

History  of  the  United  States,  Ban- 
croft's, 421. 

Hixtory  of  the  World,  (luoted,  140. 

Ilobbes,  Thomas,  prose  style  of,  24; 
deism,  29:  utilitarian  ethics.  32- 
36;  psychology,  38:  precursor  of 
modcni  lUMterialisin.  39. 

IlDgarth.  14."). 

lli)llaud,  J.  (r,,  (juotcd,  238:  named, 
414  {nolt),  419  (note). 

Ildluu's,  Oliwr  Wendell,  quoted  and 
criticised.  :{87. 

Holmes.  .Mrs..41!»  (no/f). 

JLili/  Fair,  (iiiotcd  ami  ei'ilit'ised. 
231. 

ilonicr.  Cowper's  iil)ser\iiti(jns  on, 
250. 

Hood.  Tiionius,  (juoted,  238:  and 
criticised,  366. 

Hoosicr  ScluxihiiiiHtcr.  41!)  {note). 

Mope,  blessedness  of,  273:  apostrophe 
to.  274. 

Hours  in  a  Lihrary.  414  (note). 

Hours  with  the  Myxticii.  401. 

Mouse  of  Connnons.  becduies  para- 
mount. 2. 

HoitM  if  the  Seven,  Gnhlcs.  (|Uoted  and 
criticised.  506. 

Howells.  W.  D.,  419  inoti). 

Hufh'linis.  quoted  and  (;riti(ise(l,  14: 
allusinii  to.  44. 


Hudson.  Henry  N.,  414  (iiote). 

Hughes,  Thomas,  419  (note). 

Humboldt,  Alexander,  quoted.  168. 

Hume,  David,  43,  140,  310:  scepti- 
cism of,  141 ;  philosophy  of,  mate- 
rialistic, 145,  160;  biography  and 
criticism,  157-171;  on  principles  of 
trade,  190. 

Hunter,  John,  his  contributions  to 
medical  science,  187. 

Button.  R.  H..  quoted.  188,  455; 
allusion  to,  414  (note). 

Hunt.  Leigh,  quoted  and  criticised, 
366. 

Huxley,  Thomas  H..  quoted.  432, 435. 

Hymn  to  Intellect, tuil  Beauty,  quoted 
and  criticised,  291. 

Hymn  to  Proserpine,  quoted.  376. 

liymns,  quoted  and  criticised,  81. 

lii/perion,  Keats',  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 282. 

Hyperion,  Longfellow's,  cjuoted  and 
criticised,  519. 

Ilypatiu,  419  (note). 

HyjxKjrisy,  illustrated.  443. 

Ideal,  the.  necessity  of.  69.  169;  un- 
realizable, 372:  the  longing  for, 
392 :  influence  of,  on  character,  528. 

Idealism,  31,  144,  459. 

Idealist,  mission  of  the,  542. 

Ideas,  fjower  of.  192. 

Idler,  quoted  and  criticised,  173. 

Idyls  of  the  King,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 495. 

Iliad,  Pope's  translation.  127. 

Iliml,  Cowper's  translation.  250. 

Imagination,  decadence  of.  73;  the 
ignorant  more  inventive  than  the 
educated,  298. 

Imaginative  poetry,  examples  of,  289. 

[niitatiotis  of  Hond'e.  (pioted,  123. 

Immortality,  kinds  of.  87:  belief  in, 
innate,  117.  332:  analogy  of  Na- 
ture for,  142:  intimations  of,  299. 
334;  Byron  on.  353;  t'arlyle,  458; 
impersonal.  485. 

Indian  Empemr.  quoted.  5(i. 

Individuals.  |)<)\ver  of,  08. 

Influence,  limits  of.  68:  p<'rpetuity 
of.  88. 

///  Menioriani.  (juoted  and  criticised, 
492. 

Inquiry  Conrerning  Ih.e  Human  Un- 
derstanding, ([uoted  and  criticised, 
160. 

Tiapiini  Coni't-rniiKj  th(  Sublime  and 
lUautifal,  202. 


552 


INDEX. 


Inquiry  into  tJie  Nature  and  Causes  of 

the  Wealth  of  Nations,  quoted  and 

criticised,  191. 
Intellect,    materialized    by   physical 

pursuits,  506;  without  reverence, 

203. 
Intimations  of  Immortality,  quoted 

and  criticised,  3J4. 
Intellectual  Development  of  Europe, 

criticised,  422. 
Inventions,  great,  civilizing  influence 

of,  25S. 
Ireland,  deplorable  condition  of,  361. 
Irving.    Washington,    quoted,    203; 

and  criticised,  303. 
Imnlioe,  quoted,  326. 

James  II  succeeds  Charles  II,  1, 

James,  Henry,  Jr.,  415)  {note). 

Jane  Eyre,  419  (n/de). 

Jansen.  quoted,  262. 

Jeffrey.  Lord,  tjuoted,  259,  302;  and 
criticised.  295, 

Jerrold.  Douglas.  293. 

John  IMifax,  419  (note). 

John  PloiDiaatis  Talk,  414  (note). 

John  Gilpin,  criticised,  245. 

John  GtKlfrey'fi  Fortune,  419  (note). 

Johnson.  I>r.  Samuel,  quoted.  6.  90, 
137.  190,  208.  216,  219.  2r),5,  541; 
allusion  to.  127,  241;  attempts  to 
revive  the  Miscellany,  130;  biog- 
raphy and  criticism.  172-178. 

Johnson,  Esther.  "Stella',  97. 

Jolli/  Begfjar>i,  quoted  and  criticised, 
233. 

Joiinthiin  ir/W,  criticised,  152. 

.Jones.  Sir  William,  quoted,  187. 

Jo.S'ph  Anrfreirs.  criticised,  152. 

Journal  of  the  (treat  Plnr/ue  in  Lon- 
don, (pioted  and  criticised,  90. 

Kant,  jihilosophy  of.  318, 

Kean.  Ivlmund.  294. 

Keats,  .lohti.  ((uoted  and  criticised, 

280;  Jcffrev's  criticism,  295, 
Kemble.  ,1.  I'..  294. 
KfpliT.  ulhision  to,  37;  quoted,  38. 
Kin;,'.  Archbishop,  quoted.  99. 
Kinu'.  Thomas  Starr,  414  (note). 
Kimrsjcv.  Charles,  419  (note). 
Kno\vled<„'e.  orii,'in  of,  ;J9.   144.  160; 

limits  of.  according  to  Hamilton, 

319, 
Knowles.  .lames  Sheridan,  291. 
Kohhi  Kh'tii.  (piotf.'d  and  criticised, 

279. 


Labor,  relation  of,  to  capital,  358; 
the  romance  of,  505. 

Lady  of  t/te  Lake,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 324. 

Lady  of  Lyons,  396. 

Lady  of  the  Aroostook,  419  (note). 

Lalla  liookh,  quoted  and  criticised, 
276. 

Lamb.  Charles,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 298. 

Dind  of  Dreams,  criticised,  387. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  quoted  and 
critici-sed,  367. 

Lara,  quoted  and  criticised,  344. 

Ltst  Leaf,  quoted  and  criticised,  389. 

Last  of  the  Mohicans,  308. 

Tyist  Days  of  Pompeii,  criticised,  414. 

Last  of  the  Barons,  criticised,  414. 

Latter-Day  Pamphlets,  quoted,  468. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  quoted  and 
criticised,  322. 

Law,  William,  character  and  influ- 
ence of,  142;  quoted,  143. 

Lecky.  W.  E.  II.,  420,  429;  quoted 
and  criticised,  424. 

Lectures  on  Modern  History,  309. 

Lectures  on  Enrjlish  IliHlory  as  Illus- 
trated by  Shakespeare's  Plays,  414 
(note). 

Lectures  on  the  Study  of  History,  414 
(note). 

Letters  from  a  Citizen  of  the  World, 
216,  ' 

Letters  from  a  Nobleman  to  his  Son, 
216, 

Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,  quoted,  194. 

Lever,  Charles.  419  (note). 

Leviathan,  condemned  by  Parlia- 
ment, 35, 

Lewes.  G.  II.,  433. 

Life,  a  stream,  12:  Dryden  concern- 
iuij.  56;  a  vision  of,  84;  Pope's 
view  of.  123;  how  conceived  by  the 
wise,  123;  aspects  of,  155;  transi- 
toriness  of,  331 ;  Wordsworth's  con- 
ception of,  332;  Bvron's,  350;  on 
the  conduct  of.  47()',  481. 

Life  of  Napoleon,  325. 

Life  Thoughts,  414  (note). 

Liston.  melancholy  of,  329. 

Literature,  preeminence  of,  among 
the  fine  arts.  220;  present  aspects 
of.  in  America,  437. 

Literidure  of  Europe,  310. 

Literature  and  L/fe,  quoted,  409. 

Little  Ann>e\s  liundde,  517. 

Livi-s  if  the  Poctn.  criticised,  175. 

Jj'ichieVs  Warning,  274. 


INDEX. 


553 


Locke,  John,  allusion  to,  29,  37,  44, 
166;  quoted  and  criticised,  40;  his 
doctrine  of  the  origin  of  ideas,  40, 
145. 

Lockaley  Hall,  quoted  and  criticised, 
490;  quoted,  501. 

London,  condition  of,  in  1650,  4. 

fjondon  Gazette,  6. 

Jjiy/idon  Quarterly  Review,  294. 

Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  quoted,  393 
(note).  488:  biography  and  criti- 
cism, 519-523. 

Loiiying,  quoted  and  criticised,  392, 

Lord  UUin's  Daughter,  274. 

Lothnir,  419  {note). 

Lotos  Eaters,  quoted  and  criticised, 
489. 

Love,  conception  of,  in  the  Restora- 
tion, 10. 

Love,  quoted  and  criticised,  279; 
quoted,  530. 

Low  for  Love,  quoted  and  criticised, 
17. 

Loves,  of  gi-eat  men.  Swift,  97; 
Gibbon.  197;  Burns.  228;  Bvron, 
339;  Dickens,  453;  Carlyle,  469. 

Low  Church,  363. 

Lowell,  Jaincs  Russell,  quoted  and 
criticised,  390. 

Lucille,  quoted  and  criticised,  371. 

Lucretius,  quoted,  164. 

Lucretius,  fjuoted  and  criticised,  371, 

Ijyell,  Sir  Charles,  his  contributions 
to  science  of  geology,  316. 

Ljii));/  Lorer,  71. 

Lytt(m,  Lord,  criticised,  414. 

Lyttoii,  Robert,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 371. 

Mahd  Martin,  393. 

jVIacauIav.    Thonuis    B.,    quoted,    7, 

76,  172,  175,  339;  allusion  to,  420; 

quoted  and  criticised.  301,  309. 
Mac  Donald,  George.  419  {note). 
Mac  Vlicknoe.  (luoted  and  criticised, 

60. 
^Mackintosh,   .James,   on  Conscience, 

315. 
Macplierson,  James.  270. 
IVlacready.  \V.  C,  294. 
Manazine,  the,  rise  and  character  of, 

136. 
Maiden  Queen,  quoted.  56. 
Jla/iirif/  of  Ent/land,  420  (note). 
Man,    .Swift's  satire  of,    103;  Pope's 

characterization  of,    117:    ])urj)ose 

of,  1.34;  definition  of  a  great,  157; 

brevity  and  dissonance  of  tlie  life 


of,  290;  extremes  meet  in,  238, 
329;  how  to  probe  the  real  value 
of  a,  221,  238;  conceives  better 
than  he  performs,  372;  Matthew 
Arnold  on,  372;  Swinburne,  376; 
inexplicable  mystery  of,  404;  a  sym- 
bol, 456;  not  the  product  of 
chance,  492. 

Man  of  Feeling,  227. 

Mandeville,  Bernard  de.  29,  43. 

Manfred,  quoted  and  criticised,  345. 

Marble  Faun,  quoted  and  criticised, 
510. 

Marco  Bozznris,  quoted,  379. 

Marmion,  quoted  and  criticised,  823. 

Marriage,  in  the  Restoration,  15; 
Tennyson's  ideal  of,  459 ;  Emei-son 
concerning,  530. 

3Iars  Stript  of  his  Ainnoi'.  etc.,  90. 

JJartin  Chuzzlewit,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 443. 

Martineau,  James,  414  {note),  429, 
435. 

Marvell,  Andrew,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 13. 

Masson,  David,  401. 

Materialism,  ascendency  of,  in  the 
Restoration,  31;  cheerlessness  of, 
273;  reaction  against,  318;  in 
America,  425;  in  England  at  pres- 
ent, 435. 

Mathematics,  Macaulav  on  the  studv 
of,  m\. 

Matter,  a  dou])le  entity,  431;  cannot 
evolve  life,  432;  svmbolism  of,  456, 
525. 

Maud  3IuUer,  393;  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 395. 

JIaxiins  and  Reflections,  quoted,  17. 

Maztppa,  quoted  and  criticised,  343. 

McCosli.  James,  allusion  to,  430; 
influence  of,  against  materialistic 
phih)sophy,  43(). 

Medicine,  .science  of,  its  debt  to 
Hunter,  187. 

Memorials  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
414  {note).  ' 

Jlemoirs  of  a  Cavalier,  criticised,  90. 

Memorabilia,  quoted,  184  (note). 

Merchant  of  Venice,  rejjroduced  up- 
on the  stage,  136. 

Merlin,  quoted.  533. 

Method,  in  Pope,  111:  in  Burns, 
227;  in  Gibbon,  202:  in  Dickens, 
450:  in  Kmerson,  533. 

Methodism,  rise  of,  130;  fruits  of, 
181;  progress,  268. 

Middle  Ages,  310. 


554 


INDEX. 


Middleimirch,  quoted  and  (•riti<ised, 
477. 

Middleton,  on  Miracles,  141. 

AFill.  John  Stiuirt,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 433,  427;  as  a  psychologist, 
433,  434. 

Mill  on  the  Floss,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 475. 

Miller's  Daughter,  quoted,  501. 

Milton,  John,  allusions  to.  13.  44; 
compared  with  Cowper.  253. 

Minister's  BlMck  Veil,  cjuoted  and 
criticised.  503. 

Ministry,  demands  of  the  age  upon 
the,  3(55. 

Minstrel,  portrait  of  the  last.  332. 

Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border ,  322. 

Miift'elkiniiis,  quoted  and  criticised. 
481. 

Miscellanemis  Essat/s,  300. 

Miscellany,  Periodical,  74;  decline 
of,  136.' 

Missionary  system,  organized.  363. 

:Mitchell.  T.J.,  414  (ho/<>). 

Mitford,  Miss,  293. 

Modest  Pro])os(d,  (juoted  and  criti- 
cised, 103. 

Mofig  Mef/oae.  393. 

.Mohawks.  3. 

Moliere.  329.  539. 

Montesquieu,  (juoted.  8.  127.  303. 

M<x)re,  Thomas.  (Hioted  and  criti- 
cised. 275. 

Moral  Law,  foundation  of  the.  188: 
sovereignty  of,  430. 

Morals,  the  schools  of,  defined  and 
discriminated.  315.     See  Kthics. 

Mor(dit!/,  (luotcd.  373. 

Morning  Post.  294. 

.\fosxfs  froni  iiii  Old  Mhuki'.  quoted. 
573. 

Motley.  John  Lotlirop.  quoted  mikI 
criticised.  421. 

Miiiintin'ii  Ddisi/,  (|U<itc(l  ami  criti- 
cised. 233. 

.Muiock.  Miss.  419  {noli-). 

Murder  ('misidered  us  One,  uf  th<-  Fim 
Arts.  :',(Kt. 

Mu<ic.  ciiltivjitiiiii  (if.  145. 

Miita)iilili/.  (|Uotc(l  ;iii<l  criticised. 
390. 

Mg  Mother's  Pii'tun.  (|ii(ilc(l  .iiid 
criticised.  245. 

Mg  Sou!  ,11,(1  I.  (juotcd.  :{ij5. 

Niipf)lc(iii    Huiiapartc.  ciircci-  df.  357: 

(jiioted.  399  (i,i,li\. 
Niircissii>.  ^tiirv  cf.  1.5<(. 


Naturtd  History  of  Religion,  quoted 
and  criticised.  168. 

Natural  Huology,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 183. 

Nature,  mode  of  descrii)ing,  in  the 
critical  period,  13,  14,  114;  a  reve- 
lation of  mind,  187,  457;  her  ideali- 
zation, 273;  teaches  the  lesson  of 
deyotion.  407;  in  Cowper,  247;  in 
Moore.  276:  in  Coleridge,  279;  in 
Shelley.  285:  in  Cooper,  308:  in 
Scott,"  336;  in  Wordsworth,  337; 
in  Byron,  343:  in  Bryant,  383:  in 
Ruskin,  405;  in  Dickens,  448,  452; 
in  Tennyson.  489:  in  Hawthorne, 
517;  in  Emerson,  535,  .533,  534. 

N(d.iire,  quoted,  535. 

Never  too  Ixtte  to  Mend.  419  {note). 

New  Wife  and  the  Old,  quoted,  395. 

Nemcomes,  quoted  and  criticised,  417. 

Nevysletter,  the,  6. 

Xe\vspai)er.  the.  establishment  of.  6: 
growth  of,  71,  137,  183.  394:  in 
America,  399;  of  the  future.  400. 

Xewton.  Isiutc,  allusions  to,  39,  44. 
76:  his  doctrine  of  uniyersal  gravi- 
tation, 37;  biography  and  criti- 
cism. 37. 

Niebuhr.  309. 

Xightingalc.  Keats"  lines  on  the.  283. 

Night  I'hoaglits.  (juoteil  and  criti- 
cised, 134. 

Nineteenth  centurv.  general  view  of. 
330.  436. 

Nonintn  Conqnest.  430  (note). 

North  American  Review,  294. 

Notes  on.  Rooks.  401, 

Novel,  tlie.  distiuguishe<l  from  Ro- 
lUiUice.  137  ;  dilfercut  kinds  of, 
137:  freed  from  indelicacies.  182: 
rapid  deveiopnu'ut  of,  307  :  the 
historical,  414:  the  ethical.  414; 
in  .Vmerica.  308.  418. 

Xovclist.  possible  beneficent  inliu- 
cuce  of.  150. 

0'(%>nner's  Child,  274. 

Orriillation  of  Orion,  531. 

Occiination.  uecessitv  of.  254. 

Ode  to  Jionitg.  (|U()le"d.  533. 

(hie  to  Sjirinr/.  (pKiled  and  criticised, 
!»9. 

(hie  on  Solitjnlr.  108. 

0,lgssey.  Cowi)cr"s  trfiiislation,  250. 

Ojf' Shorr.  ipiotcd.  376. 

Oil?  Curiosity  Shop,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 441. 

01,1  English  History.  420  {note). 


INDEX. 


555 


Oliphant.  Mrs.,  419  (note). 

Oliver  TwUtt,  quoted  and  criticised, 
440. 

On  Death,  90;  quoted  and  criticised, 
291. 

On  the  Necessity  of  At/ieism,  284. 

On  the  Late  Increase  of  Bobbers, 
quoted,  128. 

Opening  of  a  C/iestnut  Burr,  419 
(note). 

OfKira.  English,  rise  of,  145. 

Optimism.  527. 

Oratory,  Euylish,  the  golden  age  of, 
192. 

Organum.  influence  of,  on  science  of 
ethics,  143. 

Oriental  Epilogue,  (juoted  anil  criti- 
cised, 391. 

Originality.  539. 

Origin  of  'Species,  430. 

Otwav,  Thomas,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 22. 

Over-Soul,  quoted.  526. 

Owen.  Dr..  (juoted,  53. 

Owen  ^leredith,  pseud.     See  Lytton. 

Owen,  R.  D.,  socialist  schemes  of, 
312 

Own  Times,  28. 

Paine.  Thomas.  312. 

Palace  of  Art.  (juoted  and  criticised. 
488. 

Palev.  William,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 183. 

Palgrave,  Sir  F'rancis.  309. 

Pamela,  or  Virtue  lieicarded.  (}uoted 
and  criticised.  146. 

Pandora,  fal)lp  of  the  jar  of,  273. 

Pantisotnuv.  277. 

Paoli.  quoteil.  217. 

PardcelxHK.  qiujted  and  critioised, 
386. 

Piirddiae  Tj<>Hi.  quoted.  317. 

Parker.  TlicodDrc.  (|U()tf(l  and  criti- 
cis«-(l.  314:  (|iiott'(l.  523. 

Parliament,  corruption  of.  258. 

Pari  ill  mentani  Kites.  6. 

Pascal.  124.  ' 

Pushing  <f  Arthur,  quoted.  501. 

I^iisxioiKitP  Pihiriiii.  419  (note). 

Patrniiajrc  in   literature,  70. 

Paul.  .lean,  (pioted.  240. 

Peiidnin/s.  (juoted  and  criticised. 
416. 

Pepvs.  Sanuiel,  quoted.  1.5 :  and  criti- 
cised. 2(). 

Percival.  .1.  G..  ((Uoted  and  criticised. 
37S. 


Percy,  Bishop,  183,  207,  270. 

Periociical,  tne,  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  74,  130,  182;  in  the  nine- 
teenth,' 294,  897. 

Pessimism,  the  philosophy  of  de- 
spair, 434. 

Phelps,  Miss,  419  (note). 

Philip  II,  311. 

Philosophy,  reduced  to  tlie  study  of 
matter  by  Hobbes,  39;  receives  a 
materialistic  bent  from  Locke, 
whose  system,  however,  involves 
the  conclusions  of  all  schools.  40- 
43:  the  scepticism  of  flume,  160- 
162;  reaction  against.  189;  spread 
and  fame  of  the  intuitive  school, 
318 :  Hamilton's  conception  of, 
318;  predominance  of  sensational- 
ism ill  the  present  age.  433:  Ag- 
nosticism and  Pessimism.  434:  re- 
sistance to  the  materialistic  drift 
of,  435. 

Pilgrim's  Progns.^.  27:  (pioted  and 
criticised,  46 ;  influence  of,  53. 

Pilot,  308. 

Pione^m.  308. 

Pitt.  William,  126,  179. 

Plague,  the  Great.  91. 

Plain  Dealer,  quoted  and  criticised, 
16. 

Plain  Man's  Pathinig  to  Heacen.  45. 

Plato,  quoted.  167. 

Pleasures  of  ILipe.  (juoted  and  criti- 
cised. 272. 

Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  133; 
quoted  and  criticised,  134. 

Poe,  Eilijar  A.,  (pioted  and  criticised, 
382. 

Poet,  pi'cvailing  character  of  the.  in 
the  early  part  of  the  ei<rhteenth 
centin\v.  126. 

Poetry,  mechanical  finish  of.  in  the 
Classical  Age.  10.  73;  natural 
and  artificial,  discriminated.  118; 
change  in  the  t<iue  of.  132.  181; 
characteristics  of,  in  the  first  (juar- 
ter  of  the  nineteenth  century.  209: 
historical  aiul  |)hilos(ipliical  im- 
pulses to.  270:  intense  suiijective- 
iiessof.  iu  Byron.  341.  351 :  asiiects 
of.  ill  the  present  age.  36").  437:  in 
America.  iJTT:  Kuiersoirs  defini- 
tion of.  531). 

Pf)litical  Kcoiioiiiv.  rise  of  the  science 
of.  190. 

Politics.    Sffi  England,  and  America. 

Poli/ni'siaii  I\t'.'it(irr/i(.i.  (juoted,  138 
(noff^). 


556 


INDEX. 


Pope,  Alexander,  13,  43,  74;  quoted, 
61,  1U6,  399;  compared  witri  Dry- 
den,  64:  biography  and  ci'iticisni, 
107-125. 

Porter.  Jane,  308. 

Porter,  Xoali,  430,  436. 

Post,  description  of  the,  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  247. 

Practical  People,  their  mode  of  esti- 
mating man,  31 ;  characterized,  36; 
a  type  of,  illustrated.  448. 

Practice  of  Pict;],  45. 

Praver,  power  of,  501. 

Prtlude,mi. 

Presbyterian  ism,  theology  of,  30. 

Prcscott.  William,  quoted  and  criti-    ! 
cised,  310.  ■ 

Press,  the,  progress  and  agencv  of,    j 
137,  399.  ■  j 

Prevaltnce  of  Poelnj,  quoted,  378.        1 

Pride  of  UiC  \illa(je,  305.  j 

Princctifi,  (pioted  and  criticised,  490; 
quoted.  501. 

Principia,  37:  quoted,  38. 

Printing,  application  of  steam  to,  259. 

Progress,  law  of,  in  opinion  and  Ix-- 
lief.  31;  eternal,  349. 

ProDHifhens  Unbound,  fpioted  and 
criticiscfl,  288. 

l^ovokcd  Wife,  quoted  and  criticised, 
20. 

I^ovincial  Letfers.  124. 

Psalm  of  Lif',  521. 

Puritan,  the,  Afacanlay's  characteri- 
zation of,  301. 

Puritanism,  survival  of  the  fittest.  7: 
the  romance  of.  508. 

Quakers,  tlie,  10:  Laml)  concerning, 

299. 
Qnarlirhj  Review,  fpioted,  260. 
Queen    Mub,   quoted   and   criticised, 

285. 
Queen  Mury,  39f>. 
Qu'xfion-i  of  Life,  3!)6. 

Raiiwjiys.  the  ejirly.  14,  259. 

Jidntbhr.  quilted  uiid  critiej-^ed.   173. 

Rftjx-  of  tbi  Lock,  quoted  ami  eriti- 
ri-ed',  112. 

Iiaj)j,ni  iiii'.f  I)n)ii)hler,  quoted  and 
criti(i.-<d,  504. 

Ras.-ela^.  quoted  and  critjeised,  174. 

Ratioiiaji-Mi,  a  characteristic  of  the 
eiirlifet-iith  ci-rilury,  140;  impetus 
to.  in  the  fir~t  quarter  of  the  nine- 
teenlt],  313:  in  the  jiresont  age, 
423;  highest  form  of,  424. 


Rationalism  in  Europe,  430  {note). 

Raven,  quoted  and  criticised,  382. 

Reade,  Charles,  419  {nole). 

Reading,  on  method  in,  302 ;  in- 
fluence of  early,  226,  331. 

Realism,  .speculative,  144. 

Rebellion,  the  Great,  357. 

Red  Rover,  308. 

Reed,  Henry,  414  {note). 

Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in 
France,  quoted,  193. 

Reform  Act,  258. 

Reformation,  28. 

Reid,  Thomas,  190,  318. 

Reign  of  law.  explains  nothing,  433. 

Rejected  Addresses,  quoted,  435. 

Relapse,  quoted  and  criticised,  20. 

Religion,  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
.seventeenth  century,  epi.scopacy, 
6;  persecution  of  the  non-conform- 
ists, 7;  Toleration  Act,  7;  Puritan- 
ism, 7;  sce[>ticisn).  8;  position  of 
ecclesiastics,  9  :  multiplication  of 
.sects,  10:  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
the  rural  clergy.  72;  .sceptical  ac- 
tivity and  general  indifference,  73; 
popular  revival,  130;  fundamental 
motives  to,  according  to  Hume. 
104;  the.  of  all  sensible  men,  168; 
the  fruits  of  Methodism.  181 ; 
Burnson,236:  phasesof.  in  Milton, 
Young,  and  ("owper,  252:  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  increase  of, 
267:  improved  temper  of,  267; 
rapid  augmentation  of  di.ssenters, 
268;  the  Established  Church,  268, 
363:  potency  of,  in  the  Colonies, 
269;  expunsiveness  in  the  present 
age,  362;  asjtects  of.  in  America, 
3(i3;  general  reflections  on,  364; 
the  vital  element  of,  indestructi- 
ble, 427:  the  substarK.e  of,  541, 

Re]i:,n'ons,  essential  unity  of,  528. 

Reliipies  of  Ancient  I'oetrij,  183,  270, 
322. 

Reminiscetise.s.  (jiioted,  336. 

Representeitivi'  Moi.  quoted,  530. 

Resi(in(ifi()n.  521. 

Ke>unie.  43,  76.  145.  195.  320,  436. 

Reldlinlio)!.  quoted,   194. 

Ret  rii/utioii,  irie\  jiableness  of,  illu.s- 
t rated,  .506, 

Re\chition,  Ilfdilies  on,  29. 

Iteverence,  true  great lU'.ss  impo.ssible 
without.  123. 

Rivi-ries  of  II  limbilor,  414  (note). 

Review,  the.  74.  90.  136,  294,  399,  401. 

Revolt  of  iHlnm.  292. 


INDEX. 


557 


Revolution,  the  Ei).t;lish.  70;  the 
American,  179,  257;  the  French, 
258. 

Richanlson.  Samuel,  127.  137;  bio- 
graphy and  criticism.  146-151. 

JHchelien,  396. 

Rietizi.  293.  414. 

Right  ami  Wi-ong.  origin  of  the  ideai;: 
of.  143. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  305.  306. 

Ritic  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  quoted 
and  criticised.  421. 

Rival  lAtdies.  quoted,  57. 

Roaring  Camp.  419  (note). 

Robinson  Crume.  75.  90. 

Roche.«;ter.  Earl  of.  quoted  and  criti- 
cistnl,  10. 

Roe.  K.  P..  419  (note). 

Romance,  distinguished  from  the 
Novel.  137. 

Rome,  Clmrc'li  of.  Drvdon  on  the, 
60:  sjitirizi'd  by  Swift.  101;  anti- 
quity and  grandeur  of.  302. 

Romola.  (|uoted  and  criticised,  479. 

Ros«>tti,  377. 

Royal  Marii/r.  quoted.  57. 

Rural  Life  in  England,  quoted. 
30(5. 

Raskin,  .lolin.  quoted  and  criticised, 
404. 

Rymcr.  Thomas.  27. 

Saint's  Jirerla.sting  Rest.  27. 

Saladin.  the  last  words  of,  384. 

Sartor  Resartus.  (juoted  and  crili- 
ciscci.  456. 

Savage.  Ridiard,  12(5. 

Scarlet  Letter,  ijuolcd  and  criticised, 
508. 

Scepticism.  8:  benefits  of.  28,  72,  75, 
107.  171:  reaction  iigiiinst.  189:  in- 
tliKMK'c  on  the  woHd's  progress, 
201:  genend  refUn-tions  M|>on.  in 
the  Mineteeiith  centurv,  425. 

.S'helliiig,  31S. 

School  for  Scandal,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised. 181. 

Scliools.  at  the  beginning  of  tlie 
iiineteenrh  century.  2t>l. 

Science,  view  of.  in  tlie  latter  lialf 
of  llie  seventeeiitli  ei'Mtnrv.  3(5:  in 
theeigliteeiitli.  7(5.  143.  KS^T:  in  tlie 
nineteenth.  ;U(5.  430:  final  impo- 
tence of.  433.  43(5:  iMfluence  ol. 
on  iiKxh'rn  thought,  43(5.  438. 

Science  of  Mind.  436  (note). 

Scotch  Dores,  (5. 

.Scot  hind.  ;W). 


Scott.  Sir  Walter,  293;  his  develop- 
ment of  the  Novel.  307:  quoted, 
330,  3o2;  l)iogniphv  and  criticism, 
321-330. 

Scottish  Chiefs.  308. 

Scourers,  the,  3. 

Seasons,  quoted  and  criticised.  133 

Sebastian,  criticisevl,  55:  quote<l,  57. 

Secret  Owls.  6. 

Swts,  the  age  of,  10.  ; 

Sedgwick.     Pn»fessor,     quoted,     42      ^ 
(note).  I 

Sedlcy,  Sir  Charles,  quoted  an«l  criti- 
cised, 11. 

Seekers,  the,  10. 

Seneca,  quoteil.  159. 

Scnsjuionalisin.  s|R>culatJve.  38. 

Sensilire  Plant.  292. 

Sermons,  enormous  length  of.  in 
seventeentli  century,  9,  10. 

Seraphic  Lore.  {\S. 

Serious  Call.  143. 

Shaftesburv.  Earl  of.  29. 

Shairp,  J.  C\,  401. 

ShakesiK'arc,  restoration  of.  to  the 
stage,  13(5:  Lord  JefTrey  on,  295. 

Shelley.  Percy  Bysslie,  (piotcd  and 
criticised.  28:5. 

Sheridan,  Richard  H.,  quoted  and 
criticised,  181. 

She  Stoops  to  Coni/uer.  215. 

Shortest  }\'a>/  with  the  Pis.-<fnfers.  90. 

Short  Ilistori/  of  the  Enqlish  People. 
420  (note).' 

Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects.  403. 

Siihlons,  .Mrs.  Scott.  294. 

Siifhf  of  Jhll.  quoted.  426. 

Sir  Charles  Ciramlison.  (pioted  and 
criticised.  148. 

Sketch  Hook.  305. 

Sketches  and  Studies  in  Southern 
Europe.  414  (note). 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride.  393. 

Skirmishes  and  Sketches.  414  (note). 

Slavery  abolislied.  261. 

.S7»(7<y  Hollow.  3(»5.  307. 

Smith,  Adam.  quoIe<l.  157:  and  criti- 
cised. 191. 

Smith,  (ioldwiii.  414  (note). 

Smitli.  Sidney,  (pioled.  268  :  and 
critiei>ed.  2!><i. 

Snow  Hound.  3!)»i. 

SiH'iety.  view  of,  in  ilie  second  iialf 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  3:  two 
main  el;isM>  of.  31:  in  ilie  eigh- 
teenth. 70.  127.  180:  in  the  nine- 
teenth. 25,s.  35S. 

SocilliaIl^.   llle.    10. 


5r)8 


INDEX. 


SocTate;«,  an  unrecognized  benefactor, 
192. 

Solitude,  410. 

Son  of  Toil,  419  ^nofe). 

Song  of  the  Skirt,  367. 

Soul,  materiality  of.  asserted,  29;  im- 
mortality of,  81,  236,  353;  exhorta- 
tion to,  390;  interrogation  of,  395. 

Southey,  Robert,  quoted,  179,  250; 
and  criticised,  274. 

Spa7iisk  Friar,  55,  57. 

Spanish  Literature,  423  {note). 

Spare  Hours,  414  (note). 

Spectator,  22,  77;  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 78. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  quoted,  1,  430  ; 
positivism  of,  433,  434. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  51. 

Sphinx,  quoted,  532. 

Spirit,  the  substance  of  the  universe, 
466. 

Spofford  Miss.  419  (note). 

Spurgeon.  C.  H.,  414  (note). 

Spy,  308. 

Stage,  the,  in  nineteenth  centurv, 
293. 

Staidoy,  Dean,  414  (note). 

Steam  engine.  Lord  Jeffrey  on  the 
wonders  of  the,  295. 

Stodnian.  E.  C,  414  {note). 

Steele,  llichard,  quoted,  71;  on  the 
corruption  of  the  stage,  74;  quot- 
ed. 398:  biograpliv  and  criticism, 
76-80. 

Steplien,  Leslie,  414  (note). 

Stewart,  Dugald,  315. 

Stoddard,  R.  H..  414  (note). 

Stoicism,  grandeur  of  its  ideal,  189. 

Stowf,  Harriet  Beecher,  419. 

Stranger  in  Anieri/rt,  (pioted,  262. 

Street-lighting,  early.  5.  259. 

Studies  in  German  Literature,  414 
(note). 

Style,  formation  of  the  modern  prose, 
23:  the  luitural  and  the  artificial, 
defined  and  discriminated,  118. 

Snfj.'<fanre  and  Show.  414  (note). 

SnninK-r  Sight,  quoted.  374. 

Sufri-ring,  the  divine  mission  of,  240. 

Sumner,  Charles,  (pioted,  542. 

Suudav  school,  establisiiment  of  th<>, 
262.  ■ 

Swift.  .Toiiathaii.  29:  Ijionrapliy  atid 
criticism.  94-107. 

Swinlmnie.  .Mgeruon  Cliai'ies,  as 
poi^r.  :i7"»:  as  dramatist,  396:  quot- 
ed. 470. 

Syli'iiii  Hume,  quoted,  ."):>l. 


Symonds,  J.  A.,  414  (note). 

Table-Talk,  414  (note). 

Taine,  H.  A.,  quoted,  80, 89, 241, 454. 

Tale  of  a  Tub,  96;  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 101. 

Tales  of  the  Hall,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 270. 

Tales  of  a  Grand  fattier,  325. 

Talmadge,  T.  DeWitt,  414  (iiote). 

Tarn  d'Shanter,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 233. 

Tariff,  Protective,  in  America,  357. 

Task,  quoted  and  criticised,  247. 

Tasso,  241.  . 

Tatler,  quoted  and  criticised,  77. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  401,  414  (note),  419 
{note). 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  quoted,  426. 

Telegraph,  the,  259. 

J'empest  and  Sunsfiine,  419  (note). 

Temple,  Sir  William,  quoted  and 
criticised,  23. 

Tender  Husband.  77. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  quoted,  132.  257, 
365,  433 ;  biography  and  criticism, 
488-501. 

J'ent  on  the  Beach,  396. 

Thackeray,  William  M.,  quoted,  126; 
and  criticised,  415. 

Thanatopsis,  quoted  and  criticised, 
384. 

That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's,  419  (note). 

Theatre,  the  modern,  397;  as  an  in- 
stitution, 398.  . 

Tlieology,  state  of,  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  28;  in 
the  eighteenth  centurv,  75,  140. 
183;  in  the  nineteenth,  312,  423; 
general  reflections  upon  the  his- 
torv  of,  425. 

Tfieory  of  the  Earth,  quoted,  188. 

Thomson,  James,  127;  quoted  and 
criticised,  133:  and  Cowper,  252. 

Tlioreau,  Henrv,  quoted  and  criti- 
ci.sed,  409. 

Thoughts  on  Various  Subjects, 
quoted,  104. 

Threnodij.  quoted.  540. 

Ticknor,  George.  423  (note). 

Tillotson,  Archbishop,  24;  quoted 
and  criticised,  129. 

Times,  London,  200. 

Tindal,  Matthew,  29. 

To  a  Skylark,  (luoted  and  ci'iticised, 
292. 

Tocqueville,  .Vlcxis  de,  quoted,  265, 
:!01,  429. 


INDEX. 


559 


To  Em,  540. 
Toland,  John,  39. 

Toleration  Act,  7. 

Tom  Brown  at  Oxford,  419  {note). 

Torn    Brown^s  Schooldays,    quoted, 

359. 
Torn  Burke  of  Ours,  419  (note). 
Tom   Jones,   quoted  and  criticised, 

152. 
Transcendentalism,  170,  525. 
Traveller,  quoted  and  criticised,  208. 
Treatise  on  Human  Nature,  160. 
Trial  by  Battle,  abolished,  261. 
Trinity,  the,  183. 
Tristram  and  Iseult,  quoted,  375. 
Triumph  of  Life,  292. 
Trollope,  Frances,  quoted,  263. 
True  Relation  of  the  Apparition  of 

Mrs.  Veal,  90. 
True-born  Englishman,  89. 
Truth,  quoted  and  criticised,  244 
Turner,  Sharon,  309. 
Tyler,  Moses  Coit,  423  {note). 
Tvndall,  John,  quoted  and  criticised, 

431,  436. 

Unlielicf,  tone  of,  in  the  present  age, 

425. 
Undergraduates  of  Oxford,  358. 
Unitarianism,  183,  313. 
United  Netherlands,  421. 
Universe,  the,  divine,  467. 
Universal  Prayer,  the,  quoted.  116. 
Unseen  World,  414  {note). 
Utilitarianism,    34,    132,    188.    297, 

315,  427. 

Vanbnigh,  Sir  Joiiii.  (juoted  and 
criticised,  20. 

Vanhornrigh,  Esther,  '  Vanessa,' 97. 

Vanity  Fair,  (juoted  and  criticised. 
416. 

Vaiiglian,  R.  A..  401. 

Vinice  Preserved,  (]Uote(l  and  criti- 
cised, 22. 

Vesti>ies  of  Creation,  quoted,  317. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  (juoted  and 
criticised,  210. 

Vice.  Pope's  famous  lines  on.  899. 

Victory  of  Blenheim.  81. 

]'ic(oriun  Poets,  414  (note). 

Vindication,  quoted,  200. 

Virqinius.  293. 

Virtut'.  Pope  on,  110;  iililitarian  view 
of.  33.  315. 

Vi.sw)i  of  Mirza,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 84. 

Voice  of  Autumn,  387. 


Voltaire,  quoted,  64,  129,  257. 
Voyage,  quoted,  306. 

Waller,  Edmund,  quoted  and  criti- 
c  ised    11. 

Walpole,  Robert,  126,  127. 

Walpole,  Horace,  70;  quoted,  72, 
219. 

Walsh,  William,  quoted,  119. 

Walton,  Izaak,  quoted  and  criticised, 
24. 

War  of  1812,  357. 

Warburton,  Bishop,  quoted,  129. 

Ware,  William,  419  (note). 

Warner,  Misses,  419  (note). 

Warton,  Thomas,  183,  270. 

Warving,  Jane,  'Varina,'  97. 

Watts,  H.,  187. 

Waverley.  325. 

Waverley  Novels,  list  of,  325. 

Way  of  the  World,  quoted  and 
criticised,  18. 

We  are  Seven,  quoted  and  criticised, 
332. 

Webster.  Daniel,  concerning  Charles 
Dickens,  454. 

Weekly  Discoverer,  6. 

Weekly  Discoverer  Stripped  Naked,  6. 

Wesley,  John,  organizes  Methodism. 
138;  convictions  and  superstitions, 
138. 

Westminster  Abbey,  quoted,  306. 

Westminster  lieview.  294. 

Whcwell,  William.  427. 

Wliipple.  E.  P.,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 408. 

Whitaker,  quoted,  195. 

White.  R.  G.,  414  (note). 

Whitefield.  (ioorge.  eloquenci^of.  131 ; 
peculiarities  of.  illustrated,  131. 

Whitney,  Mrs.,  419  (note). 

Whitticr.  John  G.,  ({uoted  and  criti- 
cised, 393. 

Wife.  305;  (luoted.  306. 

Wife  s  Appeal,  (juoted  and  criti- 
cised, 380. 

Wide.   Wide  World.  419  (note). 

William  of  Orange.  2. 

Willis,  X.  P..  ([uoted  and  criticised, 
379. 

Windsor  Forest,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 113. 

Wit  and  Humor,  discriminated,  409. 

Witchcraft,  decay  of  belief  in.  8.  72. 

Wolfe,  (rcnei-al,  iiuoted,  135. 

Woman,  ignorance  of.  in  the  Resto- 
ration, 2.  low  estimate  of.  as  re- 
Jlected  in  the  drama,  15;  Otwav's 


5G0 


INDEX. 


tribute  to,  23;  Steele's  reflect  ion?; 
on,  78;  position  of.  in  America. 
265;  Camplx»irs  felicitous  lines  on, 
272;  intuitional  transeendence  of. 
298;  Tennvson  on  the  sphere  of. 
491. 

Woman  in  W'hitp.  419  {note). 

\Voo<l.  Anthony.  27. 

IVood-Notes,  quoted.  532. 

li'ords  and  their  i'ses,  414  (note). 

Wordsworth,  William,  quoted.  54, 
221.  2S»3,  321 :  bioijraphv  and  criti- 
cism. 330-338. 


Worthies,  37. 

Wycherley.    William,     quoted    and 

criticised,  10. 
Wycliffe,  John,  88. 

Xenophon.  quoted,  184  (note). 

Yesterdays  with  Authors,  414  (note). 
Young.    Edward,    127;    quoted.  96; 

and  criticised,  133. 
Youth,  hopefulness  of,  272.  298. 

Zenobia,  419  {note). 


'(*VS| 


